Sailing from Korčula to Mljet comes with its own set of rules. It will teach you both the fine art of galley cooking and the rough slang of rookie sailors.
Following yesterday’s sail around Hvar, the captain woke up first. On a yacht, this is a tradition with deep practical utility: whoever wakes up first brews the coffee and simultaneously assesses whether the vessel still exists. It did. Today, we planned for a more relaxed day—exploring the walls of the old town and a shorter sail from Korčula to Mljet.
The Island of Korčula
Korčula is an island that thinks it’s Venice. And not without reason—the town has the same tight stone streets, the same Gothic palaces, and the same logic of medieval urbanism. The Venetians ruled here for five hundred years and left behind an architecture that makes no effort to hide it.
And then there’s the other thing—Marco Polo. The islanders swear he was born here. The Venetians violently disagree. Historians just shrug. But Marco Polo’s house still stands in the center, they charge an admission fee, and the view from the tower is spectacular regardless of who actually popped out beneath it.
The town of Korčula is a peninsula—three sides sea, one side land. When you sail toward it, the whole place looks like a massive stone ship. Maybe that’s why it bred so many sailors. Or merchants. Or just people to whom the ocean felt closer than dry land, opening up the entire world.
After a beautiful stroll, Korčula did not want to let us go easily. But we cast off anyway.
Over our second coffee on board, Števo dropped his master plan: “We’re making halušky.”
Dead silence.
“With bryndza sheep cheese,” he added, just in case anyone was praying for a different outcome.
Galley Cooking
Cooking in a yacht’s galley has strict rules. You always cook in pairs—a rotating system of culinary justice that functions perfectly until you realize some people belong nowhere near a stove. Every day, a different duo; every day, a different meal. Most guys bring something pre-prepared: marinades, simple pasta, goulash—things you can easily heat up or boil on two gas burners without setting the entire vessel on fire.
But Stefan had other ideas.
One hour of peeling potatoes. Two hours of grating. He created a potato dough so thick and sticky you could use it to seal a breach in the hull. On one burner, we were frantically frying up onions and bacon, while the water for throwing the potato dumplings was boiling over the second. The sheer smell of pungent bryndza sheep cheese inside the cramped, enclosed cabin of a yacht is something you have to experience to believe. The crews on the neighboring yachts were staring at us with the expressions of people who had no clue what was happening, but instinctively felt it was threatening their well-being.
Ten minutes of eating. The captain ate in absolute silence and went back for a second massive plate.
What followed was another two hours of scrubbing the dried pots and dishes in cold seawater. Have you ever tried removing dried industrial spray-foam from a delicate surface? That’s the closest comparison to my cleanup experience.
“Never again,” I told to Stefan bluntly while the rest of the crew was passed out on the deck with bulging stomachs.
Maritime Slang for Advanced Rookies
Communication on a charter boat happens in three distinct languages. The captain speaks Slovak—clearly, briefly, with zero question marks, throwing in the occasional curse word. The dockworkers in the harbors speak strictly Croatian—fast, loudly, using wild hand gestures and, occasionally, a raised middle finger. The rookies speak whatever random words pop into their heads—especially when they don’t know the proper term in any language.
Yet, the system works surprisingly well if you quickly memorize the core commands:
- “Vira!” – Heave up the anchor. Not a question.
- “Moli!” – Let go / slacken the line. Also not a question.
- “Throw the spring!” – The mooring line holding the boat’s length. Which line? That line. Not that other one.
- “Drop a fender!” – The inflatable rubber ball between the boat and the pier. It keeps your boat from aggressively kissing the neighboring yacht.
- “Watch the boom!” – This warning always comes too late. Always.
The Croatian dockworkers communicate on a different level. Rapid-fire commands, a tossed heavy line, a hand wave that could either mean pull closer or back away—it all depends entirely on context that a rookie simply doesn’t possess. The best response is to mimic their hand movement back at them with a confident face and pray for the best.
The captain always saved the day. No comments. Just that look.
Mljet – Polače
The sail from Korčula to Mljet flew by faster than anyone expected. We sailed into Mljet just as dusk was settling. Polače is a tiny settlement right at the entrance of the National Park. Calling it a harbor is a stretch—it’s a floating pontoon, a few dim lamps, and a darkness behind them as thick as velvet. Three other boats were already tied up. We pulled alongside. The restaurant owner was making joyful gestures, showing us in every possible way how thrilled he was to see us. The glorious promise of fresh seafood and local specialties practically vibrated in the night air.
Four crews, one pontoon, one wild evening.
Later—much later, when the sea was pitch black and the stars were the only lights left burning—the tavern owner was dancing on the wooden pontoon with all four crews. He sang with the deep voice of a man whom wine had blessed with ultimate wisdom: “I haven’t seen a party like this all year.”
He was the last one dancing, but he billed us aggressively and left first—he had to reopen the restaurant for breakfast, after all. We stayed behind. The sea wasn’t rushing us anywhere, even though Dubrovnik was waiting for us next.
But we will return to Mljet soon. The touch of the jellyfish is waiting.
