Show Boat

There is a beautiful and rather chic seaside town in Greece called Spetses. It boasts of uncluttered streets that never hum with the sounds of car engines, only the murmur of scooters and the clip-clop of horses hooves, as they have horse drawn carriages rather than run of the mill taxis.

It is classy and it is understated in its own little way. The majority of the towns visitors come off the ferry which comes in twice a day. It is also boat friendly, and it has two mooring bases for boats; a rather ominous natural harbour that has no method of organisation, so is intimidating to the newbie on the Spetses waters- the boats moored there give the impression that they have lived in the same space of water since the dawn of time, so visitors approaching are not exactly welcomed.

The second mooring is for where the money resides. A large concrete jetty juts out into the busy channel, and is only adorned by giant rusty iron rings, almost metres apart, that dangle on the end of the mooring lines from vast gin palaces. The gin palaces are socking great motor launches that put a lovely detached five-bedroom house in Hertfordshire to shame. They are the Ferrero Rocher of the seas, and the rather bland jetty accommodates their hulking sterns.



An unsuspecting and tired crew were we when we pulled up harbour side to Spetses. We had spent a rather disturbing night in a natural harbour the night before, swinging manically back and forth on the anchor, whilst ominous howling had come across the waters from a dark and frightening beach. It was one of those nights where we had all crossed paths up on deck at obscure times, as we had been woken up by the howl of the wind or the howl of whatever was miserable or angry on the beach. Graham had taken a violent tumble off the boat the day before and was nursing damaged ribs, so was occasionally bemused by our shadows shifting past him as we poked our heads up through the cockpit to see what was what (which was daft as it was pitch black except for the stars, but curiosity is a strange thing).



The natural harbour, therefore, did not indicate a warm and welcoming haven for us, and so we decided to go to the, then, completely empty concrete jetty, save one sailing boat that was a similar size to ours. Safety in numbers lulled us into thinking that the jetty would be a suitable place to moor for the evening. We had to moor up in Spetses because I was jumping ship the next morning and had to get the ferry back to Athens.

The pilot book had said that whilst the jetty was perfectly safe for sailing boats, it did tend to resemble a lay by on a motorway once the gin palaces had sidled up, as they tend to keep their engines running to keep the air conditioning units running on the palaces that rape the batteries by the second. That being said, safe is safe, so we dropped anchor off the jetty, reversed in, realised we had dropped too early, pulled the anchor back up, dropped it again and pottered stern in to the jetty. After a long time of rearranging stern ropes and employing the aid of a very kind young man on aforementioned yacht and some rather burly service men from the gin palace opposite, we managed to straighten out the boat, leaving a safe space between boat and jetty so that we didn't bounce against the concrete.



Getting off the boat was not fun. A gangplank just reached the jetty and swung precariously as waves made from the taxi wakes and the wind off the channel bounced the boat to and fro. It was a game of chance walking that thing, and not an enjoyable one, especially for our crewmember with the wounded ribs. But we braved it, picked up my ferry ticket, had naughty iced goods and then ambled back to the boat.



We returned to find ourselves surrounded by the largest cruisers I have ever seen (barring the ones I saw in St Tropez). They were sleek, immaculate beasts of the water, loud and unforgiving in their presence. We found ourselves in their shadows, and in their wake. There had been murmurs of wanting to stay on board for dinner, just to avoid walking the bloody gang plank again, but the rocking of the boat was incentive enough to shower and hit dry land again.



We did just that, had dinner in a sweet local restaurant, and returned about two hours later.



Once again we ran the gauntlet, sat down, sighed, and realised that we were being openly stared at by the ever changing fan base of gin palace oglers. Countless people pounded down the jetty, mouths open, taking pictures, giggling and speculating at who could be on board. Boat by boat their mouths opened even more.

Until they got to us.

