Sailing Croatia: how a bunch of city boys pretended to be seasoned sea wolves and set sail from Kaštela to Brač to explore the Adriatic islands.
This is the prologue to our entire sailing series in Croatia—the story of how “hobby sailors” (meaning IT guys and office clerks) started acting like weathered mariners. Before the first real wave hit, and long before the first panicked shout of “Holy shit, watch out for the rocks!” we were parking our cars, loaded to the brim with provisions, in the marina of Kaštela. Located just a stone’s throw from Split, this was where we were supposed to pick up our boat and, more importantly, our captain. Kaštela and the art of waiting. That’s exactly how this chapter should be called.
How to Spot a Rookie at Sea
There are two types. The first one knows everything, has been everywhere, and has seen it all. They talk about their past voyages with massive, theatrical expressions—even though they probably only heard about it from someone else. The second type stays dead silent. The only sound you hear from them is the occasional click and hiss of a beer can opening. That’s the sound of someone waiting with sheer uncertainty for whatever comes next.
Kaštela and the Art of Waiting
We arrived in Kaštela early in the morning, back when the sea hadn’t even found its color yet. The boat wasn’t ready. The captain was nowhere to be found. We had time on our hands—and on the Adriatic, that’s a dangerous state of mind.
I walked north along the shore, no map, no goal, just a camera and a beer in hand, driven by a vague feeling that there was something worth seeing out there. A kilometer out, maybe less, and suddenly—a settlement. Not a modern marina, not a resort, not a tourist village packed with taverns and plastic magnets. Something much older.
Kaštel Kastilac
Kastilac isn’t on the maps you get at the tourist center. It’s an old fortified monastery built to endure, protect, and survive. And it did. The monks eventually left, but the locals stayed.
Houses are stacked directly over the sea, one on top of the other, entrance next to entrance, stone next to stone. Walls that don’t bother explaining anything; they just stand there. The sea right beneath them doesn’t feel like a scenic backdrop, but rather like an adjacent room.
Those heavy walls, which once drew the line between safety and danger, now hold TV antennas, flower pots, and faded shutters. Someone is drying their laundry right on the ancient fortifications. A pink t-shirt, blue shorts. You instantly realize: tourists don’t belong here. Not by a long shot.
The morning there had a different density. Quiet, raw, and completely indifferent to the fact that I was standing there. I sat down on the steps of someone else’s house and just existed for a moment. No camera gear, no Instagram angles. Just the morning and the old settlement that existed long before us and will remain long after we are gone.
Heading to Brač: How We Survived the First Night
Sailing Croatia has its pitfalls. There are plenty of boats, but not many people. The boat check-in dragged on well into the afternoon. Not just because our captain—let’s call him Slavo—was inspecting every single detail of the boat with the expression of a surgeon before open-heart surgery. But also because someone discovered a local courtyard serving roasted lamb. That lamb didn’t need any excuses. It was the food that held us back, and absolutely nobody was complaining. Not even the captain.
We finally cast off late in the afternoon, bordering on evening. The sea waited for us.
Nobody tells you that the sea looks completely different at night than it does during the day. Or maybe they do tell you, but you don’t really get it until you’re standing behind the helm with a glass of wine in hand, only to realize that the massive dark shape looming right in front of you isn’t a wave.
Those are rocks.
The reaction of an experienced sailor: a calm course correction, total composure, a quiet note in the logbook. The reaction of our captain and helmsman rolled into one person: A single, highly specific Slovak curse word that summed up the situation better than the entire maritime terminology combined. Loudly. Into the dead of night. Over the open sea.
The sea took note and didn’t react. But we sure did. I have never experienced such a loud, stunned silence for the rest of the trip.
Hard starboard. The boat groaned angrily. Not dramatically—more like someone whose foot you just stepped on in the subway and who decides to suffer through it in silence. We sailed on.
A Quiet Morning in the Harbor of Milna, Brač
The captain woke up first. He didn’t say a word. He brewed some coffee, looked at us, and disappeared below deck. That pause lasted just long enough for each of us to mentally calculate whether we had enough money in our bank accounts to cover the structural damage of a chartered yacht.
He emerged holding a snorkel set and fins, and sat down. He poured himself another coffee and a shot of schnapps.
“It’s fine. Nothing happened,” he said.
We bought some grapes and ate breakfast. Someone hinted that if we didn’t want to deal with pumping the marine toilet, it was high time for a swim. That first dive into the water, you swim out a bit, and suddenly everything feels better. The water is crystal clear; you can see all the way to the bottom. Somewhere down there, there was probably a fresh scratch of white paint from our hull. We didn’t dwell on it.
Sailing in Croatia has stolen our hearts. A hobby sailor learns fast. Mostly, he learns to shut up, listen to the captain, and know exactly what not to ask.
