We help them to berth along the length of the quay behind us, Georges having disappeared to the ferry dock where the balance of his fleet – those yachts too large for the marina – is to be berthed. In no time at all we have three boats rafted up to us and similar rafts are forming behind.
Our own raft consists of another 40-foot catamaran, only much wider than ours. Almost square, in fact, with four Swiss aboard comprising father, two adolescent sons and a young woman whose relationship to them is not defined but who is very nice and seems to do all the work. Next to them is a ketch with four Germans aboard, while the outside boat is a small sloop containing an Italian couple and their six-year-old son.
Like us, their destination is the Caribbean. Unlike us, they have chosen to cruise in convoy, as members of a rally. They are here to provision their boats, after which they will be setting out across the Atlantic. ‘A bit keener on the calendar than the weather forecast,’ one of them will grumble subsequently. And, given that we have barely edged into the month of November, the organisers do indeed seem to have settled on the very earliest possible date recommended by weather experts for an Atlantic crossing if you want to avoid the hurricanes. And not forgetting the vagaries created by El Niño, of course.
For our part, we are simply grateful to be tied up securely to a quay, because these are not good days for sailing or even being at anchor. One of them is particularly blustery and by evening it has also begun to rain. Everyone is battened down, including us, although for some reason I wander out into the cockpit. From there I can see a solitary masthead light plunging in the blackness beyond the harbour entrance.
It is a truly horrible night to be out, not to mention a very crowded marina to have to enter in darkness and find a berth. I climb off our boat onto the quay. The young man at the helm of the small German sloop looks relieved to see someone in the gloom offering to take his lines.
‘I go in here,’ he shouts above the wind and rain as he begins his approach into the water taxi’s berth in front of us.
It is a very little thing to catch a rope and tie it around a cleat, but to those on board on a bad night it can mean a lot and as I reach for his second rope I catch sight of a fraught young woman in the shadows with two small children clinging to her. This little yacht has not only come through a dark, blustery night but also Gomera’s vicious acceleration zone.
‘They won’t let you stay here,’ I tell him as he jumps ashore to complete his tying-up. ‘This space is reserved for the water taxi. But you’re safe for tonight and they’ll find you somewhere else in the morning. Oh, and mind this,’ I add, pointing to a broken manhole cover David and I have been avoiding for days. ‘You could lose a foot down there in the dark.’
He thanks me for my help. I leave him out in the rain to adjust his lines and put on springs while I return to Voyager’s warm, dry, lamp-lit saloon. I have done only what many a yachtsman has done for us, their kindness remembered if not their faces. By the time we are abroad next morning his boat has gone. It does not occur to me for a moment that I will ever see him again. We were not quite the ships that pass in the night of Longfellow’s poem, but near enough. And given the darkness and the anonymity of hooded wet weather gear I wouldn’t know any of them again if my life depended on it. But six months from now he will recognise Voyager, and provide us with one of our most memorable experiences ever.
In the meantime, our days echo to the bangs, thumps, scrapes and rumblings of our neighbours. We wince hourly at the outrages committed against our boat. Things are not helped by a two-metre tide and the difficulty this presents to people trying to get between our boat and the quay. We suggest politely that at low tide, regardless of sailing protocol, we are more than happy for them to pass across our stern instead of our bow – down the ladder bolted to the quay wall and onto our stern steps. But the two Swiss adolescents prefer to stand on the quay, hurl their purchases six feet down onto our foredeck and then take a running jump after them. The four Germans prefer to stand on our wire rails. I begin to empathise with the Australian yacht-owner at Porto Santo who tied NO RAFTING UP! signs onto his rails. Not that this is an option for us, of course. But given the amount of traffic, I do toy with something to the effect of: IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?
