28 – Boadicea
Our brand-new parking spot just happened to be right in front of the marina's administration building. It's a safe bet we boosted our security quotient by shopping Harvey and his bint on the side. I'm thinking, the prestige parking spot had something to do with marina management keeping those of Russian persuasion from getting a tooth into us. Despite our new elite status, the manager expressed his displeasure at a stainless-steel abomination someone left behind the men's toilets and generator shed. It was not only an eyesore, but a roost for birds, a source of jokes and a blatant encouragement for further fly tipping. He suggested, what little steel it contained might be worth something as scrap.
Typically, I whinged about the unfairness of it all, and the manager consoled me with: “People are cheated all the time. You are not the only ones this Harvey has screwed.” And then, he was the whinger. “It isn't good for our business. People come to me with loud cries. I say to them, 'go to the police, write a letter.' And then, they shake their fists at me! Me, what can I do?”
Elena showed him pictures. He was particularly impressed with one snap in particular: Harvey flaunting a wad of our money; marina signage and landmarks clearly visible in the background. Suddenly, we had a new Turkish friend. “Somebody has to kill this man!” He proclaimed.
~
Nadia's office had been laid waste to by something looking disturbingly like the Voyager spacecraft. And no, not Katherine Janeway's intrepid class starship, but one of the NASA-JPL probes launched in 1977. “Does that look like it's supposed to?” Nadia asked.
“What it is?” Elena knew as much as me.
“I think it's our windvane.” No hole in the ceiling, so it didn't fall from orbit.
Mustafa, Nadia's husband, seemed just as mystified. Frankly, exhibits at the Centre Pompidou make more sense to me. “One thing is certain; this is from a boat very different from yours. A new mounting frame must be built.”
“What a surprise. Harvey never mentioned that.”
Mustafa shrugged his shoulders. “Kamal, he is our steel smith. He is building your auxiliary fuel tank. He can make a mount for this windvane, but perhaps, you might provide him with some of your steel?”
“Me?!” I looked at each of them, finally at Elena.
“There is enough steel in the arch Harvey made.” Nadia said. “We can even use some of that steel for the arch we are building. It is yours, after all. You have paid for it.”
“More than once.” I grumbled.
“Yes, we know. Albatross, by the way, has been successful in gathering many of the parts and supplies you ordered through Harvey.”
I was knocked for six. “You have our solar panels?”
“Indeed. Kamal has them at his workshop.”
~
Jon stopped by to gush over the windvane. To me, it looked as out of place as a luggage rack on a Lamborghini. But to Jon, it was, “A thing of beauty.” and, “Mark my words, you will be glad you've got it.”
What could I say? He had a similar doofer jutting from the arse of his boat, so there was no point arguing. “By the way, customs seized the short-wave radio. You don't have a spare by chance?”
“Well, shit. Wish I did.” Jon said. “Once you're a few miles out, you'll be completely cut off.”
“I know.” Once land is out of sight, no weather forecasts, no communication, no contact at all with humanity. We might as well have set ourselves adrift on a log.
Jon suggested, “A satellite phone, at this late stage, might be doable. You do need to get weather out there and be able to call for help and advice.”
“Satellite phones give weather forecasts?”
“No, but I can relay them to you.”
“You'd do that?” My cockles warmed.
“Look, you really don't have a lot of time. You are crossing oceans, for Pete's sake. I'll be here awhile. A satellite phone is your only solution, I reckon.”
~
Everything accelerated. Time ran out faster. Expenses went exponential. Work on the yacht ramped up parabolically. The phone rang incessantly for approvals, signatures, meetings. Power tools roared into the twilight. Turkish, German, English and every so often Russian was hollered across the docks. Miles of conduit, cable, wire, and hose were yanked, shoved and snaked through impossibly inaccessible spaces. Elena and I snapped at each other like a couple of badgers in a sack. Strangely, the technicians remained cheerful, despite the stifling heat and cramped spaces.
Nadia wielded her mobile like a witch's talisman. “Hey Meg, a desalination unit on its way to Izmir was accidentally misdirected. It is here instead, and it's yours if you want it.” She would say with a wicked grin.
