Joao, Joao...

A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Thu 21 Oct 2010 19:15
39:24.72N
009:30.43W
 
Well, first the obvious good news: we got into another fish today and he was probably twice the size of yesterday's, which we polished off for supper. Today's beast almost broke the fishing tackle andrequiredsome subduing once onboard. He is currently lying next to me in filleted sides, awaiting a date with the barbecue on deck.
 
The other good news is that we've stumbled upon an absolutely sublime anchorage off the Isla Berlenga. It's about 6 miles from the mainland and has good shelter on the east side. The Atlantic swell spends itself on the west coast without bothering us. There's some deep water close to the shore, but happily, a local boatman offered us one of his moorings close to an old fortified monastery. The whole island is a bird reserve, and the cliffs are alive with the screeching of gulls. All the rocks are red.
 
The boat is rolling a little, but the alternative was Peniche on the mainland, where they've taken the pontoons out of action because of some storm damage. So we'd have been anchored uncomfrtably amongst the moorings there. From here, we have a straight run south with the current in our favour - 45 miles to Lisbon.
 
This morning was less of a success. We were awakened at 8 sharp by an authoritative tap on the hull. I ignored it first time round in the hope the perpetrator would disappear. The rap came again, more impatiently, and I was obliged to stumble out of bed in the fo'c'sle to confront whoever-it-was. The knocking came from a diminutive, rotund, bearded fellow with a pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth. He purported to speak English, but it was strange variety of the language. Nevertheless, this was a former British sea captain, with a reputation for upbraiding people on the quality of their mooring lines. A sort of Nobtrotter the Second.
 
He wanted to know why we'd berthed the night before without declaring ourselves. I blinked at him with unfeigned sleepiness. "You're not allowed to moor here," he said. "it's clearly marked in English. You'll have to bring your papers in to be checked."
 
"What, now?!" I mumbled incredulously.
 
"No, no, have a cup of tea first," he said in what may have been supposed to be a friendly tone. I went back to bed.
 
After the usual formalities, we went to fill up with diesel and puttered over to the fuel pontoon, run by BP. It was unmanned, but there was a little intercom button, which I pressed. To no avail. I pressed it again, more vigorously.
 
"Bom dia. Bluhjhfdg dfkjh fdgjh fao zhin," said someone.
 
I tried my best Spanish. No response. English. French.
 
Silence.
 
In the end we had to march over to an adjacent petrol station, where the attendant was only prepared to explain the procedure for filling up in very fast Portuguese. Much in the 'I-WANT-A-CHICKEN' school of linguistics, she spoke more loudly to assist our understanding. It turned out that one person was required to stand by the till and co-ordinate payment at exactly the moment that the other person pressed the trigger on the fuel pump 200 yards away on the pontoon. It was quite a logistical feat, but we eventually contrived to buy 100 litres of fuel. It only took an hour.