Banking on the Planking

Rob and I had been in Puerto Banus on the south coast of Spain for a couple of weeks. We ran into a few friends and were generally having a good time. However, every weekend we were tantalized by the parties held aboard a magnificent seventy-foot wooden schooner.

These regular events featured a veritable bevy of bikini-clad damsels and would attract a sizeable group of spectators on the dock. Drinks flowed, music played—those on board were in their own little world, seemingly oblivious to the envious eyes watching them from ashore.

I felt as I imagine ‘The Great Gatsby’ character Nick must have felt as he gazed across the bay toward the glittering lights and laughter that accompanied one of Gatsby’s lavish shindigs.

Right at the beginning of our stay, I’d singled out the owner of the schooner and tried to cozy up to him at one of the local bars. He was a friendly Englishman and we seemed to get along just fine—he made no mention of the parties though.

Rob--the straw that broke the camel's back

I can’t recall what changed the situation, but finally, on the third week of our stay, the coveted invitation was issued for the following weekend.

It was a Saturday afternoon and the docks were thronged with sightseers strolling about inspecting the lavish craft in the marina. By the time Rob and I arrived at the gangway leading to the schooner, the party was in full swing.

With arms clasping a bag of beer to my chest, I elbowed my way importantly through the milling crowd to the head of the gangway with Rob close on my heels. Both of us were attired in our number one’s for the occasion.

The stern of the vessel was some ten feet from the dock and the gangway consisted of a wide wooden plank with a few stanchions supporting a rope. As I stepped onto the plank it bent rather alarmingly under my weight. I strode forward intrepidly however, a confident smile on my face as I acknowledged the greetings of those on board. Behind me, I sensed the bitter envy of those lesser beings stranded on the dock.

I’d no sooner reached the center of the plank when it gave a startling downward lurch. I realized that Rob had stepped onto it—and he carried a few more pounds than me. Then came a loud crack like a pistol-shot and the wretched plank parted beneath my feet.

When I surfaced—still clutching my bag of grog—I was greeted by polite laughter from the vessel, and hoots of it from the dock.

I turned to find Rob’s head bobbing in the water behind me. “Why the hell didn’t you wait till I was across before you stepped on the #@&*%#! plank?” I snapped.

Talk about short term memory loss! “I wasn’t on it.” He protested.

“Then what the &%#@ are you doing in the water?” I countered. Of course he had no reply to that.

The rest of the afternoon turned out fine. The sun was out so we dried quickly, and our dramatic entrance was a topic of mirth on future occasions.