Sample

DALE

I leapt out of my sleeping bag, rushed out into the boat’s cockpit and looked around. We were in exactly the same position as we had been the night before. The morning was misty and damp, and I could detect a hint of wood smoke in the air. There wasn’t a breath of air, the sea was a glassy calm and the red ensign hung limply at the stern. Everything around me was completely normal. I shivered and looked at my watch. It was not quite seven.

    ‘What’s the matter Marc?’

    ‘Nothing. I just thought…’

    ‘Everything alright?’

    ‘Yeah. Everything’s fine. It was nothing, really. Must have dreamt it. I’ll make some tea.’

We sipped our mugs of hot steaming tea, curled up in our sleeping bags and gazed at the view through the companionway. Huge seagulls were searching for scraps around the misty shore near the pub and our old friend from the week before had perched on the stern rail, preening himself, emitting loud random squawks with the occasional flap of his large white and black wings. I grinned and made another cup of tea. I yawned again. We chatted idly about this and that.

   It was one of those mornings. Everything else could wait. We had just spent a lazy week together on our old wooden boat, exploring the Pembrokeshire coast and we weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere.

   I lit a roll up and finished my tea in the cockpit, absorbing the peace, completely lost in a daydream. Then I thought of my father as I often did in such quiet moments.

   He was a sailing fanatic and would have loved this boat. We could have enjoyed sailing her together. We’d probably have been in Cherbourg or St Malo by now.   But who would have been skipper? When he was on a boat, there could only ever be one skipper, and he would probably have requisitioned her most summers. What the hell though, I wouldn’t have minded. Just there and then, I would have traded anything just to see his beaming smile behind that wheel.

   I came to with a start, when I suddenly remembered that we had a lock to catch later that morning; the last for six hours and they don’t wait. I flicked my roll up over the side and started the engine.

   Eventually, and rather sleepily, we quietly slipped our mooring and headed back to Milford Haven to catch the lock gate.

   Soon enough we caught the faintest of breezes and Rustler sailed beautifully with full sails snatching at every zephyr as we ghosted past the tall ship Tenacious, at anchor in the small bay at Stack with her three masts proudly announcing her presence through the mist. I could see no other boats in the Haven and it seemed that the whole world was still at slumber.

   We felt we were very lucky indeed. We had sold our business, were slowing down and taking stock of our lives.  I can’t speak for Sue though as she doesn’t like cold, damp mornings at the best of times, and having to don layers of warm clothes and drink your morning mug of tea outside in a damp cockpit doesn’t exactly get her juices flowing. Me? I just love it. 

   With the watery sun coming up in the east, Rustler sailed herself back under full sail, only needing a gentle nudge from us, and at that moment in time everything was right in the world. Everything was slotting into place. I was coming to terms with my own loss, my mother, which I had been told to expect when I was at the very same place some three months before.

   Those few words of warning from my brother were still echoing away somewhere in my head. ‘Come back Marc. I think we’re losing her.’ Since that day, Dale has held a bittersweet fascination for me, and probably always will.

So, another blissful week of sailing and we were on our way back home. Would the conservatory be finished? How's the cat? Would there be a tax demand? Have we got enough food in...?

   After tying up to our pontoon, we rushed over to the pier-head and joined the crowds to watch Tenacious make her tentative approach to the lock. We were looking forward to watching her graceful entry. We weren’t disappointed. I was completely riveted and grinning from ear to ear.

   After watching this spectacle for well over an hour, we strolled back to the boat, packed up, and headed for home, some three hours away. We both felt fit, happy and bronzed in that unique way that only salty sea air seems to give you.

   It was a glorious day, the sun was blazing and there was a hint of autumn in the air.

Then, on a beautiful Welsh mountain road, just before Builth Wells, the news on the radio reported, almost as an aside, at the end of the bulletin, that an aircraft had crashed into the World Trade Centre. I looked at the clock on the dash. It was just past two.

   ‘Did you just hear that Sue?’

   ‘No, what?’ she asked peering up from her cookery magazine.

   ‘Some idiot has just crashed a plane into the World Trade Centre, probably another bloody Yankee stunt,’ I murmured, in that only in Americaway that one does. But this seemed different, and it had stuck in our minds.

   Half an hour later, the regular afternoon programme of fun, pop and banter was interrupted. A second plane had hit the World Trade Centre. We both looked at each other with puzzled expressions on our faces

   ‘What the…? It must be terrorists. Two planes in half an hour?’ I said. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence.’

The afternoon radio show immediately took on a whole new atmosphere becoming sombre and subdued. Our genial presenters suddenly became deadly serious, acting as a link between us and the events unfolding in New York and beyond, with regular news bulletins coming through from the news desk.

   We continued the rest of the journey in stunned silence, punctuated by irrelevant music, but pricking our ears up when the reports came in.

   As we pulled up to the traffic lights near home, everything seemed very normal. People were going about their usual business just like any other Tuesday in a small market town. It seemed no different to any other day at all.

   When pulling into our drive, the television somehow became an imperative. The Pandora's Box had to be opened, and Sky News hit us in the face, full on. Then it occurred to me. It had all begun  while we were still blissfully asleep on our little boat, bobbing about in a small bay in Wales. Now it was unfolding its ugly self before our very eyes. We were transfixed and unable to tear ourselves away from the screen, until I looked around me and saw that the cat was curled up by the fire, we had several tax demands and the conservatory still wasn’t finished.

