'How old do you think she is?' asks Pep.
'Young enough to be your granddaughter, I'd have guessed,' I say sniffily.
He pokes his tongue out at me and sets off in her direction.
'Don't have a cardiac arrest,' I snipe at the Scotsman.
He grimaces. 'Look, the girl's all alone so we must be friendly.'
'He's all heart,' says Juana caustically as she slices through the water.
Half an hour later, Javier asks us to return to the boat. With effort we crawl up the flimsy ladder onto the deck, wiping the salty brine from our faces. Alan and Pep remain in the water and together attempt to ascend the ladder. SPLASH! Pep goes flying backwards and lands on Alan's head. With irritation, the Scotsman regains his poise, crosses in front of him and brusquely grabs the rail. CRASH! A wave hits him and he wobbles back into the brine. From the deck, Gloria watches the spectacle with delight while Juana and I sit tartly by the side of the boat, relishing their humiliation.
'Come on,' says Javier. 'Stop messing around!'
Like a pair of slippery eels, they slither about on the steps but neither can get a firm enough grasp as the waves knock them off their feet. Despite our froideur, Juana and I can no longer contain ourselves and along with Gloria, begin laughing. It's better than a pair of performing clowns at Billy Smart's circus.
'Oh, I feel so sorry for them,' says Gloria in broken English. 'When you are old, it is not easy.'
With some impatience, Javier waves a long metal pole at them, and like a pair of antiquated limpets, they grip onto it and clamber back on board, exhausted with the effort. Juana stands over them, a towel entwined round her midriff.
'By the way, I took some wonderful photos for posterity,' she says with an alligator smile.
Day Two
'You've done WHAT?' Javier screams at me above the moaning wind.
'I tried to hook the jib rope, but it came loose!'
'JODER!' curses Pep, using a rather ripe Spanish expletive.
Alan rounds on him. 'Don't make a crisis out of a drama!'
The triangular sail, otherwise known as the jib, slumps hopelessly on the deck while the rope that should be attached to it spirals up the mast out of sight.
'This is not good,' says Javier. 'We're a kilometre from land and we need that sail up.'
'What did you two idiots do?' Pep grumbles.
In a moment of weakness, Javier had decided to give Alan and me the task of attaching the halyard rope to the jib sail. Somehow, when hoisting the sail, the hook we used to secure it came loose and the wretched rope flew off up the mast, leaving the sail on the deck.
'We'll have to turn back unless we can retrieve the rope,' Javier says crossly. 'The mainsail won't be enough.'
We crowd round the silver mast while the sun jeers at us from on high.
'Well,' says Gloria sweetly. 'I'll just have to go up and get it.'
'What?' cries Pep. 'In this wind it would be far too dangerous.'
'It's good practice,' she smiles. 'I'll have a go.'
'You're an angel!' he exclaims.
I nudge Juana. 'In that case, maybe her wings can jet propel her up there.'
We snigger together away from the men folk, who eye us critically.
With some relief Javier gets out a harness and soon Gloria, in her teeny bikini, is swinging in the air like an accomplished trapeze artist, hoisted up on ropes by her male admirers below. Higher and higher she goes, swaying in the wind until, with triumph, she grabs the rope and hook and descends quickly like an agile monkey. Javier whoops with joy.
'You're a brick,' beams a windswept Alan.
'What would we do without you, Gloria?' says Pep with a smug smile.
Juana gives him a cold stare. 'Yes, what would we do?'
Day Three
Javier is bobbing about in the choppy waves, trying to untwist the anchor rope. Alan and I watch anxiously from the deck.
'Tell your wife to reverse the rudder!'
'WHAT?' yells Pep as he leans over the side of the yacht, puro wedged between two fingers.
Juana grips the wheel, tension stamped on her face. 'What did he say?'
I shrug helplessly, not having caught Javier's rapid Spanish.
'I think he said something about turning the boat.'
Juana grimaces at me. 'Turn it, HOW?'
