SUP adventure in Spain: Circumnavigation of Menorca with the Lehner Brothers

We land on a beach. It's called Cala de Biniparratx. White sand and turquoise-coloured water between high cliffs, dreamlike. Actually dreamlike, if it weren't for all the people. "I hope they piss off soon," I say to Laurin, my paddling partner. He pulls his board out of the water and wrinkles his brow. Something else worries me: Lady Liz, an older lady with her hair up and sad eyes, had scared me. I met the Englishwoman in her yacht charter office in Mahón harbour and told her about our plan to circumnavigate the island. She said: "That's nice, but you can NOT sleep on the beach. The police are patrolling at night because of Covid!"

We didn't expect that. Of course we want to sleep on the beach, that's what makes our trip so appealing. Sleeping where it's most beautiful: on the beach, under the stars. With a campfire and red wine, of course. And now this! And another annoying thing: I rummage in my rucksack and realise that I've forgotten my pants and a change of shorts. So stupid! On the last few trips, I've always celebrated getting out of my clammy swimming shorts and into dry trousers. But now: no have! Small oversight, big impact!

Impressions of the SUP adventure of almost circumnavigating Menorca with the Lehner Brothers can be found in the picture gallery:

Menorca is Mallorca's little sister. 50 kilometres long, 16 wide, flat as a pancake with 285 kilometres of coastline. Sea kayakers estimate eight days for the circumnavigation - we want to do the same. In contrast to Majorca, there are hardly any bed castles here, but there is forest. Half of the island is a nature reserve and has even been a Unesco biosphere reserve since 1993 - that sounds good. The sentence from the travel guide is even better: "On the south side of Menorca, the sea is always smooth and turquoise-coloured". So off we go on the Menocra circumnavigation! We start in the largest natural harbour in the Mediterranean - in Mahón. It is already the end of September and therefore the Nivea season on Menorca is over - at least according to the statistics. Statistics are the crux of such an endeavour. We know: Travelling around the island is a blast. However, they have a portion of uncertainty. This uncertainty is a blessing and a curse. A curse, because if the weather changes, for example, it becomes uncomfortable. Blessing, because: exciting! Life is reduced to thoughts like: Will the wind stay calm? Will there be firewood for the campfire? How much further to Cala Blanca? Or: Is it possible without changing shorts?

The sun has gone, the sand is getting clammy, it's already late - but more and more Spaniards are making a pilgrimage to the bay. A guy with narrow shoulders, thin hair and tattoos all over his body strolls naked towards the water, his girlfriends hoot, their dogs bark. Not far from us, a couple make out without taking a breath - two people merge into a sculpture of curls and naked skin. Older ladies stagger off for a swim, even older men labour with sand between their toes. I close my eyes and lie on the beach - a little annoyed, a little disappointed. But eventually the time comes. The tattooed man with the great self-confidence squeezes himself into jeans that are far too tight for his age and leaves with the dog ladies - dusk comes, people leave. What a difference: stupid with people, great without people. Laurin sets up the tent, I uncork the red wine.

Dream beach, you're ours now! At night, the sea rumbles in the fjord of the bay. The water cooed and gurgled, croaked, moaned, whistled, clicked and spoke. Were there voices - police? I stick my head out of the tent. No, nobody there! The water rushes, swells, splashes - is the sea washing the boards away? I look out. No, they're lying peacefully in the sand.

The pirate fell in love with the beautiful Spanish woman, but the local farmers had little sympathy for pirate romance.

We follow the south coast in the morning sun. The cliffs of Cova d'en Xoroi are riddled with caves, we have to tilt our heads back and discover rock windows even high up, directly under the sky. Later, in the beach café at Cala en Porter, we read that a Moorish pirate hid in these caves in the 17th century. The pirate fell in love with a beautiful Spanish woman, but the local farmers had little sympathy for pirate romance. They betrayed the pirate. Soldiers hunted him down and caught him, but before the musket balls tore him apart, the Moor jumped off the cliff into the sea, leaving his beloved behind with a broken heart. Yes, happy endings were rare in those times.

After a cappuccino, omelette and pirate story, it's time to stop and stroll. Beautiful bays come and go. In the last evening light, we turn off to the beach of Cala Trebalúger. Another name straight out of a pirate film, but we are not alone. Two French sea kayakers also want to spend the night here: Christophe & Françoise. He's an angular chap with a bullet head and plenty of muscle mass. She is almond-eyed, with slim legs and the curves of a film star. The two of them camp on one side of the beach, we move to the other - and watch (especially her), tell each other made-up biographies about the two of them, laugh ourselves silly until the darkness swallows them up. It's only the second night and yet it feels like we've been travelling forever. The next morning, we climb up the rocks into the sun for breakfast, eating oranges and nuts. As the sea kayakers paddle out of the bay, Laurin jumps up, kisses our hands and shouts: "Au revoir, Françoise!" I choke on my orange with laughter.