THE BRIGHT IDEA

‘What are we doing here Sue?’ I had been thinking of Spain again; it was a cold, wet February night in Herefordshire, and our lives seemed to be on hold.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Spain! You know, live on the boat in the Med?’

‘Spain? Bloody hell Marc!’ she replied.

‘Look, you hate winters here, I speak a little Spanish and we’ve always enjoyed travelling around Spain and France.’

‘Yes I know Marc, but the boat’s far too small for the two of us and a German Shepherd.’

   ‘Ok then, why don’t we buy a bigger boat?’

   ‘I suppose so, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to live on a boat, just yet.’

It was a crazy idea at the time. I’d never even thought of living anywhere but England, but during our numerous trips across the channel, I must have got the bug. Not consciously though, but just simmering away beneath the surface.

   We both enjoy the creature comforts of home, so I knew what Susan was driving at. For my part, the whole idea of living on a boat in the Mediterranean was an adventure. In fact, on that cold wet February night I was already there, sipping Rioja, at anchor listening to the cicadas on the distant shore.

   I looked at my reflection in the window, daydreaming. The rain was lashing against it and the wind was howling through the trees.

   ‘I fucking hate winter,’ she said, in her soft Yorkshire accent. I grinned. She said the very same thing most winter mornings as she woke up.

It had been six months since selling our business. We had made no real plans for the future and the change in lifestyle was getting to me. We needed a change, a big change and this was our chance. We had cashed in our most important chip without thinking of the consequences. In fact, I had started a leisure related business which, in the light of September 11th had not been the success I had hoped for.

   That very night we scoured the web for information on Spanish properties and where we could stay during our quest. That done, we booked the ferry to Bilbao online and sat back and looked at each other, smiling stupidly.

   ‘Well, at least that’s a start,’ I announced triumphantly.

   I planned the trip simply by putting dots on the map and sought accommodation through numerous websites. Our first couple of nights was to be in a small family run guest house near Barcelona from where we would launch our initial assault on the Spanish property market.

   Frankly I had absolutely no idea about the property market in Spain at all, let alone living there, but I thought at the time that you have to get out there amongst the action and see for yourself. Most of the places we booked were run by British expats for the very reason that maybe they could give us some useful pointers along the way. The glossy web pages of the promoters painted only a small part of the picture. A very glossy picture too, which seemed to suck us into the romantic notion of a new life in Spain.

   We also bought books on the subject, some by folks who had simply sold up, packed up the car and gone in search of their paradise, such as Chris Stewart, Peter Kerr and Derek Lambert amongst others. The guides to living in Spain were rather daunting, so I decided the best way was to get out there and see for ourselves. However, it seemed pointless to just jump in the car with no real plans or goals. So we made a few appointments with agents and promoters dotted along the coastline of the Mediterranean, and we would make the rest up as we went along.

   Before we left, we went to a local exhibition promoting new properties in Marbella. From that valuable insight it seemed that the expat community down there was growing at an alarming rate. But did we really want to live cheek by jowl with 250,000 other Britons?

With all our preparations made, we set off for the ferry with high hopes and dreams of finding a new life in Spain. An hour or so into the crossing the Captain gave us the weather forecast, which seemed encouraging at first, until the word unfortunately crept into his announcement. At around five the next morning a south westerly gale off Ushant was predicted with winds up to force eight. It was mid March after all, and it seemed the St Patrick’s Day contingent was going to have to keep an eye on their glasses on this crossing.

   The gale arrived as predicted, along with boiler suited crewmen carrying buckets of sand to cover up the vomit, which appeared in the most extraordinary places such as hand rails, litter bins and I could even see it decorating many of the ship’s reinforced windows. I also noticed that the ship seemed almost deserted, apart from the crew. When the storm developed into a force nine, the ship was crashing into the waves with tremendous force, shaking the entire superstructure. Looking out at a wild and frightening Biscay from the forward viewing gallery, I wondered how a small boat would manage out there.

   I could see huge waves crashing over the deck and hitting the windows in the forward viewing area with tremendous force. The sea between the waves was flattened by the wind, and lines of spume streaked across the granite sea. Gulls were pirouetting and gliding effortlessly over the wave tops. I shuddered and thought of our old sailing boat Rustler, not even thinking for a second that I would maybe have to cross that stretch of ocean. It simply didn’t occur to me.

   We were amazed to see the Irish contingent still at the bar later that morning, clearly determined not to be put off by the breeze. I admired their determination, and so we joined them for a much needed pick me up, in spite of feeling somewhat queasy ourselves.

   As we drove off the ship at Bilbao the following morning, we felt we were on a mission as we headed for the Autopista to Zaragoza and beyond. Neither of us had any idea of what to expect but we had open minds. We wanted to see the good, the bad and the ugly.

We were welcomed by Michael and Marcela later that day, to their charming farmhouse in the hills north west of Barcelona. I was amazed  when, later on, Marcela commented on the way I had pronounced her name on the phone. Having never met me before, she recognised my Argentine accent just from the one word. It turned out that she was Anglo Argentine and had met Michael when he was working in Buenos Aires. I too had lived there during the seventies and it seemed odd not to have lost the accent after so many years.

   We chose a room with its own private veranda and enjoyed the evening, watching the setting sun with a carafe of local wine. Later that evening I asked Michael what the club up the road was like for a quick drink. He said I might like it but my wife certainly wouldn’t. The penny dropped…it was a brothel! I’d always wondered why they had so many clubs in Spain. We ate in that night. The learning curve had started.....

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