A Strange Place for a Nap

It was the middle of winter. John, Nigel and I had successfully crossed the Bay of Biscay and were tied up at the stone dock in La Coruna, Northern Spain.

We were aboard the Toekomst a sixty-five foot shrimp boat we’d bought in Holland and were planning to sail to Haiti where John was living.

We’d been in Brest, France for over a month waiting for the weather to give us the two day window we required for the crossing of the dreaded Bay.

Nigel, me, John

For many years, mariners have rated Biscay as being second to Cape Horn in nastiness. Huge swells roll in from North Atlantic storms and rise to massive heights when they arrive at Biscay’s shelving sea bed.

Whilst waiting for our ‘window’, we were invited aboard a freighter that had arrived at the tail end of a 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 a little to one side by the impact of an enormous wave. The captain seemed surprised that his vessel had made it to port.

We were actually featured in a local newspaper when it was discovered we planned to cross the dreaded Bay in the middle of winter. Fishermen shook their heads at the stupidity of the ‘English’.

Anyway, the Bay was docile as a pond for our crossing to La Coruna.

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,” he announced.

Apparently he’d 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, he’d come below to rouse John and me.

He was convincing enough to lure the two of us topsides into the freezing night. He then led us aft and pointed to the spot where he thought someone had gone in. I went over the stern into the inky water and headed for the bottom. It was around fifteen feet deep.

I lucked out on the first dive. I was feeling my way along the muddy bottom when I came upon what seemed to be a body.

When I dragged the inert thing to the surface, its head no sooner cleared the water than it started jabbering away in Spanish. Frightened the life out of me.

I used the word jabbering—but slurring would have been more apt, for my new bottom-dwelling friend was as drunk as a lord.

The Toekomst in warmer climes

John threw me a rope from the dock and I managed to get it tied around the guy’s chest. It took all three of us to drag him—still slurring away cheerfully—up the dock wall. He was wearing a heavy coat and didn’t appear to be suffering from cold so we simply pointed him toward town, gave him a shove and watched as he went toddling off.

The whole episode still baffles me. According to Nigel, when he heard the splash he turned around instantly and all he saw were the ripples on the calm water. 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 has to have been three or four minutes before I dove in and found him lying peacefully there 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 from the bottom.

Mom gave me a tearful bone-crushing hug and a lengthy emotional speech, consisting mostly of, gracias, muchos gracias and mil gracias.