How to Quell a Mutiny

A few blogs back I mentioned a voyage to the eastern end of the Mediterranean in an ex-Dutch navy vessel. She was sixty-five feet long, powered by twin diesels. Aboard were a couple of Dutchmen, two Americans and yours truly.

Because the boat flew the Dutch flag, I considered it expedient to promote one of the Dutch crew members, Conrad, to official captain. He was the one who, in a previous blog, lost his vessel to the Spanish Coast Guard off Gibraltar.

With certain individuals, authority does not sit well. Conrad turned out to be such an individual.

Judy, my girlfriend at the time, came along for the first leg of the voyage. She was to disembark in Italy and fly home.

No sooner had we left Holland than—according to her—Conrad began flexing his captainly muscles whenever I was elsewhere on the vessel. He might be standing in the wheelhouse scowling off into the distance or peering intently at a chart when he’d issue an order for coffee—the implication being that his presence in the wheelhouse was vital to the safety of the ship. This, despite the fact that I was doing the navigation, someone else was steering and we were virtually alone on the ocean.

 

At first and in the interest of maintaining harmony aboard the vessel, Judy grudgingly complied. Her acquiescence however, merely served to heighten Conrad’s air of self-importance. By the third day of the voyage she’d had enough and demanded some kind of intervention on my part.

With mutiny looming on the horizon, I was forced to take drastic action. The situation however was somewhat delicate, and required a degree of diplomacy. My solution was to provide Judy with a bottle of pee. “Whenever Conrad orders a coffee,” I recommended, “Add a little of this should you feel so inclined.”*

From that moment, Judy became our captain’s most willing steward. On we steamed—a happy ship no longer under the dark cloud of an uprising.

Mechanical problems forced us into Lisbon, Portugal, where we spent the best part of a week. Each evening, Captain Conrad led the two younger hands around the various houses of ill-repute. And each morning, chest puffed out like that of a bantam rooster, he would hint shamelessly of his horizontal accomplishments.

Conrad's Steward

Needlessly to say, Judy was not overly impressed.

At first, the two lads followed the older roué around like obedient puppies, but by the time we left Lisbon they were barely speaking to him. I don’t know what caused the rift; maybe they simply came to see him for what he really was—a misogynistic blowhard—or maybe he borrowed money. I never did find out.

Anyway, off we went again, rumbles of discontent now emanating from a different quarter.

Fifty or so miles from the Straights of Gibraltar, Conrad approached me sheepishly. “Errr… I think I might have to see a doctor.”

We were already way behind schedule so I was none too happy. “I guess we’ll have to put into Cadiz,” I sighed.

“Errr…I’m not allowed into Spain,” he said. “Perhaps Gibraltar…” His banishment from Spain was obviously due to the past seizure of his boat and his stint in a Spanish prison.

“Sorry,” I said. I’d had a spot of trouble in Gibraltar and wasn’t welcome there. “You’ll have to wait until we get to France.” Conrad squirmed at the thought of what might be happening to the family jewels during the four days it would take us to reach France. He knew there was no chance of me heading back to Portugal so the idea was not brought up.

Judy, of course, was delighted when I mentioned the plight of the previously strutting Don Juan.

A little later, the two younger members of the crew confessed to similar afflictions. There were concerned looks when I announced that they’d have to wait until we reached France. At this point, one then confessed that he was not allowed into that country.

So it was on to Italy—another day.

Shortly after we passed through the Straights of Gibraltar, the two young crew members approached me once again. “We’d like your permission to throw Conrad over the side,” the Dutchman said.

Hmmm…thinks I... But reason prevailed. “That’s probably not such a good idea,” I told them. “We’ll be weeks filling out forms and answering questions. If you can put up with him for five more days, I’ll dump him off in Italy.”

And that’s what we did. He was put ashore in San Remo.

I know for sure that one of the first places Conrad would have visited there would be a coffee shop. I’ve often wondered if he found that first cup of land-based coffee a trifle bland.

Oh yeuk!! Davina

*For those of you who might be a little squeamish, urine is completely sterile. It has  

  been frequently quaffed by shipwrecked sailors in lifeboats.