by Josep Pla
The sea was becalmed. It was a clear, radiant day. There wasn’t a breath of wind. We were on the edge of the outer rim of Ferrera Bay, on a straight line from Falconera to Cape Norfeu.
“Is that the bau?” I asked.
“Yes, senyor. That’s the Ferrera bau. Look how precipitous the rock is, to the south. It looks as if it’s been hewn out. The Greek vessel lies at the foot of that precipice…”
When the Roses fishermen on board heard mention of the Greek vessel they all laughed loudly. No doubt that shipwreck had brought to mind something amusing.
The day was so clear, the sea so calm, it was hard to imagine a ship sinking there, a Greek one, by the name of Phaedo, that’s right, like Plato’s dialogue in which professors debate dogma.
In Catalan, a bau is one thing, a niell another and an escull yet another. An escull is a rock that always juts out from the surface of the sea. A niell is rock that is superficially immersed by the sea. When there’s a drought, a niell may feel the sun; however, generally, it’s under quite a lot of water, and that’s the reason why a niell may also be called a submerged escull. A bau is a niell that is deeper down – that is, a rock several fathoms under the surface. Evidently, when the waves are deep, they hit the bau and that collision produces the same swirling waters as an escull or niell. By virtue of their invisibility, baus are a danger to shipping, and that’s why they are usually marked on good maritime charts. At any rate, the Ferrera bau is marked. And if I’m not mistaken, that’s the place where the Phaedo, registered in Piraeus, foundered.
I was first told about the existence of that Greek wreck by fishermen who hailed from the port of Roses, when we were returning from some paternoster line fishing. I was later sufficiently intrigued to investigate further.
The Phaedo reached the port of Barcelona from a North African port – Algiers, if my memory doesn’t deceive me – two or three years late, in terms of its commercial value. It was transporting a cargo of drums of sodium hydrate and a large amount of beans – hundreds of tons.
“You say it was transporting beans?”
“Yes, senyor. Various. Black-eyed peas and white beans. When the Phaedo reached Barcelona, the big trade in foodstuffs during the First World War was over. The smuggling of previous years had fizzled out. Obviously, if the goods had looked in better shape, they would still have been marketable.”
“What was wrong with the goods?”
“The beans were in a bad state; they were damaged. In fact, they were unsellable – only a Greek could have imagined he might still close a deal on them. In any case, although Greeks have a sharp business sense, they sometimes show their cards and go far too far.”
“That’s an ancient habit.”
“Yes, senyor! Very ancient. That’s true. But let’s not be sidetracked. The Phaedo’s captain was a sailor of the most ancient stripe. He didn’t just own his vessel, but, except in cases when he was hired (something he hated), he also almost always owned the cargo he was transporting. He was a shipper who doubled as a businessman – as the most recalcitrant coastal skippers were. That man had bought for a rock-bottom price a load of beans in North Africa he intended to sell in Barcelona. Once he reached this side of the Mediterranean, he spared no effort to do so; however, despite his persuasive, wily cunning, a fortnight later, he hadn’t managed to off-load his beans.”
“I understand.”
“And one thing became as bright and clear as the sun shining down on us: the Greek had invested all his wealth in that piece of business. The fact he’d been unable to bring it off meant he was totally bankrupt. Every day that passed, the beans rotted more, making the bilge of that pestilent old hull fouler by the moment. I imagine you realize that vessel with such a Socratic moniker was incredibly old. In any case, apparently it was the last trip she was going to make under the Greek flag, because the captain’s plans to sell the boat to Italy were well advanced. Great mariners, the Greeks and Italians, have always specialized in the art of sailing aging vessels retired by English and Scandinavian owners – above all by the English. When, for whatever reason, an English ship owner decided that a boat he owned had come to the end of her working life and that any attempt to keep her on the sea would be dangerous, a Greek or Italian buyer would come along and sail her for another twenty or so years, with total peace of mind. Obviously, it’s not clear what that total peace of mind represented; the art of keeping that kind of ramshackle ship afloat is full of hazards and triggers many a headache. Nonetheless, by the shores of the Mediterranean, poverty has always been the source of all possible theoretical and practical knowledge, and in that sense, the art of sailing battered hulls past their halcyon days is one of the mysteries of the culture of that sea – one of its most complex, intriguing and decent aspects. Clearly, after all I’ve said, these boats are almost inevitably fated to become wrecks. Even so, giving them another twenty or thirty years of life by virtue of continuous patching and mending, performing miracles daily – even earning money! – with everything hanging by a thread, shows a genuinely impressive merit. The case of the Phaedo scaled almost sublime heights. To have succeeded in interesting another buyer after the last drop of Greek science had squeezed her dry represented a nigh on ineffable miracle.”
