As it’s coming up to Christmas, thought I’d repeat a
feel-good tale I wrote about a couple of years ago.
It was the middle of winter. John, Nigel and I had been
in Brest , France for over a month waiting for the
weather to give us the two day window of relative calm we required for crossing
the dreaded Bay of Biscay .
Toekomst in Brest |
We were aboard the Toekomst, a sixty-five foot shrimp boat John had
bought in Holland
and our destination was Haiti , where he planned to start a fishing
business.
For many years mariners have rated Biscay as being
second only to Cape
Horn so far as general
nastiness is concerned. Huge swells roll in from North Atlantic storms and rise to massive heights
when they arrive at Biscay’s shelving sea bed. Many a vessel has gone to the
bottom of the dreaded Bay.
Whilst waiting for our window of calm in Brest , we were invited
aboard a freighter which had arrived at the tail end of a severe storm. Some of
the inch-thick glass of the bridge had been smashed by ferocious seas, and the
entire bow of the vessel had been bent to one side by the impact of an enormous
wave. The captain appeared a little surprised that his vessel had made it to
port.
Nigel, Me, John |
We were actually featured in a local newspaper when it
was discovered we planned to cross the Bay in the middle of winter. Fishermen
shook their heads at the stupidity of the English.
As it turned out though, the Bay was docile as a duck pond
for our crossing to La Coruña in Northern Spain .
.
It must have been around three in the morning when
Nigel shook me awake. John and I had consumed a few beers at a local bar to
celebrate our successful voyage and I was well out to it. “I think someone’s
fallen in the water,” Nigel announced. He’d apparently been up in the
wheelhouse having a smoke when he’d heard a splash, turned around and saw
ripples in the water.
Rather than deal with the matter himself (typical of
Nigel), he’d come below to rouse John and me and was convincing enough to lure
the two of us topsides into the freezing night. Leading us aft, he pointed to
the spot where he thought someone had fallen in. I peered
over the stern into the cold, inky water with dread.
After a few moments though, I managed to dredge up
sufficient courage to dive in and head for the bottom—some fifteen feet down.
I lucked out on my first dive: Feeling my way
along the muddy sea-bed I came upon a lump that felt like a body—which I
dragged to the surface.
The head of my limp, supposedly drowned victim had no
sooner cleared the water than it began jabbering away in Spanish. Frightened
the life out of me!
Despite my lack of knowledge of the foreign tongue it
was apparent that the words were not the product of a coherent mind. My new bottom-dwelling friend was obviously
drunk as a lord.
And as is the way of drunks, he was not at all
co-operative in my attempt to rescue him. With some difficulty, I managed to
get the rope John had thrown me around his chest, disengage myself and kick to a ladder set into the stone dock.
It took all three of us to drag the cheerfully
babbling Spaniard up the ten-foot dock wall. He was wearing a heavy coat and
didn’t appear to be suffering unduly from cold so we simply pointed him toward
town, gave him a shove and watched him toddle off up the road.
In Antigua |
The whole episode still baffles me. According to
Nigel, when he heard the splash he turned around instantly and all he saw were ripples on the calm water, which meant that our friend must have gone down like
a rock.
Nigel then ran forward along the deck, descended the
companionway and shook John and me awake. So it had to have been three or four
minutes before I dove in and found the
body resting peacefully on the bottom.
Why wasn’t he thrashing around trying to get to the
surface? Why hadn’t he gulped down a lungful of water?
I have no idea.
Somehow though, our young friend managed to tuck away somewhere
in the recess of his inebriated mind, an accurate memory of the entire episode.
Later that day he and his mother arrived at the boat to thank us. He even
remembered me as the one who had pulled him up from the bottom.
A rather rotund Mom gave me a tearful bone-crushing
hug and a lengthy emotional speech, consisting mostly of, gracias, muchos gracias and mil gracias.
Peter’s such a
scavenger, you never know what he’ll pick up! Merry Christmas to all!. ~ Davina
PS: If you’ve any young adults in your family
(or are one yourself at heart), you might like to have a squizz at www.pblawson.com