Med Mooring Survival Guide

Let’s be honest: back home in Munich, we like order. We like lines painted on the street, timetables that mean something, and personal space. But the moment you drop your anchor in the Saronic Gulf to attempt your first "Med Moor," you need to take that love for order, put it in a little box, and throw it overboard.

I recently returned from a charter where the winds were high, the marinas were tight, and my stress levels were testing the limits of my smartwatch.

If you are planning to trade the calm lakes of Bavaria for the chaos of the Mediterranean this summer, here is what you actually need to know about parking a 50ft catamaran backwards into a shoebox.

1. The "Amphitheater of Judgment" is Real

In Germany, if you struggle to park your car, people might politely look away. In Greece (or Croatia/Italy), docking is a spectator sport. The moment you enter the marina fairway, the locals sense it. They put down their coffees. They stop talking. They watch. On my trip, I was greeted not by a helpful dockhand, but by a self-appointed "Dockmaster"—an elderly local who didn't work there but felt compelled to scream instructions at me for twenty minutes straight. The Lesson: You cannot stop them from screaming. You cannot stop the jugular vein in their neck from popping out as they yell in a language you don't speak. Your only job is to filter the noise. Don't look at the audience; look at your stern. Let them scream. You just drive.

2. The "Slow and Steady" Myth

We are taught that "slow is pro." And yes, you don't want to ram the quay. But here is the physics problem: a 25-ton catamaran in a 25-knot crosswind acts like a giant sail. If you move too slowly, the wind will take you, and you will become a pinball bouncing off million-dollar yachts. I learned this the hard way. I was too timid with the throttle, and the wind simply pushed my bow sideways. To fix it, you have to be bold. You need momentum. You need to understand how to use your engines to pivot against the wind, not just float helplessly with it. Sometimes, safety requires a little bit of power.

3. The "Helpful" Marinero Might Be Drunk

Do not assume the guy in the t-shirt waving you in is an expert. I’ve had "marineros" try to hand my crew the wrong lines, refuse to take the windward line (which is the only one that matters in a crosswind), or just wander off mid-docking. Sometimes they are helpful professionals. Sometimes they are just a guy from the office filling in for a sick colleague. The Lesson: Trust your own plan. Brief your crew to listen to your voice only. If the guy on the dock says "left" but the wind says "right," listen to the wind.

4. The Pre-Docking Ritual (Or: How to Not Get Divorced)

Docking is where relationships go to die. The shouting, the panic, the blame. I realized that my crew (bless them) had no idea what I was doing. They were just reacting. So, we instituted a new rule: The Pre-Game Briefing. Before we even get close to the marina, the music goes off. We assign roles:

• You are on the windward stern line (the most important job).

• You are on the "slime line" (bow line) duty—wear gloves, that thing is disgusting.

• You are the roving fender, ready to cushion the blow. When everyone knows the choreography, you don't need to scream.

5. Say Goodbye to Personal Space

This was the hardest adjustment for my Munich brain. In these old ports, they pack boats in like sardines. Zero clearance is normal. Your neighbor’s fenders will be squeaking against yours all night. In some places, like Hydra, boats act as sidewalks for other boats. People will walk across your deck while you are eating breakfast. It’s not rude; it’s just the culture. Don’t fight it. Accept that for one week, your neighbors are your roommates. (Just pray they aren't the type to sing folk songs until 4 a.m.—bring earplugs just in case).

The Verdict

When the chaos settled, the lines were tied, and the "screaming captain" finally went back to his barstool, I realized something. He wasn't trying to humiliate me; in his aggressive, loud way, he was trying to help me avoid a crash. I walked over, shrugged my shoulders, and shook his hand. We survived the Med Moor. And honestly? The beer tastes a lot better after you’ve wrestled a boat into a tight spot in a gale.

Just remember: heavy throttle, earplugs, and a sense of humor. You’re going to need them all.