The city, the harbour, the whole of Cartagena seems sleepy. We rub our eyes in disbelief – and cast off. The festivities will flare up again tonight, but for us it should be fine like this.

We are happy that we discovered the damage and were able to have it repaired so solidly and, above all, so quickly. We leave Cartagena behind us full of gratitude. And we head north on almost calm waters. Until Martina sees a boat approaching us at high speed far ahead on the right-hand side – but we don’t see it on the screen, no signal… Aha, customs, border guards, water police, army, something like that… I jokingly ask Martina if I should increase the speed…

At some point the radio message comes; they want to check us. OK. Only now do I reduce the speed. Guardia Civil. I stop, or rather we manoeuvre our boats towards each other so that our sterns almost touch each other. It’s a tricky business, as the patrol boat is very solidly built, without fenders, and could easily slice open my pontoons, despite the only slight swell. Two men want to, but only one actually comes on board. He checks my identity papers – I also hold out to him the customs paper I was issued at Santander. Then he wants to have a look at the cabin, everything is fine. After a bit of small talk, he climbs back onto the patrol boat with a risky jump. We wave to each other and continue.

We have just passed Benidorm with its skyline and the striking double skyscraper. The weather is super nice and we are hungry. To our left is the long beach of Altea, with several harbours to choose from – we are drawn to the very end of the bay with the towering cliffs. We have a delicious meal in the restaurant ‘La Martina’ (no joke), return to the ArgoFram, sail out to a buoy where we moor to swim naked in the azure blue water, completely detached from conventions, and rest in the open cabin…

We spontaneously decide to jet over to Ibiza after all. We will be there in three hours at the latest. – Everything is going so well; thought, said, done.

I feel a tremendous sense of freedom.

Between the island of Formentera and Ibiza, we have to navigate through headlands and islets, but once this ‘barrier’ is overcome, we find ourselves in the crowd of other (speed) boats that know only one goal: to get to the port of Ibiza as quickly as possible. The water is rough, very agitated, and yet everyone wants to show the others how well their boat copes with this situation. Even ‘mine is longer’… and I join in the game. So about thirty boats shoot towards the harbour at the same time, one after the other is left behind.

But as soon as we arrive at the harbour pier, the big awakening follows: The entrance is blocked, everyone wants to refuel (we should too). Queuing with one boat? Yes, unbelievable. And what do the others do while they wait? They’re having fun: music is blaring from all the yachts (no, not music, just beats with metallic sound, modern disco sounds); the girls are dancing happily topless, swinging their hips and hair, the guys are sitting around, mugs of beer or stronger in their hands (only one of them, as a helmsman, makes sure that the boat is kept in the queue). Other boats pass us, equally moved, directly to their pier. Everyone waves to each other; everyone shows what he or she has (she the torso, he the yacht or at least good buddies). The mood is exuberant, lascivious. Ibiza, that’s what it’s like – just arrived and all the clichés are already surpassed.

I ask if there is a place for us to stay in the first harbour (where the petrol station is) – there isn’t, everything is booked up. Oho! Then there’s no refuelling now, straight on to the next harbour. But even that is full, every single berth occupied. There are five marinas in this bay, hundreds of boats are here, madness! We pass already atmospherically lit bars and dance halls on the piers and some super yachts (longer than 24 metres), to the third harbour. There is supposed to be just one more place, right at the back (again). Indeed; with a lot of sensitivity (and the power of my engines) we squeeze ourselves into this parking space. Whew!

But this spot also has its good points: we are close to the showers and toilets and right at the shore exit. It has long since darkened and we set off. Off to Ibiza Town, to the holiday mecca of all the young at heart… Party party? First of all, we look for a friendly restaurant – I ‘love’ these tourist destinations, where everyone must have been once, and where holidaymakers are served like on a production line. Where everything has to be done in a hurry, where guests are herded around more than they are welcomed. The food served is correspondingly… We do without dessert.

It gets close to midnight; on the way home we realise: The night or the holiday adventure of the tourists is just beginning. Saturday night… In front of the hotels are the vans with the cool or strong guys picking up their girls. Testosterone-saturated air.

Buses full of dressed-up and already excited girls are now being taken to the music and dance temples in the area, where the hustle and bustle takes its foreseeable course (most of the girls we see are already tipsy or have taken who knows what). Well, have fun!

I’m too tired or too old to have any fun here. – What a day; as soon as I get into bed, my eyes fall shut.