Now, do not get me wrong, our boat was gorgeous, a 40 foot Bavaria Cruiser. But we were not in the same league as these boats next to us, so the grand finale at the end of the jetty was little old us, sitting, drinking beer. Not what the punters ordered- I could have sworn one small child actually growled in disappointment.



The hordes of spectators didn't show much sign of dying down anytime soon, and the novelty of being stared at, albeit in a very disappointed manner, wore off. I had to be up early and we were tired. But the rocking of the boat seemed to have worsened. We checked the anchor was holding firm, as were the stern lines, but the waves from the channel and the incessant line of taxis going back and forth, was rocking us like crazy. Apprehensive, I knew that we were safe, and that it was too late to try and find somewhere else to moor, so went into my cabin, and attempted sleep. Our injured party was gingerly surrounded by pillows in the cockpit, and the rest of the crew either found their cabins or stayed up on deck.



I could not sleep. The rocking was abysmal. The boat was lifting so far out of the water that when it slapped back down against water, I was physically being bounced out of my bunk. I had been watching a really strange documentary on my ipod, so all noise had drowned out. But I snapped the earphones out as soon as I felt the engine start up. I rolled out of my bunk, opened my door, and instantly wished I hadn't. I caught a glimpse of Graham dry heaving in the cockpit whilst yelling in pain as his damaged ribs screamed with each breath. I turned to spot my mum running out of her cabin holding life jackets, and as I opened my mouth she shouted "get back in your cabin until I tell you. We are really in the shit."

I could just see my dad's feet scrambling across deck, and I heard men yelling instructions at everyone on the boat. I saw the end of a rope hit the front of the boat and my mum yelling that she would get it.

My instinct was to go up and help, but I knew mum was not joking when she told me to stay put. Too many people on deck when there is a problem can prove extremely dangerous.

I slid back into my cabin and waited.

About twenty minutes later my mum screamed my name and said they needed my help. I launched out of my cabin, slinging my engagement ring off my finger and into a cupboard, because no matter what was about to happen, losing that beauty was not an option. I was handed a life vest by Ruth who had somehow managed to pull one out from under one of the bunks, and was scrambling for a harness; I knew I was going up to haul up the anchor if needs be, but as I held the harness I realised I had no idea what to link it to safely, so threw it back down.

I glanced up the stairs momentarily as a wake hit us, and I was horrified by the snapshot my eyes took: white surf was pummelling the wall behind my dad, and ropes were flapping dangerously against the jetty, whipping the cement as the boat rose and fell in dangerously turbulent water.

Scores of crew members from the gin palaces were lined up on the jetty, all yelling different instructions as to what we should do. Two men on each stern rope were pulling as hard as they could to try and balance the boat, whilst another two women on the palace next to us were negotiating a rope that had been tied to the helm. As I saw this, it became apparent that the anchor must have come loose and we were being harnessed by the stern ropes.

No rope at the front would have meant we would slam directly into the jetty. But as the waves rose, the crew on the boat next door realised just how much damage our boat was threatening to do to if we smashed into them. So, they took a decision, and they threw the rope back.

As they did this, my dad was yelling at me to pull up the anchor. It was on a mechanical windlass run by a remote that is controlled at the front of the boat.

I climbed out of the cockpit and crawled on my hands and knees to the anchor, listening to my dad give instructions to mum and to Ruth, who were being yelled at to pull harder at whatever rope they were stationed in front of.

The waves were pummelling us, as was the wind, and dad's yells broke into fragments as the wind carried his words away intermittently. I did understand hand gestures however, and mimicking lifting something heavy with urgency doesn't leave many options as to what you think you're being told to do. Tie that in with a whole bunch of really rather large Greek men screaming at you to do exactly that leaves you with a clear idea that yes, now would be the time to raise the anchor.

So, with my mighty remote in hand, I pressed the 'up' button.

Majestically, the chain lifted out of the turbulent waters. And then the bloody windlass tripped.

I froze.

