Dolphins Under My Bed

by Sandra Clayton

  ‘Super!’ I say.

  The bridge across the river opens and in we go, but when we get to E51/52 it is already occupied and there are no marina attendants anywhere.

  David radios the office on the VHF and tells them.

  Someone says, ‘Ah.’ Then there is silence.

  We hover for a while, then radio again and finally someone says, ‘N pontoon. Someone will assist you.’

  N pontoon is deserted. Not a soul. Not a single boat even, in what is obviously a new extension to the marina. So we choose a finger and tie up to it. It is 1.15pm. As no attendant has shown up we dutifully radio in our berth number. There is hesitation; we should have gone onto M. We gaze out across rows and rows of unoccupied finger pontoons and wait. After a long pause we finally hear, ‘OK’.

  David goes for a shower and to reconnoitre at 2.30pm. I stay on board with a glass of Cascais’s dry white and the marina’s short history of Lagos. One of the original 15th century navigators was Gil Eanes. When I look up from this booklet, the name of the contractor on the billboard of the high rise building going up just across from our stern is…Gil Eanes.

  We are miles from the marina office and shower block. When David finally returns to our pontoon the card given to him by the marina will not open the security gate. He shouts for me to come and open it from the inside, but I have fallen asleep over my short history of Lagos, so he has to walk all the way back to the marina office again.

  ‘Oh yes,’ they say, ‘our computer showed that it had rejected your number.’

  There was one thing David had enjoyed about registering. On the form, the little box for the signature of the registered skipper of the vessel is headed ‘El Capitano’. David adopts this title enthusiastically, referring to it during subsequent differences of opinion and on one occasion even following it up with, ‘Did I ever tell you that a ship’s captain was once known as Master under God?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but it’s still your turn to get dinner.’

  I am as supple as a dancer now. I have no bruises any more. I shimmy and sidle past obstacles. My feet are precision instruments. I move with the movement of the boat. There is a terrible smell in the galley but I cannot track it down. It has undertones of yesterday’s fish, but despite having soaped and disinfected everything in sight it is still there.

  The boat is also covered in moths. They rise tremulously from our footfalls and sit in rows on the outhauls. I have visions of hauling out the sails when we are next at sea and the main and genoa floating out like lace just before they drop to pieces.

  We dine on deck to the sound of Miles Davis. It is bliss. Then I finish reading the guide book. Prince Henry the Navigator (1394–1460) came to live in Lagos. It was here that he armed the caravels that began the discoveries of the 15th century and which brought gold, ivory, pepper, spices and, sadly, slaves to Europe for the first time.

  As well as discovering the sea route to India, Portugal’s sailors also explored Brazil, Japan and China, so that by the 16th century Portuguese was spoken in more parts of the world than any other language. During Henry’s own lifetime Madeira (1419), the Azores (1427) and the Cape Verde Islands (1457) were discovered and colonized. With luck we might be sailing to all three of them.

  I close the guide book and gaze out towards the west. Behind the palm trees, some little clouds which had begun as mauve are turning soft blue against a pink sky. The sun sinks behind a small brown hillock of lush green shrubs that lies between the Renault dealer and Gil Eanes’ new 4-storey building. This corner of Old Lagos is giving way to the new. Apart from the small hillock, all that seems to be left is the ancient little round-arched bridge between the marina and the Pingo Doce supermarket. As dusk settles, some small feral dogs arrive on the brown hillock opposite and bark at each other.

  The water in the marina is full of tiny fish. In the darkness, feeding on the still surface of the water, they reflect the marina’s lights and sparkle like silver. There is heat lightening behind the small brown hill. It is still warm enough for swimsuits. Before we left England we had put all our old records onto tapes and the rhythms of The Temperance Seven (‘formerly the Pasadena Roof Orchestra’) undulate into the soft night air.

  We have all this section of the marina to ourselves for our entire stay apart from one distant French catamaran with a hammock on its foredeck and four small children. After dark they play tag around a marina lamp. There is no sound from them, just their fair hair shimmering silver, from light and excitement, like the small fish.

