Our catamaran has a propeller in each hull which means they are wide apart. This makes manoeuvring in tight areas very easy. If, on the other hand, we are travelling in a relatively straight line it is also easy, not to say economical, to run with just one engine. However, if we need to manoeuvre, as now, with only one propeller and that propeller happens to be on the inside radius of the turn, the boat shows a marked reluctance to respond. And with an onshore wind and the starboard engine out of action, once we have completed the necessary paperwork David has no way of getting us off the customs dock except by me pushing with all my strength until the port propeller manages to persuade Voyager into a turn.
As she begins to leave the dock I jump aboard but unfortunately the wind proves too much and sends her back onto it. So I jump off and push again, but have barely had time to jump back on before the wind drives us dockside again. And so I keep leaping on and off and pushing until we finally manage to lurch away. Immigration and Harbour Master, meanwhile, both big men, come out and lean amiably on their doorway, with their muscular arms folded, to watch.
Gibraltar
47
Sheppards Boatyard
Since we are going to need a mechanic for the starboard engine, instead of the marina where we stayed last year we head for Sheppards Boatyard. A man with multiple tattoos, a wide smile and a Zapata moustache hauls us onto a pontoon despite the strong wind trying to blow us off it. This turns out to be Gaz, from England’s south coast and unfailingly helpful. Because we don’t know how long we might be held up getting repairs and replacements, Gaz finds us a slip at the cheaper end of the yard.
It is cheap because it is awaiting repair. Part of the concrete quay to which our wooden pontoon should be attached has begun to collapse and getting ashore requires a hop, skip and jump via a wobbly raft chained between the pontoon and a stable bit of concrete quay, followed by a scramble up a steel ladder. The electricity supply is eccentric, too, arriving via household 3-pin plugs stuck into a cable drum attached to a mains cable. We are simply grateful for the economy. Our in-boat equipment failure is going to be expensive.
Sheppard’s Boatyard is a yachting institution; part of yachting history. It is also a friendly yard and consequently one of those places where people arrive for a brief stay and do not always leave again.
‘Came for a holiday in ’72,’ says Jeff the mechanic, a cheerful Liverpudlian.
A desire to linger afflicts some of the berth holders too, like the catamaran opposite which sports Austrian blinds at its windows and fitted shag pile carpet on its cockpit sole.
Our first priority is the starboard engine. Happily Jeff announces that there is no damage from the sea water and while he sorts it out and then services both engines ready for our voyage, David disconnects the relevant bit of the autopilot and sends it off to England by courier. Then he telephones England about our non-functioning GPS.
‘Sorry,’ says the manufacturer. ‘We made a mistake. Your GPS won’t re-start itself without a new program after all, but it’s not economically viable for us to write new software to solve the problem. You’ll have to buy a new one.’
David decides it’s not economically viable for us to buy another one of theirs and embarks on a search of marine catalogues and magazines for another brand. It arrives by post ten days later, at a fraction of the price of our original one, and with a computer screen containing a map which will show our position in relation to any coastline anywhere in the world. All we are waiting for now is the repair and return of our autopilot.
In the meantime we become acquainted with our neighbours. They include eight dogs, three cats, a wookie, a cockroach and possibly a vampire. Anywhere you find northern European women who have spent any time in Spain you will find rescue dogs. Five of these dogs and the three cats belong to a young Englishwoman called Jill on a black-hulled sloop at the end of our pontoon. She stops to introduce them one morning on their way out for exercise. As I extend a hand towards the nearest one she says, ‘Mostly they’re former hunting dogs. When the hunters have finished with them they dump them to starve.’ Anticipating inbred savagery I withdraw my hand but caution proves unnecessary.
Four of them are short-haired, light brown hounds; three of which are lean and sleek, the fourth plump. Jill looks at the latter and sighs. ‘After their hysterectomies she was the only one who put on weight.’ The matronly one lowers her head and looks down at the pontoon apologetically. All four have that quietness noticeable in people and animals who have suffered deprivation and are grateful to have found a safe haven.
The fifth dog is Lucy, a fraction of their size, delicately boned, dark gray and furry. She has long legs supple as a spider’s on which she dances rather than walks and she carries with her an aura of happiness. Looking at her it is impossible to guess what Lucy’s parentage might have been. ‘I found her in a bird cage on a market stall in Tenerife,’ says Jill, ‘when she was a few weeks old.’
Polite and patient they stand around us while we talk and when Jill walks away they troop after her single-file along the pontoon. They will pass thrice daily on their way to and from exercise and the rest of the time we neither see nor hear them. And they are so fastidious in their habits that they leave no trace of their passing on pontoon or dock. Lucy always brings up the rear during their outings and will not pass without offering her own personal greeting. Her small face lights up with pleasure at seeing you, while her body twists and turns and her nimble legs dance on the spot. Courtesies complete, she rushes off to catch up with her pack.
