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Sunday, September 15th - Cres to Baska - 11,547 km
I am in a panic this morning. My hosts insist I have breakfast with them, and I do, but my mind is racing and set on leaving town as soon as possible. I shake their hands and thank them for their kindness, even though they can't understand English. I haul my bags out to the sidewalk in front of their row house and load up my bike as fast as I can. I am trying to calculate how long it will take to get to Merag, where the ferry departs for the island of Krk. Merag is on the far side of the island, only 11 km away but it requires climbing a 300 m hill. The ferry I want to catch leaves at 10 am and it is presently 9 am. I pray that I have enough time.
I hop on my bike and race through the empty Sunday morning streets to the road that climbs slowly out of town. When I reach the junction of the highway I make the turn to climb the road that goes to Merag. A group of eight men are standing around, some with rifles, which gives me cause to hesitate, but they don't pay me any mind as I ride by them. It is a steep climb to the crest of the high ridge that runs down the centre of the island, and then the road plummets down to the sea on the far side, climbs again 100 m and then coasts down to Merag.
I am relieved to find I am there 15 minutes early. I buy my ticket for the ferry and decide to write a bit in my journal. I reach for the front pannier where I keep it and a cold shock runs through me. My front panniers are not on the bike! Where are they, I desperately try to remember, fighting a wave of panic. I remember setting them together on the sidewalk. They hope they are still there. I check with the ticket office. My ticket will be good on the 12 pm ferry. I set off back to Cres.
The climb back is hard but my adrenalin is pumping harder. I climb to the crest and speed down the far side. I see Cres in the distance, still too far away. I am worried sick about my bags. As I reach the intersection with the highway I see now about 15 men standing around. Three pick-ups have arrived and rifles are being handed out to those did not already have them. They let me pass as though I am invisible. Incredibly, my bags are sitting out in the open on the sidewalk just as I set them down an hour and a half ago. Even my hosts did not pick them up. The streets are still quiet. I am so relieved. My return trip has taken only 40 minutes this time, five minutes faster than last time. It is 10:30 and the next ferry leaves at noon so I stop for breakfast in town. Having already climbed 800 m between the two trips I am hungry again.
At 11, I set out again for Merag. When I reach the intersection with the highway there is real militia forming. Perhaps 50 men have gathered and a flatbed truck is unloading "iron horses", steel I-bar barriers uses to vehicles from using the road. They are preparing for an imminent Serbian invasion. The sight puts butterflies in my stomach. I may have a couple days or perhaps a only a few hours before Hell breaks loose.
My return trip to Merag only takes 35 minutes this time. If I had to, I know I could do it again just as fast. In spite of my high anxiety, I am proud of how strong I am at this point of my trip after cycling for six and a half months. I am like a machine, but a very vulnerable one at the moment.
The crossing to the landing on the isle of Krk is only a 20 minute trip. From there, I cycle into the island on an indirect route around a 200 m hill to reach the town of Krk, the main town on the island. I rest at a café on the harbour to settle my nerves. Three youths see me 
arrive and park my loaded bike, and they approach me with many questions about my travels. They are excited about all the places I have been. They try to interest a local woman sitting at a table next to mine but she refuses to speak to them. She gives them a sour look. They just shrug her distain off and move on.
As soon as they leave, she turns to me and asks me what I'm doing here. I start to explain that I am trying to catch a ship to Dubrovnik. She cuts me off and says not to go to Dubrovnik, and to leave the country as fast as I can. "Don't you see what is happening here?" she exclaims with disgust and she begins to chew me out for being so stupid. I try to explain that I know things are falling apart, that I want to get to safety as soon as possible. She suggests I go north from Rijeka back to Slovenia or Italy. She tells me she is a member of the Croatian secret service and that they are expecting an invasion by Serb forces at any hour. The airport and the great bridge from the north end of island to the mainland have been charged with high explosive which will be detonated when the moment the Serbs arrive. Get away from here as soon as you can, she insists.
If she is trying to fry my nerves, it's working. I set off for Baska on the south coast of Krk as fast as I can. This requires another 300 m climb to get to the top of the island before the road drops into a deep, straight valley that leads down to the sea at the south end of the island. The ride drops steeply through a forest with beautiful views. The distant Dalmatian Mountains are made of white stone and look like they are covered in snow. It is an incredible, smooth drop the whole way that requires no pedaling. In spite of the war, this is one of the nicest stretches of downhill cycling of my entire trip.
Houses appear a couple kilometres before the harbour, but the town is not very large. I continue past the houses until I am at the waterfront where the ferry docks
and where the tourist information office is. I ask when the next ferry leaves for Rab. June 15th is the answer. The ferry that left two hours ago was the last one of the summer season. My heart sinks so hard and fast it goes through the pavement.The day is at a close. I get an address for a local hotel. There are plenty of vacancies. There is nothing I can do before tomorrow. If I get trampled in the invasion I will either be killed or my life will be hell for some time, but at least I have tonight. I shower, shave, change into my best clothes and wander along the boardwalk by the water. The waves, scattered clouds and white crystalline mountains catch the glow from the moon. It is so peaceful on the surface, but so troubled below - like me.
I find a quality restaurant on one of the pedestrian walkways in the downtown. I order the best meal and a glass of wine. A man at the table beside me finds great amusement in my presence. 'Are you having a lovely vacation in Croatia?' he chuckles. Then he makes fun of me as though I am a completely clued-out tourist who has no idea of what is happening around me. "Do you know that the Croatian forces have the Yugoslav military bases on our soil two days ago? Do you know that 17 of them fell to our forces since then? Can you imagine what the Serbians are going to do next?" he laughs. I tell him what I have been through and how I was trying to catch the ship down to Dubrovnik tomorrow night from Rab, but now I can't get there.
He takes me more seriously now, and suggests I try to make it to Rijeka to catch the ship from there tomorrow instead. He wishes me good luck. I pay for my meal, buy 20 postcards and return to my room to pour my heart out in my possible last words to my friends.
PHOTO 1: "iron horses" by the roadside
PHOTO 2: on the island of Krk (no I didn't write Canada)
PHOTO 3: harbour in town of Krk
PHOTO 4: fortification in Krk, near patio where I sat
PHOTO 5: over the pass at the crest of Krk
PHOTO 6: the valley down to Baska
PHOTO 7: approaching Baska, whit Dalmatian mountains on coast
PHOTO 8: Croatian pride in Baska
PHOTO 9: view of Baska harbour
PHOTO 10: Baska at dusk
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