'God knows,' I trail off.
Juana shakes her head impatiently.
'Just keep it steady!' snaps Pep.
We are in open water off Cala Blava and in the wild, blustery wind are edging dangerously close to a vast old brigantine anchored close by. It is beautifully restored and its huge, billowing white sails, like bulging lungs, rise and fall in the wind. Javier climbs up the ladder and, dripping wet, shouts instructions to Juana at the other end of the boat. She in turn fires the engine and in what seems like a moment of madness, heads straight for the side of the brigantine.
'STOP!' we scream out in unison.
Javier is sashaying towards us along the deck, his dark hair ruffled and glistening with sea water.
'What are you doing?' he shrieks. 'I told you to put it in reverse!'
'I'm trying,' whimpers Juana.
The crew of the other boat peers anxiously over the side, the captain looking furious.
'Have you gone mad?' roars Pep at his wife.
'Oh, shut up! You do it if you're so clever!'
Juana desperately changes tack and, by a whisker, the boat slides past its towering neighbour just as Javier bounds up to her. There's a united sigh of relief.
'I thought that was it,' mumbles Gloria.
'You weren't the only one,' growls Pep.
'Some holiday this is turning out to be,' I mutter to the Scotsman.
He has opened a can of beer and takes a long draught. 'Never a dull moment, eh?'
'You could say that again,' I say, grabbing the can from him and taking a long swig.
Javier's eyes are still blazing as he brusquely shoves Juana aside.
'Let me have that!' he snaps, covetously grasping the wheel. 'Advanced sailors, indeed? You lot still have a great deal to learn.'
Day Four
The wind is but a dying man's whisper as we steer a course into the bay of Magaluf. To our side an enormous catamaran teeming with tourists barges its way from the shore out into the calm sea. Standing on the deck, a man in a white ensemble is hollering from a microphone and disco music thumps so loudly that the vessel appears to be both vibrating and gyrating to the beat.
'It's a disco boat,' says Pep.
'You don't say,' I reply.
He sighs impatiently and walks along the deck towards the bow. In the distance hordes of tourists swallow up the golden beach, and yachts bob up and down all around us.
'We'll have lunch here and hope the wind picks up later, OK?'
I give Javier a nod and carry on practising my infernal rope knots. I have conquered the bowline, a sort of hangman's knot, and, with help from Gloria, can just about perform the clove hitch, which is handy for hitching fenders to outer rails. Juana, Gloria and Alan lie sprawled on wooden benches basking in the sunshine while Pep clambers up onto the side of the boat, face to the wind. Just as the engine dies and Javier is securing the anchor, there is a loud cry followed by a tremendous splash. All of us rise in a flash and spring to the sides of the boat. There, coughing and spluttering in the water is Pep, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.
'What are you doing down there?' barks Juana.
'What do you think, you stupid woman? I fell in!'
Javier throws him a life ring and with the trusty long pole manages to direct Pep to the stern of the boat where with a ladder and much tugging we get him back on board.
'That'll teach you to show off,' I say.
'Yes, at your age you must be careful,' Gloria chimes in, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.
Alan offers him a can of beer from the cooler box.
'Here, this'll cheer you up.'
Mo
odily, Pep takes it from him and with eyes downcast, stomps off with a towel to the galley below.
Day Five
The waves are lashing the side of the boat and I feel as though the entire vessel is going to capsize as we lurch over onto the starboard side. The sky wears an ugly grey scowl and the wind is whipping the sails which dance about as if possessed. I grip onto a shroud, one of the sturdy wires that support the mast, and pray that we will get back to shore alive. The wind rattles the cloth of the mainsail so violently that Javier sways unsteadily up the deck and issues sharp instructions on all sides. Pep wrestles with the wayward wheel as Gloria leaps about adeptly unravelling sails and securing knots. We are all soaked to the skin as water cascades over the deck. I feel my teeth chattering and a cold fear courses through me.