The boat opposite us contains an older Englishwoman called Margaret. She has three dogs, equally fastidious. One had been thrown over their six-foot garden wall at a few weeks old and another pushed into her hand in the street with the words, ‘Take it or I’ll drown it.’ As well as an injury from her six-foot fall, the former came with an intractable skin complaint. Margaret has spent a small fortune on veterinary treatments.
Next door to her and her family is a middle-aged man of extreme hairiness. A veritable floor mop hangs over his eyes and ears while a thick beard disappears up under the rim of his glasses and gives him the look of a wookie wearing spectacles. We only ever see him briefly, coming up for air, since he spends most of his time below. From the sounds that emerge, he appears to be constantly sawing through timber.
To our left is the kind of large old wooden boat that yacht brokers euphemistically term ‘a project’ which means it is quietly mouldering away. With projects like this one, new owners embark on a refit full of enthusiasm and everything that is inside gets moved outside so they can sand and varnish and re-wire unimpeded.
Unfortunately, the original inspiration fades before any of this is completed and the boat ends up with rotting carpets and a marine toilet balanced on its coach house roof and a variety of wildlife breeding below decks, just like this one. At least, we assume this is where our visitor came from, through Voyager’s open bathroom window. Although, if a filth-loving cockroach is going be anywhere at all, underneath a cleaning cloth in a freshly-washed and disinfected bathroom seems to be one of the least-likely places.
The cockroach is something you are always warned to keep out of your boat at all costs and something that I am irrationally revolted by. Its natural habitat is dark, dank places of festering filth and it carries the fetid stench of its lifestyle around with it as it scuttles to and fro waving two great antennae about in front of it. Once it starts laying eggs in dark moist corners it can be difficult to get rid of.
As well as scuttling about at high speed it also swims and flies. As a species it is said to be indestructible and the oldest on the planet. It has also been said of it that should man achieve the ultimate and blow himself to kingdom come, the cockroach would still be scuttling about in the radioactive debris. Imagine the sense of shock as I pick up the cloth and there one sits on the corner of the bath. I credit the ease of its disposal to the fact that it was nauseous from the disinfectant fumes. From now on we keep the b
athroom window screened or closed.
To the right of Voyager is another venerable hulk, although all its fittings are firmly in place. One Sunday a large extended family arrives and takes it out for the afternoon, like a monthly visit to an elderly relative being taken for a drive in the country.
The man on the boat to the right of that one we never meet. We never really see him even, just a brief glimpse a couple of times very late at night when a deck hatch opens silently, a dark shape emerges, slips off the bow and disappears into the darkness of the pontoon.
Vampires apart, it is a relaxed and friendly place. The boatyard staff is endlessly helpful and the friendly neighbourhood bobby does his patrols in colourful beachwear on a very slow-moving jet ski with the word Police written on its side.
With English spoken almost everywhere it is so much easier to buy spare parts and get jobs done here. You can also buy the small things you miss much more than the larger things you have left behind, like English sausages and bacon, man-size tissues and Chicken Tikka Masala. Since our last visit, the big Safeways half a mile away has been supplemented by a small Tesco twenty seconds away as the crow flies. The checkout girls are bilingual and handle English and Spanish currencies with equal ease.
48
National Day
We will spend the whole of September at Sheppards Boat Yard, waiting for the return of our automatic steering from England. Not much happens. There are some lovely sunsets – one evening it is the colour and texture of sugar melon with a bright light behind it – and the Rock is often a lovely shade of pink.
Two adult seagulls spend time floating around our boat trying to persuade their two large youngsters that it is time to go off and fend for themselves. This appears to be the most trying time of seagull parenthood. The youngsters duck and squirm ingratiatingly, calling piteously for sustenance. After a while one adult will fly off, unable to stand any more. The other always stays with them, but during the more prolonged wailing puts its head under water for a little peace and quiet.
The only other diversion is Royal Navy Harriers and Phantoms landing and taking off at the airstrip and flying low-level sorties over the harbour. Watching them, I wonder briefly if any of the pilots are ones that I trained.
Meanwhile we make sorties of our own, by bicycle, to stock up the galley with supplies for our Atlantic passage. One Wednesday, though, a checkout lady at the supermarket warns us that the coming Friday is National Day and everywhere will be closed. I ask her what National Day is like.
‘Everyone will be on Main Street in red and white,’ she says. ‘Then they look for somewhere to eat, only there isn’t anywhere because they’re all on Main Street in red and white. There’s speeches at the naval grounds, the political bit. That’s boring. Then there’s things for the children to do. It’s nice. Except for looking for somewhere to eat and the boring political bit.’
So, on Friday, we walk up Main Street and become absorbed into National Day. As the checkout lady had said, everywhere is shut, and everybody – or so it seems – is out on Main Street dressed in red and white, Gibraltar’s national colours. You can have your face painted red and white for £1.50 – every one a different design to complement your outfit – but what surprises us is the sight of so many people waving the Union Flag with pride. Since the arrival of political correctness on Britain’s shores its only appearance nowadays is at National Front rallies or international football games where its only purpose seems to be to goad opponents.