“But did that buyer really exist?”
“The captain said he did.”
“Do you think that enough proof?”
“How do I know? I’ve never required total precision when it comes to people’s intentions or words. The fact of the matter is, once all possibility of a deal had gone, the captain found himself in a most unpleasant situation. The Phaedo had in its hold only a tiny amount of coal, and the possibility of buying more, with real money, was out of the question. The time came when the situation was exposed in all its rawness. The captain had only one route to take – a route that might make us laugh, but it was one he judged to be the only way out: a clear-sighted, full-scale, perfect shipwreck in order to get insurance money. When the boat left the port of Barcelona (very slowly, to save fuel), supposedly heading for Marseille, the captain had already taken every necessary measure to ensure what we might dub a model shipwreck. Naturally, he had to find a quiet place, a place with the best conditions for achieving a wreck. It takes as much effort to do things badly as it takes to do them well; however, there are often considerable financial benefits to doing them one way or another. That Greek captain wanted to do things the best way possible…This may seem unlikely at this point in the tale, but events will show that this is unquestionably true.
“And so, one fine day, the idlers of Cadaqués spotted a steamship sailing by very close to land, unusually slowly, going in the direction of Cape Creus. At the time so many steamships passed by they didn’t raise an eyebrow. However, their curiosity was aroused when an hour and a half later the vessel turned and retraced the route by which it had come. What was behind this retreat? If the steamship was sailing around Cape Béar – that is, toward Port-Vendres – it was unimaginable that the weather had forced it to drift, because the weather was as placid as a pond. It was a splendid and clear day. Their curiosity was aroused even further when they saw the ship repeat the operation for a second time: in effect, they watched it pass by a second time and return yet again. What did those strange movements mean? For the moment nobody could fathom it. If she had been a familiar ship, they’d no doubt have speculated endlessly, but they’d never seen that hull before, so all was soon forgotten.
“Those unusual comings and goings revealed one thing: the captain’s immense professional quality, at that specific juncture at least, in the operation he was trying to execute. Obviously, one can shipwreck anywhere at all – that’s within the scope of all brains, even the most elemental. But choosing the most appropriate spot is no spur-of-the-moment act. There are infinite places on Cape Creus where one could sink a boat. The Ferrera bau offers exceptional conditions and even seems providentially marked on maritime charts to that end.
However, the captain wasn’t content with what we might call official indications. He wanted to conduct a detailed recce himself to see if there might be an even more suitable spot. That was the reason for his to-and-froing opposite Cadaqués.
“I am so sure of this that I will add that if the Phaedo’s captain had had more coal, he’d have recced much farther, to the gulf of La Selva and the Roussillon coast. But his coal was running out and he had to reach a decision. All things considered, he felt that the bau we’ve mentioned offered the best conditions, and without more ado, he steered toward it, perfectly clear minded and displaying a high level of professional expertise.
“The captain had a crew that was very fond of him: he wouldn’t have hurt his people, and his sailors bore him no ill feeling; moreover, they were aware of his present difficulties and sympathized. They hardly needed to speak a word to understand each other. When the crew saw that the Phaedo was returning to the Roses coast, they realized the operation was reaching a climax, that the hull had entered its pre-demise state. The sailors accepted this philosophically, with perfect calm. Almost all the old crew members had been involved in repeated shipwrecks. They had been victims of Greek ship owners’ commercial acumen, of their ability to postpone shipwrecking and fight off the inevitable fate of their fleet. Some had shipwrecked in infinitely more dramatic circumstances. In any case, there was this difference: that operation faced benign, harmless conditions, with scant danger: everything was so patently placid. Such an operation always entails an element of unexpected, random danger, a moment of genuine peril. A shipwreck close to the coast is always more feasible that one six hundred miles from land in an overcast, stormy Atlantic. The weather was good: it was weather, one might say, for a fail-safe shipwreck: the sky was clear and the sea soporific, and there wasn’t a breath of air. Who could have asked for anything more?