Also, in terms of traffic, is the ongoing mystery to us of how the little Italian sloop on the outside of our raft stays afloat under the endless trolley loads of groceries, canned goods, gas tank refills, wine, bottled water and other supplies crossing our decks daily, all purchased and loaded by the wife; her husband needing to discuss sailing essentials with another Italian man on a boat behind. Although to his credit he does give her a hand with the seven or eight 25-litre diesel containers that have to be heaved on board.
Gino, their 6-year old son – although so pretty he should surely have been a girl – is a perpetual satellite to these activities. Although even when his mother is below decks, stowing all the provisions she has so stoically hauled aboard, this child is not still. All day we listen to the sound of his feet thumping ceaselessly back and forth across our decks, between Mama on their boat and Papa on somebody else’s.
If we happen to be sitting in the cockpit, he fixes us with large, liquid brown eyes and raises his arms appealingly for one of us to get up and lift him over our rails, twice: once onto Voyager so that he can patter across her, and then up again and over onto the quay to visit Papa. In what seems like only minutes, he will be back again for the process to be reversed so that he can return to Mama. There is something almost demonic in his angelic looks combined with his certainty of getting whatever he wants. As the days pass we rename him Damien and begin to fantasise about ways of destroying him.
We had intended to hire a car and see something of the island but are not inclined to leave Voyager to the mercy of our neighbours and their provisioning. And, having watched the process at close quarters, La Gomera does seem to be an increasingly odd place to do this. To begin with, there is no convenient fuel dock which means that, as the stoic Italian woman can testify, all the diesel required on board has to be brought to the boat in cans. And the shopping facilities are those of a small rural community that cooks and bakes, catches fish, grows its own fruit and vegetables and keeps a few chickens but which does not run to much in the way of long-life packaged goods.
In particular, there are two long, narrow shops, almost next door to each other, selling a limited range of foodstuffs and general goods. And on Wednesdays and Saturdays there is a small street market selling homegrown vegetables and fruit. There is also the local co-operative above the fish and meat market which never has fewer than three hopeful cats sitting outside it. At the front of this building some steps lead down to the market traders’ bar and restaurant, which is below street level. Whenever someone opens its door to enter or leave, there is a delightful gust of hot, tasty meals and bon ami.
It is, in short, typical of a small, self-sufficient community on an unspoilt island, and one of the things that makes it so attractive to a visiting city-dweller. But suddenly injected into this village is innumerable boats and their crews, and for a number of these yachtsmen this is their first-ever experience of stocking a boat for such a long voyage. The result is a shopping frenzy.
Not finding what they want locally, people hire cars and take them on the ferry to Tenerife from where they return laden with enough to stock a small supermarket and shouldering whole hands of bananas. A hand averages a hundred bananas, according to one cynical old timer. ‘They’ll all ripen together,’ he mutters gleefully. Someone even takes the ferry all the way to Los Cristianos just to buy a cabbage.
Directly behind us is a very expensive yacht crewed by an Englishman and his twin teenage daughters. Unwittingly I become a sort of galley guru for the two sisters. Without their mother along they feel very keenly the weight of responsibility for provisioning the boat for their father, and also Uncle Jeremy who will be joining them any day now as the fourth member of the crew.
; Each time I emerge onto our afterdeck they are up to their young elbows in some sort of preparations, mostly washing things at present. Large quantities of fruit and vegetables, from a recent trip on the car ferry, have been immersed in water during the last few days. Today it is apples.
There are two reasons for all this washing. One is to do it while there is fresh water on tap and thereby save onboard supplies for drinking and cooking during the voyage. The other is to keep your boat free of cockroaches which, once aboard, are not only deeply unpleasant but difficult to get rid of. By washing fruit and vegetables you remove any eggs they may have laid on it because while adult cockroaches may be easy enough to spot sprinting through your Cox’s orange pippins, their progeny are not. Although they soon will be if the eggs are allowed to hatch and develop undisturbed among your supplies.
