Seagulls in My Soup

by Tristan Jones

  As he spoke he doffed his immaculate white-topped peak cap and hung it on a rusty steel bolt over his berth. His graying hair, rather long and lanky, fell all around his head, making him look like a happy walrus who has just surfaced from below a patch of long-stranded seaweed.

  “That must have been quite a wrench?” I punned.

  “Worst of it was, I lost my missus in the same year,” he said. The mustache drooped for a moment, then picked up again. “But anyway, we can’t mope around, as it were, can we? So I decided to go to sea for a change. The Line was now defunct and the brokers had sold my old ship, Princess of India. Good old girl she was. Made the London-Bombay run four times a year, rain or shine, for sixty years, and I managed to get hold of one of her lifeboats—sort of rescue it, as it were. This is it.”

  “What, Dreadnaught?”

  “Of course, old chap. She was the forward lifeboat, starb’d side. Officers only. I used to take her ’round Bombay harbor for trials in the old days. Great fun. Used to take the lads for a spin, as it were.”

  “So how did you get here, then?” I asked, fascinated.

  “Oh, I bought her in Inverkeithing, in Scotland, three years ago. But she was in a terrible state. They’d let all the lifeboats go to wrack and ruin.”

  “Did you refit her there, in Inverkeithing? I know it well . . .”

  “Oh, no. It was autumn, you see, and what with the weather and the Scotch mist it would have meant a longish delay, so I slapped the masts in and sailed her direct to Gibraltar and started the refit there. A bit warmer, as it were.”

  “But that’s well over a thousand miles!”

  “Yes, she was a bit sluggish at first, but the wind picked up off the Bay of Biscay. Only took us six weeks. Well, just under seven, as it were.”

  “How did it go in Gib? I mean the refit?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t stay there long enough to finish it. The harbor mooring fees were too steep for us, so we took off on a little bimble into the Mediterranean, as it were. Went to Malta, first, but it was cheaper in Greece, so we went there.”

  “But that’s another thousand miles . . . more?”

  “Only took eighteen months. Of course we didn’t hurry. I mean the Med’s too interesting for that—so varied, as it were.”

  “When did you get the refit done, then, Amyas?”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m still at it. There’s no point in hurrying, unless, of course, it’s an emergency, as it were. No engineer that’s worth his salt wants to botch a job, you see. I know it might seem a little slow to some people ashore, but three years is not such a terribly long time, especially when you’re alone on a job, is it? She sails quite well, even if she’s a bit slow compared to Princess of India, for example, so I haven’t missed much of the Mediterranean. Been in Spain, Italy, France, Malta, Morocco, Greece, Yugoslavia . . . No, little Dreadnaught and me, we’ve been refitting all over the place. Fixed quite a few other boats’ engines, too. Of course I always help the local fishermen out before the yachts. I mean, they’re working. They’ve their families to feed, as it were.”

  “Do they pay you?”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of asking for money. After all, I’m a professional ship’s engineer, and the golden rule . . . if someone’s in a fix . . . as it were.”

  Amyas and I finished our tea. I had looked around his galley. It was such an incredible mess—rusty steel pans hanging over a rusty steel stove; and an ancient Colman’s mustard can, so patchy with rusty brown that it would have given Escoffier a fainting fit. I invited my engineer friend over to Cresswell for fish stew.

  “That sounds jolly good,” he said, accepting my invitation. “After all, it is Sunday. One really shouldn’t do too much on the Sabbath, as it were.”

  We finished our fish stew. Nelson avidly cleaned our bowls. Replete, Amyas and I adjourned to Cresswell’s cockpit. There he talked of refits and gudgeon pins as I watched the Sunday afternoon parade, a procession of Ibizan locals out for their weekly paseo along the seawall. It was always a spectacle. Whole families, all together, from grandpas and grandmas down to minute week-old babies in costly perambulators resplendent with silk tassels and sunshades and shiny chromium wheels, and all the mature adults soberly dressed in black suits and black dresses with black shawls. The older women wore their best jewelry and the older men tried their best not to follow the younger women with their eyes. All the younger women, the single ones, promenaded in tight-knit groups of five or six, all flashing eyes and white smiles for each other. The younger men also trooped in tight-knit groups until they were within a few feet of the knots of nubile women. Then the young men’s groups dissolved into a file, and a straggle of unspoken questions were shot at the women as they were passed. The young women duly giggled, and some even turned their heads to follow the youths, but you could always tell which young woman really fancied one of the men. That one kept her head still as she walked on, straightfaced, eyes front.