“That was how the situation appeared on the surface. The psychological state of the less-experienced crew members wasn’t poor either. Tragic possibilities, tricky decisions, arouse a crew’s spirit of adventure and hankering for change. They are men who are always restless, who like to be transported by their imagination (however modest and low grade they might be), so anything is welcome provided it is distinct and challenging. The inventive minds of these men are so marked by blood-and-guts brio, they can be satisfied only by situations where there is no way out, scenarios of absurdity and gritty, out-of-this-world fun. Misadventures of all sorts appeal to their elemental vanity – the vanity that fills taverns in the Mediterranean and everywhere else, especially those visited by mariners. So when the Phaedo’s crew faced the possibility of a change of climes, with subsequent repatriation to Marseille and a return to Greece in a magnificent, clean, white, spick-and-span Messageries Maritimes vessel, not having to do a thing, not having to move an inch, with food, drink and comfort guaranteed, they reckoned the world had suddenly become a much kinder place.
“Meanwhile, their captain had discovered the bay of Montjoi and the Ferrera bau on his charts. He decided the place was interesting enough to warrant a recce. Like the inhabitants of Cadaqués, the Roses fishermen were rather surprised to see that unknown vessel sail to and fro past the bay so slowly. What did those movements mean? Nevertheless, they felt it was all quite relative, because in that area, in those years, too many curious things had happened at sea for people to get easily worked up. In truth, we cultivated – or inherited – all our thick skin from those times.
“Finally, the captain seemed content. It was all about finding a convincing enough alibi and he felt he’d found it. His idea went like this: the Phaedo had sprung a leak. Every necessary measure was taken to keep the water out after this disaster occurred; all these measures showed it was hopeless; given the amount of water flooding into the bilge, he’d been forced to give the order for the vessel to be run aground in the most practical, favorable spot; he’d thus had to give the order to head toward the beach in Montjoi Bay, which the captain felt was relatively sheltered from winds; he ordered the engines to be turned full on and it was in the course of carrying out that order that the Phaedo hit an unknown (and unmarked) rock and sank there and then…
“The signs indicated that was the captain’s idea, but things had turned out differently.
“As the Phaedo slowly approached the site of the ‘indescribable catastrophe’ (the words in the captain’s report), the crew, in a most disciplined fashion, perhaps with a grin or two, headed to their berths in the prow to spruce themselves up. They shaved, combed their hair, put on the best clothes from their suitcases and proceeded to organize all their belongings in the best way they knew. The vessel was on course to destruction, but the crew was preparing itself as if she had anchored in the best port and it was time to jump on land. As they were completing their gaudy toilettes, they gathered on the bridge by the ladder to disembark. Lifeboats were ready; everything was perfectly in order; they only had to be lowered into the sea; every measure had been taken to avoid accidents.
“The group was a sight for sore eyes. Greeks like to be flashy – they are somewhat oriental in that sense – and when they are in all their finest regalia, they seem particularly happy. If they are lucky enough to have curly hair, they feel highly important. If they have that kind of special hair, they put theirs caps on carefully, so as not to flatten it. Unless they are the kind who wear nothing on their head so people can stare in wonder at their fabulous hair. That group of men, so well attired, so straight and stiff in their party outfits, with hairdos out of pictures taken in a studio, looked like people going to a wedding or christening: in the context of that vessel, it was hugely comic.
