We signed out of Albania and motored across to Corfu, aiming to sign into Greece like responsible adults who follow rules… or at least pretend to. We arrived at the main ferry terminal, which is exactly as glamorous as it sounds: concrete, trucks, and the faint aroma of diesel mixed with bureaucracy.

We were directed to tie up along the ferry terminal wall. Once secured, I grabbed our stack of documents (boat registration, insurance, passports—basically everything short of a blood sample) and marched across the ferry parking lot to the Coast Guard building.

Inside, I waited my turn. When I finally sat down, the agent asked about my eTepai status. I explained that I had been checking it daily like a teenager waiting for a crush to text back—no change. I told her I’d been informed I could pay at the Post Office upon arrival. Apparently, this was not the correct sequence of Greek Administrative Rituals. What I have now learned is: go to the Post Office first, pay the eTepai, THEN go to the Coast Guard. In other words, the opposite of what I did.

She wasn’t particularly friendly, but she did hand me a list of agents who could “help.” (In Greece, “help” often translates to “solve your problem for a fee that makes your eyebrows jump.”) She told me I could proceed to Gouvia Marina as long as I returned within 24 hours to finish clearing in.

Once at the marina, I contacted an agent. They handled everything—at a steep cost—but honestly, at that moment I didn’t care. I didn’t have to hunt down transportation, find the Post Office, navigate government offices, or decode the mysteries of Greek paperwork. I handed over my documents, and a couple hours later he reappeared with everything: paid eTepai, Transit Log, and a smile that said, “You’re welcome, and yes, you paid too much.” We were officially in Greece. Success! Courtesy flag up.

In a previous blog post, I mentioned we needed to replace our anchor chain. I contacted a couple of chandleries near Gouvia and got quotes. We chose the vendor who would take away the old rusty chain—because nothing says “luxury yachting lifestyle” like paying someone to dispose of 200 kilos of oxidized steel.

But swapping chain isn’t as simple as pulling out the old and dropping in the new. First, Gouvia is a Med mooring marina. You back in, tie stern lines, grab the lazy lines, pull them forward, and secure the bow. It’s a tidy system—unless you’re us.

To replace the chain, we had to leave the dock, spin the boat around, and point the bow at the dock. I’m sure onlookers thought, “Ah yes, Americans attempting a Med mooring. Fetch the popcorn.”

Next, we hauled the anchor off the boat and onto the dock. Then we pulled the entire chain out of the locker and piled it on the dock like some kind of nautical scrapyard art installation. Once empty, I squeezed myself into the locker to remove the rusty bits that used to be part of the chain. After a rinse and flush, we were ready for the new chain.

While waiting for delivery, I heard a snap, crackle, pop from about 50 yards away. My first thought: someone’s trying to start an outboard out of the water. Two clues told me otherwise: no one was near the sound, and a plume of smoke was rising from the power pedestal. Ah ha—electrical fire. I jogged over, grabbed the nearest dock extinguisher, and blasted the flame plus the inside of the pedestal door gap. I disconnected all the power cables. Dock personnel eventually arrived and took over. Crisis averted.

With the excitement over, I went back to waiting for chain delivery. They arrived shortly after, we installed the new chain, spun the boat back to proper Med-mooring orientation, and finally sat down to enjoy a cold brew. Job done.