  It was fun, watching the oldest game in the world. The West End and Broadway could do no better when it came to a show. The locals never seemed to notice the foreign boats or the people on them. This game had been played before the first boat floated. It was as if we did not exist. Which was as well, for Amyas Cupling and I had front-stall seats, and could enjoy the sights and sounds of the promenade without any embarrassment.

  Amyas dealt with compression ratios and propeller pitches and a lot of other engineering esoterica, most of which was, and still is, a complete mystery to me. It was poetic, all the same. What could sound more helpful than “camshaft?” What could ring more solid than “block-lining?” Amyas’ words, like “induction,” “compression,” “ignition,” and “exhaust,” sounded so much more romantic than my terms for the same things—“suck,” “squeeze,” “bang,” and “blow.” Amyas was an engineering poet, a poet-engineer, as it were.

  Toward three o’clock the little converted Spanish fishing boat, on the other side of Cresswell from Dreadnaught, moved slightly toward the jetty. I turned around to see if someone was playing with the mooring lines, and saw that it was a little old man in a black suit, just like the hundred other little old men who promenaded along the jetty that Sunday. As I looked up in his direction, the little old man bowed toward me slightly, with true Castilian courtesy. Somehow I knew he was the boat’s owner.

  I jumped up, just as Amyas was explaining some intricacy of third-stage expansion, and scrambled over Cresswell’s stern onto the jetty. I heaved the little old man’s mooring line to bring the boat closer, and helped him cross safely over the narrow gap between the mole wall and the stern of his little craft. Safely onboard and down in the cockpit, he turned and smiled at me, and bowed again. “Muchas gracias, señor,” he said. “Alfredo Ramero Gonzales Rodrigues de Valdez y Compostella.” (Or some such name; it sounded more like the Real Madrid soccer team than one person, to me.) “Please accept my deepest thanks, on behalf of myself and my vessel, Estrellita del Mar!” His Castilian was of the purity of a mountain stream.

  I introduced myself and Amyas Cupling to the little old man. “Little Star of the Sea! What a beautiful name, señor,” I said.

  The little old man bowed again. “Thank you so much,” he said, now in perfect English, Oxford accent and all, but with slight Spanish undertones. “If you have any need of me, please accept my invitation to come aboard and I shall make my best endeavors to be of assistance to you gentlemen.” He turned and unlocked the tiny main hatch of his boat, and went below.

  I smiled at Amyas, who raised an eyebrow. We said nothing until I was back onboard Cresswell. Then I spoke in a low voice. Sound carries much more between boats than anywhere else.

  “Funny little fellow,” I commented.

  “Looks quite well-educated, as it were,” replied Amyas, also in hushed tones.

  “Nice little boat, though. Looks converted when you first see her.”


  “But she’s not,” whispered Amyas.

  “No, she’s been constructed like that. Copy of a Major-can fishing vessel, built as a yacht. Nice job they’ve done of her, and she’s very well kept. Jesus . . .” I remembered that I had not heard Amyas blaspheme. “Sorry Amyas,” I said.

  “That’s all right, old chap. I know you’re not taking the Lord’s name in vain. Don’t forget, I was at sea for thirty-eight years.”

  “I mean,” I continued, “just look at that paintwork. You can see they took their time with it, whoever painted her. And look at that gold-leaf trimming around the coachroof coaming. Holy smoke, it must have taken them a whole month to get that line around her alone!”

  “Yes,” said Amyas Cupling. “Actually, I intend to do Dreadnaught much the same way.” He meditated for a minute. “When the refit’s finished, as it were.”