'Don't move!' barks Javier. 'The sea is getting very wild and now we have a flotilla of racing boats approaching.'
I turn my head and see not far off behind us a line of fast moving yachts, their sails to the wind.
'They're competing in the Copa del Rey. We're going to have to tack.'
Why fate has decreed that competitors for the King Carlos Cup should wind up in our stretch of water at this very instant, I cannot say. Here we are in the enormous fist of the Bay of Palma and yet like dodgem cars we seem to be careering towards one another.
'All of you, sit over here, port side. We're going to swing round.'
Using our weight to ballast the boat, Javier manoeuvres the vessel and we change direction. We are heading into the wind, and the noise of the flapping sails and hissing sea drowns out the voices of my companions. Alan gives me a reassuring smile, but when he averts his gaze I see genuine fear in his eyes. Where the hell are the life jackets, that's what I want to know? Stowed away uselessly down in the galley, I suppose.
'Javier's going to gybe,' shouts Pep, as he huddles low on the deck and takes a seat on the bench beside me.
'He's what-ing?'
'Gybing. Don't you remember anything? We're going to turn the stern through the wind. Watch out for the boom.'
The one thing Alan and I have gleaned on this voyage is that when the mainsail's pole, the boom, swings horizontally across the boat, we must duck our heads to avoid decapitation. Like a pair of useless rag dolls, we sit watching the hyperactivity going on around us, our knuckles white from hanging on to ropes. At times, the yacht lists so close to the waves that I feel as if my hair must surely be touching them. Someone is shouting.
'The boom! Watch the boom!'
Instinctively we crouch down and the boom cuts through the air like a scythe. Suddenly the boat makes a wild turn and then levels off. Javier, his shirt clinging to his skin, staggers up the side deck and soon, to my relief, I see a shoreline come into view.
'Thank God!' I yell at Pep, pointing to the land.
He grimaces. 'Don't relax yet. The sea is crazy and if one of us fell in now, we'd be sure to drown.'
I'm unnerved to see he isn't smiling. We pound through the waves, one minute falling forward, another leaning back so far I am sure we will all be shaken over the edge into the mouth of the sea. Miserably, I wish I had never agreed to do this course, to have put my life in what I perceive to be unnecessary danger. I think of what would happen to Ollie if the worst happened, if we never made it back.
Pep is suddenly shaking my shoulder. 'Cheer up, it's not that bad. Believe it on not, I've been in far worse scrapes than this.'
'Really?'
'Hundreds of times! That's the thrill of it all and think how lucky we are to be right in the midst of the Copa del Rey?'
'Actually Pep, I'd rather be watching from a hospitality tent on dry land with a glass of cava in my mitt.'
'Me too,' says Alan, licking the brine from his lips.
It is thirty minutes later that the waves abate and, spent, our small battered yacht limps into the marina.
'God, I need a drink,' sighs Alan, visibly shaken.
Javier is laughing. 'That was fun, wasn't it?'
'I think that's the end of my sailing days,' I whimper.
'Nonsense!' he yells robustly.
We moor the boat and make sure everything is ship shape before we head for the bar. Sitting on high stools by the counter, licking ice creams, are Angel and Ollie. They whisper to each other and giggle, probably amused at our dishevelled appearances. I have never been so pleased to see my son. Shakily, I take a beer in my hand and salute the rest of the crew. Gloria curls a golden arm round my neck.
'You and Alan were such good sports. We have all sailed before, but for you it must have been tough.'
'Una pesadilla!' A nightmare, I say.
Javier gives me a hearty pat on the back. 'Come on, you enjoyed it really. A little adrenalin is good for the soul.'
Juana and Pep raise their glasses.
'At least we're still speaking,' says Pep.
'Just,' I reply, giving him a good kick on the shin.
'Before I forget,' says Javier. 'I have a little memento for all of you.'
From a leather folder, he draws out five certificates.
'This marks the beginning of your sea-faring career.'
