Move over James Bond

A few years ago, I anchored near the mouth of the Rio Douro near the city of Porto in Portugal. At the time, I was single-handing a thirty-nine foot Buchanan which, although built of glass, had the lines of a classic wooden vessel.

No sooner had I got the hook down than an eighteen foot Zodiac came roaring out from the shore and bumped alongside. The man driving the boat handed me a card showing his name and that of the bar he owned. I’ve forgotten both, but I’ll call him Manuel. He spoke perfect English and seemed as if he’d be good company.



That evening I made my way into Manuel’s place. A few other sailors were yapping at the bar and in no time we were swapping beers, jokes and lies. And as I had thought, Manuel proved to be a lively host, joining in with a tale or two, buying the odd round and happily accepting the drinks we returned.

At the far end of the bar was a rather subdued group of four—three of whom appeared to be a trifle envious of our rollicking lot. The fourth was slightly older than the others—a rather severe looking character with a perfectly trimmed blond goatee, hawk-like nose and a humourless slash of a mouth.

Shortly after our group got into full swing, Hawk-nose finished his beer and departed, seemingly none too happy that others might be enjoying themselves. Before leaving, I heard him issue a stern reminder to the other three not to forget that their vessel would be sailing at six sharp the following morning.

After a few minutes, the three joined us and we began to hear tales of misery and deprivation that made Captain Bligh appear as a Saint. There were no floggings as I recall, but the mood of the crew seemed to suggest they might commence at any time.

I don’t know quite what it was that convinced Manuel and I to take up the cause of the ill-treated crew, and I don’t remember which one of us instigated the plan, but not long after, we found ourselves purring quietly out to the anchorage in Manuel’s Zodiac.
 

We stopped off at my vessel to pick up a bucket then Manuel eased over to the bow of Hawk-nose’s boat and I climbed stealthily aboard. The vessel was about forty feet long with an aft cabin. According to the crew, this was where their commander slept.

At the shrouds, I paused to fill the bucket—it was late October so the water was a mite chilly. I then padded aft, banged on his cabin door and stepped back with the bucket at the ready.

Well, the door burst open and Hawk-nose came charging out like an enraged bull. I had a brief second to notice that he was stark naked and his sparse hair was sticking out in tufts before I nailed him with the contents of the bucket.



There was murder in his eyes...can't say I blame him

The force of the icy water stopped his forward momentum briefly—just long enough for me to catch the murder in his eyes.

I went racing up the deck laughing like a hyena, knowing however that if he got his claws on me it would be a close-fought struggle.

Grabbing the forward shroud I leapt into the air. My grip on the wire spun me over the rail and out. I was prepared to swim for it, but Manuel had been keeping pace with me alongside the boat and I landed on my feet in the dinghy. Manuel hit the throttle and we zoomed off into the night, the two of us roaring with laughter.

It was something out of a James Bond movie and to Hawk-nose it must have seemed as if we’d rehearsed the move a hundred times—but in fact we hadn’t even planned my escape. It was just one of those things that came together perfectly.

Back at the bar, the crew were in stitches when we recounted the details of our little jape.

I have a strong suspicion though, that the remainder of their voyage was not destined to be a happy one.