Violent shouts of "bring it up!" ripped through the air, and my defensive rebuttals got lost going back. I couldn't lift the anchor, plain and simple. Just then, I remembered where the trip button was in the main cabin, and so I scrambled back, tripped down the stairs and landed in front of the panel with the trip button. Triumphantly I placed my finger in front of it and went to push it.

The engine died.

"WHAT DID YOU PRESS, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU PRESS, WHERE IS MY ENGINE, WHAT DID YOU PRESS?!!!"

More defensive rebuttals came running out of me, and Dad yelled back that he wasn't yelling at me so why was I yelling. I yelled back an apology for yelling, explaining that I was yelling because I didn't do anything, and thought he was yelling, to which he yelled, he wasn't yelling, he just wanted to know what was going on.

Ruth and I met at the captains table, held hands, breathed together, and then hurled ourselves back up the stairs.

The men on land were berating Dad, screaming to use the engine, and Dad fruitlessly saying we had no engine and we had no way to lift the anchor.

The waves hit harder and the men on land started shouting something that chilled me to the very core; they were yelling for all crew to get down in the cabin and prepare for impact. The wind was whipping through us, noisily and mercilessly, exciting the ropes as they seemed ever more distressed by the uncontrollable waves which were bouncing us up and down with dangerous impact on the water.

If we hit the jetty, we were going to be very seriously injured, if not worse.

Now, I don't know what happened, but I would like to think that through my Dad's sheer refusal to give up on this now very precarious situation, he managed to talk some sense into the engine, and for a few fleeting seconds, it came back to life and revved us forward. The men on the jetty threw the ropes to us and we hammered into the channel, the anchor dragging painfully underneath us. We veered to the right, hurtling blissfully into the night, away from the danger of the concrete slab behind us, and right into the middle of an unlit commercial channel.

I hauled on the anchor but saw it was pointless- the links had double backed on the windlass, meaning it was stuck.

I could hear the engine running, but we had not rev power, meaning something was wrong with the propeller. As mum came forward to look at the anchor, she saw the rope that had been holding us to the gin palace was in the water. It had fallen back overboard and we realised that it had wrapped itself around our propeller, rendering it hurt and useless.



It is not often that you can say it was a relief to be floating with no control in the middle of a busy channel in pitch black, but I said it. In comparison to the malicious jetty, this was bliss. But I realised how quickly we were drifting when I tried to glare at the jetty and it was almost completely out of sight. There was the outline of an island quite far behind us, with a lighthouse that let off enough light to give us an idea of our surroundings. Our mast light was on too, so any speeding taxis would at least be able to see us.



With no propeller and a dragging anchor, we were at the mercy of the current. So, we called the coastguard. I overheard Ruth on the radio, and after getting hold of someone, she explained what had happened. They took one of our mobile phone numbers, and called us on that instead. We had to radio another channel as well, and as Ruth did, the mobile rang.

Dad explained again what had happened, reiterating that whilst we were a little dazed, we were not injured.



We waited.



A quirky blue light came sidling up towards the boat some time later. The lighthouse now on the other side of us, was giving less light, and blue tinge turned out to be one of those non-smoke cigarettes which was lodged in one of the coastguards mouths. They yelled over a couple of questions about whether we were okay, what size the boat was, and what did and didn't work.



Once they had established we had no revs and an anchor floating under the boat, they informed us we could be towed, but by a water taxi-man who would negotiate the price for the tow. This was told to us in a manner that left no room for misunderstanding; we were at the mercy of the taxi-man and whatever money he wanted, we would need to give.

Having conceded to this, the coastguard called the taxi-man for us, explaining our location and that money had been discussed.



We waited.



The water taxi came bouncing across the channel. We had floated into complete darkness by this point, the lighthouse a mere speck in the distance.

The taxi drew up aside us, and a young man leapt aboard, asking why the anchor was in the water. He marched up to the chain, and pulled the anchor up as if it were a small piece of fluff. I have to say I felt twinges of shame for being such a weakling in comparison, and ducked down into the cockpit. Up front, I heard a clatter and then lots of rapid talking, but I assumed this was the negotiation of money, and stayed well away.