We soon set off too, paddle in the wind and choppy waves to Cala Galdana and hold a council of war over beer and tortillas, as the weather app reports a cold front. It depresses the mood. What to do? If we keep paddling, the storm in the west will hit us directly from the front. If we were already on the north coast, we would get the wind unfavourably from the side, but would have a better chance of making it back to Mahón. The shortcut has one catch: We have to deflate the boards because the taxi driver refuses to strap the rubber sausages to the roof. Our pump? It's in Mahón. What doesn't sound very exciting is a problem for us.

I want to ask a Spaniard at the information stand, but he's flirting with two English girls, trying to seduce them into a trip on the Glasbottom boat. Sonorous voice, dark eyes, gelled hair - Latin lover type. The girls: hi hi. The Spaniard: ha ha. The ladies play coy and now Mr Gelhaar looks at me. He quickly realises. No, his air mattress pump doesn't do me any good, but the information that there are often SUPers in Cala Morell does.

We take the risk: zzzzzssssssschhhhhh - the air escapes. The taxi takes 20 minutes to get north. The driver wants to small talk, I don't, too excited: what if nobody has a pump there? Laurin is also anxious and looks wordlessly out of the window. Out of the taxi and down the steps into a deep bay. White houses, bathers, cocktail drinkers, anglers. But no paddlers! We stand there with our rubber rollers under our arms, packsacks in our hands and look stupid. What now? A yacht is anchored far out. I squint my eyes. "Do you see the shadow on the foredeck - that could be a SUP?" Laurin scans the yacht. "Maybe." It's our only chance. I jump into the water and paddle the 300 metres out to sea. "Excuse me!" I shout up the side of the boat. The third time, a bare-breasted upper-class blonde leans over the railing. I can't help but grin and explain my problem. She is English, grins back confidently and calls down to me: "Sure, we have a pump!" As I swim back, skipper Henry accompanies me in the dinghy, the pump on board.

Shortly afterwards we are mobile again - but Laurin had lost the bolt of his fin during the transfer. Now the plastic prong of my camping fork is holding the fin in the board - that's not trustworthy. And the swell is getting rougher. We box our way through the sea for 20 kilometres. We paddle and paddle. After three hours, the sun disappears. The landscape looks Nordic - more like Ireland than Spain. We round capes and cross bays. Cliffs, rocks, rubble - the north coast is uninhabited. Where are we, where is our destination beach? While checking the map, the waves wash Laurin's paddle away. A fright that chokes the breath until we finally spot the paddle in the dark water.

Then we paddle until night shoos us from the water and end up on a rocky beach full of driftwood, cow pats, a dead shark and plastic rubbish. Instead of the dream beach of Cala en Calderer, we end up on this ghetto beach. Our good mood returns with the campfire. Dirt and rubbish disappear into the black of the night. We eat, drink, talk, smoke a cigar and gaze into the fire. It hisses and blazes as gusts hit the embers.

The wind increases its fury the next day too, pushing two sailing boats flat on the water and forcing us to our knees. Strenuous paddling. Long paddles. Paddling until our shoulders ache. We pull more to the side than backwards to keep the bow on course. Stopping is not an option. A sip from the water bottle and we drift 100 metres out to sea. Only the sun softens the drama and calms the senses. Again and again, the nose of the board digs into the waves, the water crashes over the packsack and slows us down. Laurin paddles in front of me, ducking under gusts like fists. They come down on us from the cliffs like hailstones. I think of the plastic prong of the camping fork - it secures Laurin's fin. Please, let it hold!

One minute easy paddling, the next white water - I can't think of any other sport where conditions can deteriorate so quickly.

In the late afternoon, we finally turn into a bay sheltered from the wind. Once we reach the beach, the tension in the choppy sea disappears. Nevertheless, the wind is our enemy and the idea of rounding the windiest Balearic island in autumn is questionable. Wind changes everything - easy paddling just a moment ago, suddenly white water! I can't think of a sport where conditions can deteriorate so quickly. Unfortunately, there's no firewood in our bay. We sit in the dark and eventually crawl into the tent with sandy feet. The rain comes at night, the storm in the morning. The tent pegs fly through the air, the tarpaulin rattles in the wind, gusts push the poles to the ground and flatten our sleeping bags. The sea is boiling. According to the weather app, the storm is set to get even stronger over the next few days. We make long faces. Is it bad luck, is it stupidity? We have violated the seven P's of the Royal Marines, which also apply to stand-up paddlers: proper planning and preparation prevents piss poor performance. In other words: we're cancelling the tour.

Our conclusion: Almost round Menorca is not quite round. It pains me that we didn't manage the circumnavigation of Menorca, but Laurin takes it sportingly and says: "Hey bro, it can't always work out. New attempt, new luck, dude! I've always wanted to paddle round Elba. Adios, Menorca!"