Don't think for a second that Elena and I lounged around, knocking back fruity cocktails, while all this mayhem went on around us. We were right there, in the fray with everyone else, doing whatever we could and concocting ways of doing what we couldn't.
Elena, pie-eyed, took sandpaper, brushes and whatever horrible chemical was shoved into her hands and followed orders. Starting with, oiling the decorative, teak veneer; waterproofing the backsides of floor panels; climbing into the rigging; pulling wire up the mast and running new ropes. Even hauling around oxyacetylene tanks for welders. All were activities she never thought possible—or even permissible. “Gospodee Meg! I would be run from the town. Such trouble and scorn I would receive. This is unthinkable for a Russian girl. Shameful, not pretty. To climb on ropes, people would shout at me, I am a future mother! Lifting heavy things, pulling like a horse! Certainly, such things would never be allowed in Russia.”
What she must have thought of me—covered in engine grease; stripping manifolds and cylinder heads; swearing like a longshore man; arc-welding, flat on my back with my t-shirt and hair in flames. Elena tells me, she thought I was an extraterrestrial because I never let anyone tell me what I could, or couldn't do. “Blin — which means, pancake — Meg! People do not do that.”
“Forget it! You do what you have to, or what's the point of doing anything at all?”
~
I spent hours figuring out what charts—that’s maps, in sailing jargon—we needed to cross several seas, a couple of oceans and—with luck—a continental divide. The Panama Canal was a crap-shoot, given Elena's passport. Denied entry, our fallback was a U-turn out of the Caribbean, a hard right around South America, and then, round Cape Horn into the South Pacific. It is safe to say, we needed one hell of a lot of charts!
The boat came with the charts one might need to reach a smattering of Greek and Turkish beaches, resorts, and bays. The only place in Türkiye to get charts was Istanbul, and those only covered the Mediterranean. “Easily solved,” was Jon's take. “Pull in to Gibraltar for the charts, fresh provisions, a little rest, and to fuel up before the Atlantic crossing.”
“But they're British. Elena can't get in.”
“True enough, but it's like a big service station for boats. They aren't as uptight about immigration because the illegals go for Spain.”
“Illegals, like Lenna, you mean?”
“No, not Lenna. She is—” Jon appeared to be at a loss for words.
“White!?” I trumpeted my Canadian haughtiness.
“Crew!” Jon countered.
~
We added two new sails to our inventory. A Yankee jib—a knife-like, super-tough headsail for heavy weather and rough seas. That one, I was counting on never using. And a spinnaker—a monstrous drag-chute of light nylon. I dreamed of sunny days in Caribbean blue, a gentle breeze pulling us quietly along behind our billowing spinnaker; Enya playing on the sound system; the two of us toasting to merciful Neptune with icy blender cocktails.
Albatross worried about more than the weather out there. Upstairs in his sail loft, he slid aside a heavy wall panel. Behind it was a collection of world-war-two, German guns. He lovingly showed off the weapons, extolled their virtues, encouraged me to hold them. Those antiques weren't for sale, but a bunch of modern pieces behind another panel were. He suggested we add a capable full-auto and a couple of semi-automatic handguns to our equipment stores. “Nothing says, 'don't mess with me,' quite like a machine gun.”
~
Nadia introduced me to her cousin, Ahmed, a marine parts business owner near Netsel marina.
“Cousin?” I looked at Nadia. There was zero family resemblance.
“Ah, Meg. We are all family here.” She flashed her trademark, impish grin. “Ahmed will put your spares kit together.”
He crawled around taking stock of what equipment we had, engine specifications, types of systems onboard. When he presented a list for my approval, it was far from trivial! Virtually a replacement yacht in pieces. It would sink us—physically and financially.
I opted for the absolute essentials. Balancing the risk of failure, component criticality—and my ability to come up with a workaround when something broke. Nonetheless, the spares kit filled an entire cabin, floor-to-ceiling, and lowered the boat a couple of inches into the water.
~
Somehow, the yacht came back together. A time-lapse film would look like a backwards explosion. A zillion parts, big and small, swirling faster and faster around a boat-shaped vortex, until Crunch! And there would sit an ocean-crosser sailboat.