  Next morning we make an early assault on the marina’s lavandaria with five bin bags full of washing. As well as clothes, bedding and the usual kitchen and bathroom linen, some of the windows have been leaking and we have a pile of towels that have been used for mopping up.

  On the way we encounter an abandoned supermarket trolley and commandeer it. The lavandaria is unoccupied, but we have no machine tokens. I wait with our laundry while David sets off for the marina office to buy some. He is gone a long time.

  This part of the marina is very attractive, with shops, cafés, palm trees and benches overlooking the pontoons and boats. When we’d arrived here first thing this morning the whole quay had been deserted but, with the passage of time, well-pressed holiday-makers begin emerging in readiness for leisurely boat tours to the caves.

  All the decent clothing David and I possess is in the bin bags. As I droop over my supermarket trolley in the morning heat, in ancient T-shirt and crumpled shorts, I reflect that despite yachting’s elitist image it has taken less than six weeks to reduce me to a bag lady. All I need now is a small mongrel dog and some sympathetic soul to press a coin into my hand.

  By the time David drops off the tokens, an American has filled two of the four washing machines. I load the other two and we chat. She does not share her husband’s enthusiasm for sailing, so he sails their boat long distances with their sons or friends, and she flies in to join them at the places she fancies visiting. When she gets tired of life aboard she goes home.

  Some time later two Scots women arrive and go into a pique because I am using three of the four washers and both the dryers, but as I try to point out, with a trolley full of laundry I’m hardly going leave machines standing empty when there is nobody else waiting. They keep drifting in and out and complaining while I wonder why they want to waste a whole day of their holiday hanging around a launderette when they can do their washing at home in a few days’ time. And if they are really serious, why not wait around until a machine becomes free and put their washing in it, instead of bringing it in at irregular intervals and grumbling. I had, after all, got up at dawn for this. Things aren’t helped by the fact that a standard wash takes an hour. Although besides grumbling about getting their laundry done, they also grumble about their holiday, the facilities and the available activities. As the hours pass, I wonder if grumbling is their main object in life.

  In between the American completing her wash, and the Scots wandering in and grumbling, an English woman uses two of the machines. She had been a school teacher but, along with her husband, is now cruising like us. They have been doing it longer than us, however, and I find her observations interesting.

  ‘Six months,’ she says, ‘seems to be the defining point. That’s when it stops being an extended holiday and becomes a way of life. It’s when things like a dinghy ride plus a long walk to the supermarket, and the hassle of a launderette, outweigh the pleasures of life aboard.’ She says there is someone she knows in that position now, in the little enclave of cruisers that has already settled in at this marina for the winter. ‘She sees the people on the charter boats come in for a couple of weeks, without a care in the world, swimming all day, dancing every night, eating in restaurants and taking their laundry home. It’s what attracted her to the life in the first place, but it’s not like that for her anymore.’

  David and I discuss the winter layover during lunch. We have been surprised to discover that so many cruisers have already stopped
sailing for the year by the middle of September. But, then, we started so late that we have been at sea barely six weeks. To compensate, we want to continue sailing as long as possible and we want to spend the winter in the Med, so we will press on.

  We lunch near the lavandaria (to be on hand to load the machines) on fried garlic sausage, garlic bread and the most delicious wedges of potato cooked in their skins with a spicy salsa and garlic dip. After that I try not to talk up close to anyone except the two Scots women. When they do finally complete their wash, they start grumbling because I’m using both driers. It is a constant problem with marina launderettes everywhere that they have half as many driers as washers and everybody gets cross. However, I say if they leave me their token I will put their wash in a drier for them when I’ve finished, which I do – at 4.45pm. It has taken seven hours to get our laundry done.

  Back on board, I start the ironing, in the cockpit. It is a pleasant way to do a boring job like ironing, sitting in the sunshine with a glass of wine and your favourite music playing.

  The dogs on the little brown hillock bark all night.