Here in Gibraltar it stands for national identity and continuity and self-determination as this tiny enclave struggles to retain its independence from its giant neighbour, Spain, whose demands for the Rock to become Spanish get more insistent every year.
A little boy gives me a small flag, which I take without question and carry without thinking until a middle-aged couple ask me politely to please throw it away. I had not noticed that it is not red and white but red and pale yellow, Spain’s national colours. An American burger chain, they tell us, produces them to promote its outlets on the Spanish mainland and some young Spaniards have brought quantities of them onto the Rock to distribute among the crowds. Some Gibraltarians become angry and there is the briefest of confrontations in the square.
For the rest, it is friendly, happy, smiling. Everybody, but everybody, is sporting red and white, even if it’s only a red tie and a white hankie, although most have gone to great pains, not least with the most amazing hats. A woman in a wheelchair wears a red dress and a white flower. A baby in a pushchair kicks tiny feet, one in a red sock the other in white. A little girl wears the uniform of an 18th-century British officer with bright red coat, white breeches and thigh boots. The Rock’s washing lines will be red and white for days.
Nor are pets forgotten. A bow-legged British bulldog sports a coat made from a Union Flag; two white cockatoos wear red rosettes. And what looks like virtually the whole island marches down Main Street behind a banner proclaiming its desire for self-determination.
Regardless of patriotism and being under threat, it is all so amiable. Nobody elbows you, treads on your heels, or cannons into you, not even the laughing youths in a conga line. The Governor makes a speech and hundreds of red and white balloons are sent aloft at 1pm. The wind takes them all to Spain. And then everybody starts looking for somewhere to eat, only there isn’t anywhere because everybody is on Main Street dressed in red and white.
On the way back to the boat there is a cheerful band playing on the forecourt of the petrol station at the traffic island, although the only tune that is recognisable is Happy Birthday to You. You have to cross a main intersection here to get back to Sheppards Boatyard and every time I do I think that there can be nowhere in the world where the drivers are quite so zealous at pedestrian crossings as Gibraltar. They always stop. The danger is, of course, that you get used to it, and when you leave Gibraltar you get run over.
There is a stupendous firework display after dark.
49
Warranty and Insurance
The work on our autopilot is being done under warranty and after three weeks David rings and asks when we might expect its return. The repair facility, which is in the south of England, refuses to speak to its customers direct and we have been dealing through an agent up north, in Liverpool, which prolongs the process. The message relayed from the repairer is that everybody thinks their job is a priority and we will just have to wait like everybody else. Since we are now in the last week of September, and the European sailing season is over, we wonder why we are in a queue behind people who will not be using their boats again until next spring. The best time to travel from Gibraltar to Madeira, however, is between May and September and despite having arrived at Gib in the third week of August, we are now almost into October. And we have already spent a small fortune on the wretched equipment and it is supposed to be under warranty.
David seriously considers telling them to forget it, and buying a new autopilot made by another company. The only reason he does not is that the only alternative available locally is one that had failed dismally for a friend in following seas.
In the interim we have used the time to make Voyager as secure as we can. A particular vulnerability of our catamaran is her bow windows. We have four large glass panes across the front of our saloon which, if broken – either by waterborne debris or simply the sheer force and weight of an exceptionally large wave – would result in our boat being flooded. Or they could simply leak copiously as the water forced its way through any weakness in the window frames.
In her previous life, before she entered ours, Voyager had spent most of her time in a marina in southern Spain where the biggest hazard was too much sun streaming in and fading the upholstery. Her manifest includes four canvas screens, the exact shape of the bow windows, which could be attached on the outside by some quite substantial bolts. So while we wait for the return of our autopilot we take these canvas screens to a carpenter up in the town and ask him to use them as patterns to c
ut four storm boards out of plywood. Then we give them several coats of varnish to provide some resistance against sun and seawater and bolt them into place. We also have a tarpaulin handy to cover any other window that might be damaged and stop water rushing in.
We stow the anchor in the chain locker because we don’t want it coming loose and causing damage by crashing about on the foredeck. Or, what happened to a friend: his anchor chain bounced off the ratchet on his windlass sending his 35lb anchor, followed by thirty metres of heavy-duty chain, tumbling over his bow. Unfortunately his windlass wasn’t working, as often happens with windlasses because their electrics are vulnerable to seawater. So he ended up balancing on a heaving foredeck and hauling up the whole lot by hand.
We take the dinghy and tie it upside down onto the foredeck. Left on the davits, it is always possible that a particularly big wave in a large following sea could swamp it. The weight of the water filling it could tear the dinghy away, sink it, wreck the davits and even damage the yacht.
David unearths our drogue, along with the warps needed to tie it to our stern and a chum to weigh it down, and puts them within easy reach. If we find ourselves running before a severe gale, or worse, this canvas cone can be trailed behind Voyager just below water level to slow her down or stop her surfing down the face of large waves and pitch poling. He also puts all our other mooring ropes within reach, as they can be streamed behind a boat to slow it down in the same manner as a drogue. Although not as effective, they will be a good substitute in the event of the drogue being torn away.
Turtles in Our Wake Page 18