  “Yes, it wouldn’t really make sense to paint her before you get her shipshape, would it?” I said, as I glanced around and over at the saddest-looking, dirtiest, scruffiest, rustiest tin-pot of a vessel I had ever clapped eyes on outside of a coaling depot. Under my glance, poor old Dreadnaught seemed to flinch and move as if she were protesting that it wasn’t her fault. What did Amyas Cupling expect after the glories of Princess of India . . . Tommy Lip-ton’s Endeavour?

  We went down into Cresswell’s cabin again for me to show Amyas my library, so he could borrow one of my books. As he browsed through the titles there was a low rumble from out in the harbor. Amyas turned to me questioningly. “It’s all right, Amyas, it’s a powerboat coming in. Plenty of people up there to give him a hand. Take your time. I’ll put the kettle on for another cuppa. Take whatever book you fancy.”

  A minute or two later Amyas commented, “Well . . . I think I’ve read all of these, as it were.”

  “Shakespeare?” I asked.

  “Oh, years ago. I used to read him on the night watches, when I was third engineer on the old Princess of Burma.” Amyas dismissed the Bard. “But I’ll tell you what, old man, as long as you’re not using it today or tomorrow . . .”

  “No, I’ve got my book for tomorrow. Verse. It’s over on my bunk. You can borrow any book in the library,” I offered.

  “Well, it’s not in the library. Look, it’s on this berth.” He held up my oil-stained engine handbook and read the title. “Volvo-Penta MD2 Owner’s Manual of Operation and Maintenance. I’d really like to read through this, if I may borrow it, as it were.”

  I was just on the point of saying “By all means,” when Cresswell lurched so violently that the steaming kettle was jerked out of my hands and clanked into the after cabin bulkhead. Amyas froze. I shot up the companionway ladder. Angrily I glared around. In the split second it had taken me to reach open air I already knew what the cause of the shock was. Now I saw I was right.

  A great monstrous powerboat, eighty feet long, all gleaming white and silver, had backed right into the little old man’s converted fishing boat, Estrellita del Mar. As the monster had backed stern-first into her, the tiny boat’s anchor chain, a thin, quarter-inch one, had snapped, and the fishing yacht had smashed into Cresswell’s starboard side. Now, Cresswell’s sides, being constructed like the walls of Durham cathedral, would not give way as the motor yacht continued backing into the small fishing boat, crushing her against Cresswell. Something had to give. The laws of force and motion demanded it. Cresswell’s anchor chain obeyed the laws and, although it was three-quarter-inch galvanized steel, it snapped like a piece of knitting wool even as, horrified, I watched. Then, as the big, bruising bastard from Barcelona continued racing his engines at full-speed astern, Cresswell smashed into Dreadnaught. It was no good yelling; the roar of the eighty-footer was far too loud for any voice to be heard. Then I saw the line.

  The monster had secured a long, thick nylon mooring line from her port stern right across all three bows of Estrellita, Cresswell, and Dreadnaught, onto the jetty bollard, and was now, as well as shoving with all the might of a thousand horses, hauling in the nylon line with his after capstan! It was as if a great big bully was not only pushing his way into a line of little old ladies, but was crushing them to death with his stomach as he drew himself to the wall behind them with hawserlike arms.

  Aghast, I glanced up at the bridge of the killer. There were three figures up there, one in a flowered shirt with dark glasses. The owner, I told myself swiftly. Another in a white hat and dark glasses—the guest. And one in a white cap and jacket and dark glasses and toothbrush mustache. The “Captain.” Not a trace of expression on any of the faces, except that of haughty might and right.

  It all took place in seconds. I shot up the ladder, took in the scene, bent down . . . and then I did something that I had never done before, and which I sincerely hope I shall never have to do again.

