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.
|