“From what one could see, the captain had calculated remarkably well. He arrived near the Ferrera bau – hardly half a mile outside the bay – in the midafternoon. His vessel proceeded very slowly. The weather remained excellent. The captain swung the Phaedo’s prow toward the bau – slowing down her engines as much as he could. The whole crew gathered in front of the ladder that had been lowered over the side. Longboats from Roses were passing by to go fishing off Cape Creus. Those on board the Phaedo signaled to one, which made an approach. Speaking in a strange language, of which the longboat skipper grasped only the odd, Italian-sounding word, they conveyed to him that he should pick up the crew. The skipper, who really understood nothing, shrugged his shoulders and steadied himself passively to do everything those strange men were asking. ‘Pessetes, pessetes!’ the Greek repeated now and then, to back his opaque declarations with a weighty argument. The crew clambered down the ladder with their bundles and battered suitcases and settled down in the sides of the longboat. They silently descended one after another, saying nothing, and slotted themselves in stiffly, politely, on their best behavior. In the meantime, the Phaedo drew closer to the bau, extremely slowly. Its captain was still on the upper bridge, with the rode in front. The longboat kept up with the steamship, next to the ladder. The fishermen were so astonished, were so surprised to see the vessel heading onto the rock, that perhaps seeing it all so clearly rendered them speechless. It was so unconceivable and odd they could only gawp. Then the moment came when they could no longer hear the engines. The Phaedo was some forty yards from the rock. It continued forward, impelled by its previous speed. The collision took place and was perceptible, though not at all dramatic: a dull, muffled sound. After the collision, the ship naturally jolted backward. A moment later, they heard the muted noise of an explosion, as if a depth charge had exploded inside the wreck. The Greek crew looked down. The captain rapidly abandoned the bridge and appeared at the top of the ladder. He was embarked on the longboat in a second. The Phaedo lurched significantly and slowly and gently began to slip down – like a wafer dunked into a glass of water that’s slowly coming apart. Three quarters of an hour after the explosion that created the leak, she was on the bottom of the sea.
“Once the captain had observed his boat was going down slowly but surely, he didn’t think it worth wasting
another moment. He asked the skipper to take them to the port of Roses, where they disembarked and were repatriated a few days later, after the routine paperwork had been completed. Five months after these curious happenings an English gentleman arrived in Roses who said he was an agent for Lloyds of London. He contacted Senyor Llorens, a highly esteemed man in the locality and the famous insurance company’s representative in Roses. The agent’s job was to investigate the circumstances of the Phaedo’s wrecking on the Montjoi bau.
“Senyor Llorens suggested that Costas Contos, the Greek deep-sea diver living in Cadaqués, should recce the wreck. His idea was immediately accepted. The Lloyd’s agent gave Contos two precise instructions: first he asked him to examine minutely the impact on the rock of the collision with the ship’s prow, then the nature of the leak caused by the explosion.
“Contos went down and scrutinized the Phaedo, and in particular the two issues raised by the agent. The diver’s statement was a model affair. The vessel’s collision with the rock wasn’t powerful enough to have caused it to go down: it had left only a scrape, not a deep incision, on the rock. The artifact that caused the explosion had produced a hole some two square yards in size on the port side – a hole produced from the inside outward, because the iron plating was bent in that direction. Contos’s statement was confirmed by the fisherman on the longboat who had witnessed the shipwreck. The economic outcome of the operation was negative. Blinded by his bad losses in the business of the rotten beans, the Greek had planned and executed a shipwreck that was too perfect, that had nothing untoward. He had showed his hand and lost his every drachma.”
I once conversed with Contos about the Montjoi shipwreck.
“ ‘When I went down the first time,’ he told me, ‘the vessel was intact. She had barely been in the water six months. I recced her every inch. She was a vessel with certain pretensions. Before being a cargo boat, she had been a mail boat. You could see the radiators, she still retained some of her passenger cabins; the dining room had those typical rotating chairs fixed to the floor. The steamship, which was absolutely flat some thirty fathoms down, still seemed alive; her funnel, mast and rigging were in place; everything seemed normal; naturally, the doors had swelled, and I had to force them open, but inside the dining room nothing seemed amiss. She sank so slowly and gently, without any undue violence that some items were still on the tables. I brought up a coffee cup and saucer from my first recce. When I showed them to that English gentleman, he asked me very politely to restore those items to their rightful place, because Lloyds of London didn’t want anything that wasn’t rightfully its property. I thought that was taking things too far, you know? The hole where the leak was had filled with beans. The Phaedo was carrying beans loose in the bilge. The mouth of the hole was one amazing fish breeding ground. I’ve never seen such a shoal of white sea bream as I saw there. The fish ate the beans the sea had swollen. Some beans were twice their normal size on land. The fish ate everything and their greed was literally indescribable. There were deep-sea mussels hanging in clusters from the boat’s rigging – they are much bigger than those from farmed mussel beds. I brought up some thirty kilos of mussels and tried to sell them in Roses but with no success, though they were extremely tasty. People thought they were too big and weren’t interested.’ ”