  I grabbed my double-bladed Royal Navy deep-sea diver’s knife—it was more like a Roman short-sword—from its brass “Siebe Gorman” sheath just inside the companion-way, and I flew ashore. I don’t remember leaping, or scrambling, or clambering, or climbing. The next thing I knew I was ashore, with my diver’s knife at the throat of a large, dark, white-jerseyed seaman who was standing by the straining killer-hawser. He ran, wild-eyed. I sawed through the thick nylon line with the wicked edge of the knife. The line twanged and shot back into the harbor water with a zuzz, just as Dreadnaught smashed her stern against the cruel stones of the quay. Something went bang, even over the roar of the killer-craft’s engines, and Dreadnaught, as Amyas, now on Cresswell’s deck, staring aghast, started to sink by the stern. We both shot wild looks at one another. In an flash we both knew that poor Dreadnaught’s propeller had smashed against a rock, and that her propeller shaft had been bent so badly that her stern gland had been ripped open, and that filthy harbor water was now pouring into the wretched little boat just as Amyas’ life-blood was pumping wildly through his heart.

  I tore down the jetty, knife at the charge, toward another gin-palace crewman who was standing, flustered, at her starboard mooring line. As I raced for him I saw out of the corner of my eye that the powerboat’s stern was swinging clear now of Cresswell, but had taken my bowsprit with it.

  I lunged at the crewman, I must have been screaming my head off, but if I was, I didn’t hear it. The noise of the killer’s engines was too high. A moment before I reached him the little crewman, his eyes bulging at me, threw himself into the harbor. I slashed the other rope just as the killer’s engines died. Then, as he swung round slowly to face the east wind, I shouted up at the men on the monster, “You great clumsy bastards! You come ashore and I’ll cut your bloody balls off!”

  Then I came to my senses just as quickly, it seemed, as I had lost them. To this day I think I did the right thing. If I had not cut the lines, all three small craft would eventually have been crushed against the wall and probably sunk.

  The little old man on Estrellita was now on deck. He was staring calmly, sternly, wordlessly, at the ruin and carnage around him. Amyas was still on Cresswell’s deck, holding onto her guardrail as he wept silently and stared down at the filthy harbor water, into which Dreadnaught, with a gurgle, had completely disappeared. I, too, looked down to see the last of her air bubbles reach the oily surface and pop. For a minute I looked silently at Amyas. He was like a broken man.

  A voice came from the killer ship. It boomed out tinnily across the harbor. They were using their loud-hailer. “I have reported you to the local harbormaster and the chief of police on my radio. Do not move from where you are . . .”

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Get stuffed!” I shouted. “GET STUFFED, YOU SODDIN’ GREAT OAF!”

  “YOU ARE TO REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE—POLICE ORDERS!” yelled the voice.

  “POLICE BULLSHIT!” I roared at him, and climbed back onboard Cresswell. At least if I were to be arrested it would now be onboard a British-registered vessel, I thought. Let them pick the bones out of that bastard!

&n
bsp; Amyas threw me a look of abject misery. He slumped down onto Cresswell’s side-deck, his head in his hands. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Bugger ’em, Amyas . . . Oh, sorry, mate. I got a bit excited.”

  “It’s all right, Tristan,” his voice sobbed. “I understand.”

  “You can stay onboard Cresswell if you like, mate, until we figure out how to raise Dreadnaught,” I said.

  I looked around me again. The haughty figures on the bridge of the killer ship were all three gazing in my direction, the two civilians with their arms over the bulwarks, folded, and the skipper inspecting me through a huge pair of binoculars. Still enraged, I threw him a British two-finger sign, then an Italian three-finger sign, then a French four.

  I turned to look for the little old man, but he had gone below again, probably, I thought, to check the hull of his tiny fishing boat to make sure she wasn’t leaking. That reminded me to do the same, even though I knew that Cresswell was as tough a nut as ever there was.

  Leaving Amyas, his head still in his hand, on deck, I hurried through my boat, inspecting her frames, checking the bilge-water level to ensure that her keelson had not been strained; and her coachroof beam knees, her futtocks, and her ribs, to see that they had not shifted. Even if I was headed for the jail, I thought, I’d make sure that Cresswell was all right, and Amyas could look after her for me until Sissie got back from Majorca.