  There are always items of clothing in your wardrobe which need to be washed separately, or by hand, either because they are delicate, or because the colour runs. You soon lose these along the way; about the same time that you realise that by pegging out wet clothes neatly, or folding them carefully as they emerge from the driers, you can lose the iron as well. This stage has not yet been reached at Chez Voyager, however, and next morning, while David shops, I wash the unreliable reds, pinks, yellows and navy blues that cannot be trusted in a machine with other items. By the time I have pegged them along our rails, however, rain looks imminent, so I complete the ironing left over from yesterday in the saloon. The iron’s flex has to be attached to the barometer by a bungee to stop it wrapping itself round the table screw and sporadically snatching the iron from my hand. The sky gradually lightens so I have most of it airing out in the cockpit when the rain suddenly arrives.

  Late afternoon we go for a look at the town in the rain. Its churches feature prominently in the tourist literature, especially S. Antonio with its golden altar. Unfortunately, despite being Sunday they are all closed. We splash home and cook salmon fillets julienne, baked potatoes and courgettes. We leave the hand washing out in the hope it will be dry by morning.

  The dogs on the little brown hillock begin barking earlier than usual this evening.

  It is Monday. We had intended to leave today but the rain is torrential. The guide book says this area has only sixteen days of rain per year. Out of three days here this is our second day of rain. We take in the hand washing, wring it out and hang it above the bath. It all has little brown peg marks on it now. We finish yesterday’s Sunday paper and doze, then lunch on the most gorgeous king prawns, and a confectionary you buy by the kilo. It is heavenly, shaped like a large Swiss roll but weighing a ton. At first you think the filling is liquid apricots but decide finally it is carrot. It must be the most delicious carrot cake in the world.

  The rain eases after lunch, and we go on another tour of the town. Our first stop is the post office. A sign above the counter in Portuguese and English says, ‘One line only’ and it moves at the speed of a glacier. We are wearing our wet weather gear for the rain but while taking root in the post office the sun comes out and the sudden humidity makes us steam. We strip off our oilies and, while David stays in the queue, I find a marble slab to sit on, with the rucksack and our outer clothing, trying to get cool.

  One of life’s great pleasures is to simply wander, just going where the fancy takes you. The old town is lovely, with its 16th century city walls and 17th century fort. The mosaic pavements here contain black and white medallions of swordfish and sting ray, and the jacaranda trees are in bloom with their delicate bell-shaped blue flowers. There is a two and a half mile beach with tunnels, coves and grottos along the stunning headland of yellow and red stone that we passed on our way to the harbour. The churches are still closed, except Santa Maria which is hot and packed with one of the largest congregations we have seen in many a year. Further down the same square, Liberty Square, there is a classical little building with a double arch to which we are drawn, until the guide book identifies it as the slave market (now an art gallery) built in 1441 to accommodate the first sale of Africans – but after that there is no desire to go any closer.

  In Prince Henry Square there is an extraordinary statue of Dom Sebastião, who ascended the throne aged 14 in 1568. It is extraordinary for two reasons: firstly, even the local guide book says most people think it’s a spaceman; and secondly, why celebrate him at all? In 1578 he armed 400 ships and set off to drive the Muslims out of Morocco. Over 7,000 men died, including most of Portugal’s aristocracy and the king himself, bringing Portugal’s golden age to an end. It also impoverished the country and led ultimately to its takeover by his uncle, King Philip II of Spain, and the loss of Portugal’s independence for 60 years.

  At a news kiosk in the square I spot the headline, ‘Monica Costs Clinton Nobel Peace Prize,’ on an English-language newspaper.

  ‘Ah,’ I say thoughtfully, remembering Tom’s distress. ‘Monica.

  ’ The Portuguese vendor, previously invisible behind his stock, pops his head out through a curtain of magazines and says irritably, ‘I don’t like Monica.’

  ‘There’s a man in Cascais,’ I tell him, ‘who doesn’t think a lot of Bill Clinton, either.’