Bernadette shipped a bushel-sized apple-box crammed tight with computer disks; DVDs; books; hiking gear—including my hand-held GPS; a sextant and star charts; some photos; an extra laptop computer; even a plush-toy for good luck. It showed up in the cockpit one day. A particularly heart-wrenching reminder of my past life. By then, that past felt as though it wasn't mine and was fading like a vivid dream upon waking.
The only thing holding us back—the last vital bit of kit—was delivery of the satellite communicator. Tracking showed it cleared customs and would be delivered in the next couple of days. It was cutting it close on Elena's Turkish tourist visa. Jon thought it was too close, and that someone, knew exactly when Elena's visa expired. And that someone was holding up the package on purpose. We certainly had our share of Russian gentlemen strolling by, checking on our progress, letting us know they had an eye on us—or as Elena put it, “A tooth on us.” One of the Russians, a lout with a huge gut, made sure we knew that outside Netsel marina we, “Would die like dogs, before clearing the bay.”
A van, loaded to the axles with our provisions, made its way along the sea wall. It was all-hands-on-deck, stowing a couple of tonnes of food and supplies below. I envisioned an orderly checking off of lists and a place for everything. What ensued was pandemonium. Nadia, her husband, her tradesmen, her wholesalers, Sinem, Elena and I, were tripping over each other. Yet, like that aforementioned, backwards explosion, it all came together in one big crunch.
Eight months of provisions on a fourteen-metre sailboat was unthinkable. But, don't forget, landing was not an option. We couldn't even count on the Panama Canal. We were looking at total self-sufficiency on the high seas. The entire front of the boat, forward of the mast, was packed tight—floor to ceiling in two cabins. The back cabins, including the one Elena claimed, were stuffed with soft items like clothing, extra sails, life jackets and bedding. It left just enough room to burrow in and lie down.
“OK, you guys, it's time to see if this boat still floats!” Sinem slammed an empty soda can down on the counter.
Elena and I looked at each other. Nadia grinned mischievously. The men were gone. The boat was done. The satellite gear would arrive the next morning. By crikey! We were actually, bloody, leaving tomorrow.
“Come on, it's called a shake-down sail.” Sinem crushed her soda can. “Nadia, come too. See if everything works.”
Nadia grinned. “Sure, let's go sailing!”
The wind wasn't exactly ripping the snot from our nostrils, but we had a cracking, great shake-down. We worked like animals. Tried out all the sails, chucked Natalie wood overboard and lost it for good. Made water. Made ice. Made pizza. Made a huge mess when things shook down, all, over, the, place.
With the available wind, we pushed envelopes as far as they went. Obviously, it wasn't all that far, given the nice, protected bay we sailed in. And then, with a winch handle as her sceptre, Sinem solemnly dubbed Elena, “A sailor, with all its rights and privileges alluded to herein.” As per custom, we sprayed her with beer and threw her overboard.
We all ended up in the water, a pack of unruly kids. The more we laughed, shrieked, jousted and let go of our sensibilities, the more I knew how hard leaving was going to be. I might not have been the only one, but in the water, nobody knows you are crying.
Night fell. We slipped back into Netsel marina, knowing it was for the very last time. We also knew that spirits needed raising.
“To Natalie wood!” Sinem called out. We raised our own glasses of spirits to hers and clinked. Maybe more like clanked, or cracked. OK, we may have been a wee bit exuberant; having raised a lot of spirits by then. Our waiter definitely worried about the glassware.
Nadia lifted her glass. “To your fine boat. To—” Hesitation. Finally, she uttered the utilitarian name and number it had been provided by the charter operator. Her arm wilted. “What are you calling it?”
Elena and I looked at each other. I was in love with lampotchka—Russian, for light bulb. She wasn't, and drilled into me with a steely gaze. Meekly, I suggested, “Changing the name is bad luck, anyway. Right?”
No one spoke, then Elena raised her glass. “Our sailboat must battle the sea with us. She must be a warrior. She must be one with us and Meg. She must be strong to carry us home.” Tears filled her eyes. “To me, our yacht, she must be, Boadicea!”