For the same reason you are advised not to take on board any cardboard, including the large outers you have used to carry goods from the supermarket to your boat, or the trays holding cans of beer and soft drinks, since their corners and crevices can also be fertile breeding grounds.
One of the twins bites her lower lip thoughtfully and then asks, ‘Should we wash the onions?’
I’m not sure what to say. I’ve never been in this situation before. But I do have three decades of housekeeping at my back.
‘I think they’ll go mouldy if you do.’
The question is: how easily could a cockroach breach the bulb’s tight layers and outer skin, as against how long does it take to dry an onion to its core once you’ve immersed it in water? The thing about washing everything is how do you ensure that it is all properly dry before you stow it away for anything up to three weeks in a humid atmosphere? One of the problems is the current unstable weather. One day it will rain, the next it is hot and sticky, sometimes it is heavily overcast with high winds, at others sunshine and a gentle breeze. Most of it, however, is not good food drying weather.
Next day the sisters lift between them a whole hand of bananas for me to admire.
‘There are supposed to be a hundred to a hand,’ says one.
‘But we’ve counted them,’ says the other. ‘There are only 97.’
I can’t help thinking that 97 bananas will be more than enough for four people to get through in quick succession if, as Old Jeremiah down the quay insists, they do indeed all ripen together. I don’t know whether they do or not. I’ve never bought a hand of bananas. But I’m not going to be a Jeremiah myself and spoil their pleasure. There is, however, another problem with bananas purchased this way that I feel I must mention.
‘You do know about...?’ I begin.
‘Big hairy spiders?’ says one sister, waggling the fingers of her free hand.
‘Yes,’ says the other. ‘The man who sold this to us inspected it before he handed it over.’
They look thoughtful. ‘Should we put them in the fridge, do you think?’
‘No!’ I cry involuntarily, envisaging 97 lovingly-acquired bananas all black by morning.
At the same time, I can’t help wondering exactly what size refrigerator their yacht contains that could accommodate a whole hand of bananas as well as everything else they will be taking with them. But concentrating instead on four people with 24¼ bananas each to consume in short order I add, ‘Just keep them as cool as possible.’
They look at one another, two peas in a pod, as the same thought strikes them at the same moment. ‘We can put them on top of our wardrobe!’ And I wonder again at the interior of a yacht which has sufficient headroom for a full hand of bananas to sit on the top of a wardrobe. I return to my own boat wondering if theirs might be the ocean-going version of Doctor Who’s Tardis.
One afternoon a day or so later, when this massive effort of theirs is virtually complete, there is a loud thump as two expensive seagoing bags hit the concrete dock just beyond our stern. They have been dropped there by a slender man in his forties wearing a linen suit, a scarf draped around his shoulders and a panama hat. The crew of the Tardis, still busily employed in the cockpit, looks up at him in delight. Uncle Jeremy, the fourth member of their crew, has arrived.
‘Darlings!’ he cries, thrusting a hand theatrically towards the sea bags at his feet. ‘I’ve brought the Marmite!’
9
The Garden of Eden
This is only the second migration I have ever witnessed and it is very different from the first. This one is full of activity, excitement, anxiety, moments of tension and not a little apprehension because, on a journey such as this one, you will be tested.
The other occurred one English autumn afternoon thirty years ago. The narrow path through the trees opened into a field and, suddenly, there they were. Perhaps they chose that particular spot because it was so secluded. They couldn’t actually be seen unless you stumbled in among them. The field was lying fallow and full of weeds. The railway line on top of the embankment had been closed for years. Nobody had any reason to go there any more except ramblers or someone with a dog to exercise.
Swallows are such active birds and normally when you see them they are in rapid flight. But none of these moved. That was the eerie thing, the stillness. That and the silence. Even a dozen small birds can be deafening when they want to be. Yet here were thousands of them and there wasn’t a sound. They just stood, silently, side-by-side. Waiting. Every fence rail, telephone wire and tree branch, black with swallows.