  On our return to the boat, the ever-optimistic David pegs out the hand washing. Twenty minutes later it begins raining again.

  Next morning we top up our water tanks, put out and get in the hand washing (now several sizes bigger than it was, from hanging about wet for so long), shop, shower and ring the marina office to arrange our departure and also to buy diesel.

  ‘Five minutes,’ they say, and the bridge will open. We hover for ten, and get no response when we call in on the VHF. However, when the bridge does finally open there is someone on the fuel dock to tie us up, and the diesel gun doesn’t spill a drop. David picks up his wallet, sighs and sets off for another interrogation during the departure formalities. Where are we heading? Is the boat leaving with the same crew? There is a departure form to be completed and a computerized bill. He comes running back.

  ‘Dear God,’ I say, ‘what do they want now, the country of origin of our deck shoes or my bra size?’

  ‘Our Cruising Association membership card,’ he says. ‘We can get a 10% discount.’ This is immediately eaten up by the sales tax which no-one had mentioned wasn’t included when we checked in. We get away sometime after 11 o’clock. Lunch is avocado with Cajun sauce, cheese and pizza and the last of some lovely wholemeal bread. It gets sunny and hot during the afternoon so I drape the washing around the cockpit.

  At 5.20pm we become aware of a Portuguese Navy frigate on our course astern. In no time at all it is very close along our starboard side. The crew, all dressed in civvies, are lining the side deck. I smile and wave, and so do they. What happens next is the marine equivalent of having a police patrol car pull alongside going nah-nah nah-nah, and the driver’s mate shouting ‘Pull over!’ just as the patrol car lurches in front of you and stops you dead.

  First we get a very loud call coming out of our VHF on Channel 16 which is not surprising as the caller is only yards away. ‘Portuguese Navy, Portuguese Navy calling the yacht on my port side.’

  David answers, ‘This is the yacht Voyager.’

  The 277-foot long frigate (we will identify it later in a copy of Jane’s Fighting Ships from the number painted on its side) snakes in front of us and stops, forcing David to do an emergency brake via reverse gear to avoid tailgating it. The caller asks our name again. David repeats it. And then the voice booming through the VHF tells us to remove the pink T-shirt (actually, my nightie) hanging over our starboard side. I remove everything else as well, thinking we are infringing some sort of bye-law relating to travelling at sea with your smalls flying. But it turns out th
at my nightdress is covering up our boat’s name.

  David behaves very badly. As I remove the offending item he says, ‘Sorry, my wife’s airing her washing.’ This, as anyone who has been in a similar situation will recognize, translates as, ‘Take her, not me.’ It is an even greater betrayal than it first appears, because most of the colour-leaking laundry flying from the rigging is his.

  It could have been worse. We had only recently remembered to return the VHF to Channel 16 from the marina’s Channel 62, and would have simply ignored the frigate’s call because we should not have heard it. And heaven alone knows what the protocol is for dealing with aliens who ignore a Navy frigate’s challenge. As it is, David had been so startled by it that he had forgotten to turn our VHF down from high power to low – given that we are nose to tail with the frigate and not 10 miles away – and must have deafened its captain. Deafened or not, soon afterwards he is on the horizon radioing up another yacht, but we can’t hear the yachtsman’s reply because he has obviously remembered to turn his power down.

  31

  Lagos to Culatra

  ‘That lighthouse ahead is at the entrance to the Faro lagoon,’ says David, pointing.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply casually, as if I knew already. Actually, I’ve been watching it for some time trying to work out which side of its mast its genoa is flying. I may be light as a dancer on my feet now, but my visual skills have still to improve.

  By 6pm gannets are falling out of the sky all over the place. 6pm must be gannet teatime here. By seven we were approaching the heads into Faro lagoon. David makes his turn with gusto and a look of extreme satisfaction, albeit prematurely. The depth gauge drops like a stone, from 42 metres to two and falling, requiring a rapid rethink and a bit of a dog-leg to get off the shoals.

  ‘Bit choppy in the entrance,’ I say, which turns out to be classic understatement.