I was half right.



They had started negotiating money, but the anchor had flown out of the mans hands and gone straight through the taxis window at the same time. The glass had shattered, and the taxi man was looking singularly unimpressed. Nonetheless, we were shackled to his boat, and we were gently tugged away into the night.



I had completely lost my bearings at this point, and as far as I could tell, we were being dragged into the deep blue nothing. The coastguards boat was following behind us, but I was filled with a feeling of total paranoia. We had called the coastguard, sure, but what if these people had intercepted the call, and we were being hauled off by thugs who would beat us senseless and take our things? The man who had pulled up the anchor had told mum and dad to sit down and to remain quiet. Was he ordering us around? Was he exerting his power?



I actually felt sick as we slowed down and were harnessed to a single buoy, floating in what felt like the middle of nowhere. I could just see what looked like the edge of an island, but I was not sure, and was not really looking. I kept glancing back at the other boat, wondering how on earth this was going to play out. I found myself missing the jetty, the bloody dangerous, but not likely to rob us, jetty.



The coastguard pulled us beside us, and the anchor man explained we had to give them our boat papers, so they could take them to the harbour police. By now, my heart was in my throat, and I felt sure we were being done over.

Dad asked how to get our papers back, we had no copies and no contact details for the base. He also asked how far we were from Spetses now, because I was leaving in the morning on the ferry. The anchor man asked what time I was going, and then cheerily informed us that the taxi that had towed us would come back with the papers in the morning and take me to the ferry. He then asked for a rather large wad of cash, which he passed to the taxi man. They dropped our anchor into the water so it could rest on the sea bed.

It was then, and only then, that I saw we were in shallow waters, and safely harnessed to a buoy lying just off a piece of land we had passed on the way in. I had my bearings again, and this instilled a huge feeling of relief in me.

The coastguards said their goodbyes, told us to sleep and be ready for a diver who would come at 7am to look at the propeller. Thinking it was amusing to be told to go to bed, I checked the clock and was shocked to see it was 4am. This battle had been going on for hours and hours, and we must have been drifting for a large proportion of the time gone by.



I went downstairs. Graham, I think, must have been the most grateful for the distinctly calm waters we were now in. Being stuck down in the galley of a heaving boat is unpleasant for a few minutes, let alone a few hours. We all sort of said muffled goodnights and disappeared into our cabins.



I woke up two hours later, having half slept, half daydreamed. I crept out of my bunk, up the stairs and wouldn't allow myself to look up until I was right at the front of the boat. Once sitting down, I looked up, smiled, and started crying.

The view was absolutely stunning, and the absolute opposite of the view from a few hours before.

The little cove that we were in was a side to a very small piece of land inhabited by olive trees and beautiful villas that wound their way up the hill and into the horizon. There was a blissfully small jetty that I would assume was used for deliveries and such.

The sun was sort of up, and the first fishing boats were making their way to the channel with their nights work on board.

There were small waves making lapping noises on the reef to our left, and a quiet hum of birds from the land.

I cried I think, out of sheer relief.

The night before had frightened me a lot more than I was willing to admit, and uncontrollable tears is always a sign that I have been stressed. I wasn't even crying in the conventional sense- it was more that tears were free flowing from my eyes.



I was still inadvertently crying as the taxi driver, who faithfully and cheerfully refurbished Dad with the boat papers, drove me to the ferry and wished me a fond farewell.



As I sat, waiting for the ferry, I stared with glazed over eyes, at where we had been the night before.

The gin palaces had already taken to the open water, whisking away their precious cargo to unsuspecting islands for some water skiing and light lunches with caviar and cava no doubt.



The jetty was completely empty, shimmering innocently in the early morning heat.



Approaching it was a small yacht, maybe 36 feet, clearly looking for somewhere to drop anchor and stay for a while.



Empty jetty. Calm waters. Small boat.



What could go wrong?