Grabbing a waiter, he gets out his camera and holding our certificates aloft, we huddle together and say Manchego to the lens. Customers at other tables start clapping and Pep, ever the showman, gives a little bow. I look out incredulously at the tranquil scene before me, the shiny yachts rising and falling gently in the marina, and the bronze disc of the sun suddenly bursting forth from behind a cloud.
'Do you think we'd make good deckhands one day?' Alan asks.
I look doubtfully at him. All I do know is that this deckhand doesn't want to see another boat for as long as she lives.
It's Friday night. Rachel is on the blower, sounding breathless and keen to talk to me.
'Did you get my phone message earlier?'
'Rachel, I've only just resurfaced from a near-death experience on the open sea.'
'Ah! The sailing course. You survived?'
'Barely.'
'I knew you'd enjoy it! I love sailing. Nothing like a bit of adrenalin to make you feel alive.'
'So, what was the message?'
She gives a jubilant sigh. 'Great news!'
Oh, here we go. 'Which is?'
'Are you ready?'
'Oh, come on.'
'We've done it!'
'Done what?'
She can hardly suppress her delight. 'We've won the Crown jewels pitch.'
NINE
DEVILISH PURSUITS
Dwarfing the small plaça, the grand old parish church of Fornalutx waits patiently, as it has done countless times over the years, until the moment when it can announce kick off. Then, with a tremendous booming, its old clock begins to chime, and local children gather together with their parents in the plaça in preparation for the annual village procession. Falling into line, every child clutches a table-tennis bat on which a red bell pepper is attached with glue. Inside the belly of each one is an illuminated candle which flickers and radiates an amber glow in the gathering dusk. Despite the late hour, the air is hot and dry, for it is still August and the sun, like an irritable insomniac, hardly sleeps. To applause from those drinking at bars by the square, the procession slowly begins, winding its way from the church down the hill and along the cobbled streets of the village. As an adopted son of Fornalutx, Ollie has been invited, so together with Catalina and her twins we set off, holding our peppers aloft and attempting to join in with the singing as we march. 'San Bartoméu, estira te'l lleu, estira-te 'l tu…'
I give Catalina a nudge. 'Whatever does that mean?'
'It's an old song making fun of San Bartoméu, telling him, how do you say, to draw out his own bile?'
'Charming,' mutters the Scotsman.
Catalina flaps a fan in front of her perspiring face. 'So, you have the Swedish women arriving at Pep's flat tomorrow?'
'I'll be there bright and early to greet them. I've put a welcome pack with a bottle of c
ava in the fridge, so they should be happy.'
'Ramon thinks you're very lucky.'
'Depends what they all look like,' he replies.
We begin the steep ascent up through the narrow, cobbled streets towards Es Turo restaurant. Here, at one of the highest points in the valley, the Tramuntanas appear huge and menacing, their black and grizzled forms circling the village in a suffocating embrace. At Es Turo, tiny lights are strung around its terrace and mystified diners greet our arrival with puzzlement and delight. Xisca, the proprietor, whose own offspring are in the procession, comes out on the porch in a white overall and, like a Pied Piper, easily lures the children into the bar area with the promise of caramels. The children crowd inside, swooping on the huge tray of brightly coloured sweets and for some minutes the singing stops. Gradually, parents shoo them outside and we continue up the hill to Canantuna, the restaurant owned by Maria, Catalina's aunt. She steps briskly into the street, wiping her hands on her apron, and dishes out more goodies. Catalina's girls and Ollie pile their spoils up on their bats, arguing with one another about who has the largest stash. At the top of the hill we stop to catch our breath. Before us, the tiny village rises up in a rocky mound, its honey stone-terraced dwellings pale under the moon. Unseen in the darkness is the labyrinth of thin, meandering alley ways and twisting paths that run like veins through the heart of the village and up high into the hills. As we turn to make our descent, the delicious aroma of grilled peppers fills the air as the fluttering candles begin singeing their vegetable cages. My stomach rumbles and Catalina observes her watch by the light of her pepper.
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