I just stood there, as well. Unsure what to do. I wondered if crossing the field would spook them and what effect the sudden beating of all those wings would have on the young, rather nervous collie beside me. Even I was having a Hitchcock moment. But it was a long walk back to get home the way we had come. So I bent without haste and clipped the lead onto my dog’s collar, patted her head for reassurance, then led her gingerly across the field towards the gateway on the other side. It seemed to take a very long time.
I remember wondering, as we neared the middle, what the signal might be that sends them all off at a particular moment on their long and hazardous journey to Africa for the winter. Whatever it was, I hoped it wouldn’t arrive for just a few minutes more.
When we had finally got to the far side of the field and passed through the gateway I turned and looked back at them all. Waiting. Silent. Eerie.
Then suddenly, like swallows rising from telegraph wires in response to some unheard signal, all the boats around us untie their mooring lines and leave. All except the little Italian sloop which would be going a day or so later than the others. ‘Because we are tired,’ Papa informs us solemnly, without a trace of irony. But, if the rally’s time has come, so at last has ours. We hire a car.
Just beyond the edge of town we embark on a wonderful new road. At San Sebastian our surroundings had been rocky, volcanic and barren but once out of the capital the island quickly becomes lush and green. We meander upwards for a little while and then the wonderful new road ends abruptly at unmanned road works.
‘It’ll be lovely,’ we stammer, bouncing in our seats over pot-holes and patches, ‘when they finish building the road.’ But, of course, improved roads bring greater access which inevitably leads to change. And with just a cursory glance around you, the last thing you would want to see on this island is change. This is a little piece of Paradise, a green mountain rising out of a sunlit sea, its slopes dotted with small, whitewashed villages that have red poinsettia trees growing wild at the roadside and yellow snapdragons blooming in the gaps between the kerbstones. It is Shangri La built on the sides of a volcano in the Atlantic Ocean, 200 miles off the North West coast of Africa but Mediterranean Spain in character, only before the developers got to it. And not a single block of concrete apartments to be seen.
In one place, a couple of men are building a wall in the same way and with the same kind of stones as the ancient terraces that climb the slopes of the mountain. A donkey grazes. The little native finches Europe named canaries and kept in cages and took down coal mines to test for the presence of gas, fly wild here.
A solitary seagull circles overhead.
We skirt the edge of Parque Nacional de Garajonay, the national park which contains the volcanic peak and centre of the island, and then turn right down a secondary road to the village of Hermigua. It lies in a fertile valley, its white houses bright against dark green banana groves.
For anyone enjoying the simple life there is everything here, on these terraced slopes and fertile valley bottoms, that a person could want – olive groves, date palms, vineyards, banana plantations, orchards, orange and lemon groves and neat little market gardens of herbs and vegetables. Melons on the vine trail over the roofs of tool sheds, ripening in the sun. Flowers bloom in the gardens of the small houses while every conceivable shade of bougainvillea climbs their white walls.
Just outside Agulo, we stop for coffee and then onto Playa de Hermigua, a black sandy beach that you reach through banana groves. A hand of bananas, as it ripens on the tree, produces a long brown fibrous pigtail at its base and a large, mauve flower that adds patches of colour to the valley’s greenness.
At Vallehermoso we stop above the town. There is a delightful smell up here, like warm cinnamon, while below us a man in a loose white shirt and a straw hat wields a long-handled hoe. Around him: pampas grass, herb plots, vines and the ubiquitous bananas. It is idyllic.
Involuntarily comes the memory of a short story about a couple who stop their car, look down into a Californian valley, and say that it is so beautiful that the people who live there must be very happy. The reader is then taken down among those living in the beautiful valley, people who spend their days embroiled in spite and pettiness, guilt and shame, because a place cannot make you happy, no matter how beautiful, if you or those around you are sour. I find myself hoping that the misery gene is missing here.
A Thousand Miles from Anywhere Page 6