Konrad's Final Run

I met John Morris in Gibraltar. He’d flown there intending to buy my friend Konrad’s seventy-foot steel fishing boat which he’d found advertised in a magazine.

Well, almost everyone with a boat in Gibraltar at that time was involved in some sort of mischief and Konrad was no exception. He’d spoken to John on the phone and the latter had agreed to purchase the vessel if all was as advertised (which, knowing Konrad, was highly unlikely).

Anyway, my Dutch friend figured that since his boat was probably about to go chugging off into the sunset, he would make a last run to Tangier in order to sell a couple of pallets of cameras that had ‘fallen off’ a freighter and found their way into his hold.

The final run was not a roaring success however. I heard the full story much later after Konrad had been released from a Spanish jail. Apparently he’d had a disagreement with his Moroccan ‘agent’ over the price of the goods, and their parting was far from amicable. The ‘agent’ put a call through to someone in Spain.

As Konrad approached the Spanish coast (where he had arranged to meet another ‘agent’), a patrol boat loomed up and ordered him to heave-to. He then made a rather foolish decision. Being close to Gibraltar, he attempted to make a run for it.

But his vessel was way under-powered. The maximum speed he could hope to eke out of her was around seven knots—the patrol boat was capable of around thirty-five. Konrad was forced to hit the floor when a burst of machine-gun fire shattered his wheelhouse windows.

Kalinka in Gibraltar

The Spanish seized the vessel and Konrad was thrown into the clink.

John—a Kiwi living in Haiti—somehow discovered that I was a friend of Konrad’s and sought me out. I was at the dock aboard my old tub ‘Kalinka’. I advised him that from what I’d heard, he’d better start looking for another vessel.

He then asked me if I was capable of navigating a boat across the Atlantic to the Caribbean. My eyes lit up with pictures of clear waters, white sand, palm trees and bikini-clad damsels. Having recently had a bit of a run-in with the Gibraltar authorities, I’d been planning to leave for the Caribbean anyway.

“No problem,” I lied. This was before electronic navigation devices, but I felt I could learn how to use a sextant along the way. So I left the ‘Kalinka’ in the care of a friend while John and I headed for Holland in search of another fishing boat. We flew to London, then on to Paris where we were to catch a train to Amsterdam.

Our search for a boat almost fizzled out there and then: Just as the train was about to depart the station, a startled look came over John’s face. “Where’s the money?” he blurted. The money was in an overnight bag—thirty-five thousand US dollars in cash.

“I thought you had it!” I said, frantically looking around. The bag was nowhere to be seen.

Shrimping off Holland

Against the wall in Brest, France

We darted off the train literally as the doors were closing, caught a taxi back to the airport where, by some miracle, we located the bus that had taken us to the train station. Again, by some miracle, we found the bag of money under a seat!

A couple of weeks later John was the owner of the sixty-five foot shrimper De Toekomst.

After he’d bought the boat, he informed the previous owner, Gerard, of our plan to sail her to the Caribbean. With no prompting from us Gerard had his crew strip the engine down completely and replace any worn parts—all at his own expense.

They did a fine job as the engine—a thumping old Deutz diesel with a maximum RPM of 800—didn’t miss a beat all the way across the Atlantic.

Edited by Davina Chapman

Move over Richard Branson

Richard Branson’s got nothing on me when it comes to losing bets. The Virgin Group founder recently lost a wager to Tony Fernandes, CEO of Air Asia. Branson’s penalty was to don red lipstick and a skirt and serve drinks to passengers on a flight from Perth, Australia to Kuala Lumpur.

When I was married to my last wife, Kathy, we would embark on an annual winter sailing vacation somewhere in the Caribbean with our friends Rob and Yolanda. For the trip I'm writing about, we chose the British Virgin Island of Tortola as our starting point.

A couple of weeks prior to our departure, Rob and I were playing pool. He was normally a far better player than me but on this particular evening I managed to get the better of him. As I was closing in on my third straight win, Rob said, “I feel my luck changing. Why don’t we put twenty dollars on the game?”

Flushed with my success I ignored the danger signals and upped the ante, “Let’s make it more interesting," says I confidently. "How about the loser has to order a round of drinks stark naked at the Pusser’s Landing bar* during happy hour?”

Kathy, Me, Rob, Yolanda

Rob furrowed his brow in thought before agreeing with apparent reluctance. The bastard then proceeded to turn the tables and thrash me.

Two weeks later our boat is moored in Soper’s Hole and we're seated on the deck at Pusser's Landing. It’s happy hour and the place is packed. “’Bout time you got us a round of drinks,” says Rob with a wicked smirk.

My plan was to get close to the bar, whip my swim togs off, order the round and have my shorts back on before anyone spied my naked butt. But I hadn’t counted on Rob.

As soon as I got my gear off he stands up from our table and points at me. “Hey, that guy’s got no clothes on,” he yells. I hadn't even finished giving my order.

“I lost a bet,” I explained lamely to the bemused barmaid. By this time, all eyes were upon me. I finished giving my order then went to put my swimsuit back on. But in my haste, I managed to get a foot tangled in the fabric and had to dance around on one leg with the dangly bits flopping about while the crowd roared with laughter.

The only positive note was that the girls at the bar thought the floor-show warranted a free round of drinks.

*A wonderful waterfront watering hole in West End, Tortola.

Edited by Davina Chapman

More Bureaucratic Brilliance

After reading my last blog, my friend Willie reminded me of an instance of bureaucratic bull that ended rather badly for one of the bureaucrats. This in turn reminded me of another equally absurd encounter.

My kids—aged around ten and twelve—were flying down to the Dominican Republic to spend time with relatives. At the security check my son’s suitcase was opened and two plastic water pistols were discovered—one pink, one green. “I’ll have to confiscate these,” said the inspector.

“Plastic water pistols?” I asked incredulously.

He thought for a long moment. “They’re potential weapons. They could have acid in them,” says the genius.

“Acid melts plastic,” I informed him. “Besides, they’ll be in the baggage compartment. My children would have to cut through the floor to get to them should they intend taking over the plane with water pistols.”

Obviously confused by this simple logic, the inspector intrepidly confiscated the children’s toys. A man in a uniform was not about to be swayed by a mere member of the public.

The second incident didn’t end quite so blandly.

I’d been staying down in Florida for a few months and was returning to Toronto. In my luggage was a ‘bang stick’, a device that attaches to the end of an underwater spear. Should a diver be threatened by a shark he fires the spear which, upon impact with the shark, shoots a bullet into it.

I’d been travelling back and forth with this thing for years. It had been examined and passed on many occasions. This particular time, when a young customs officer spied it his eyes lit up. “We’ve been looking for one of these,” he announced gleefully. “They’ve been re-classified as a concealed weapon.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” I explained. “To fire this thing it needs to be on the end of a spear gun. That’s not something you can put in a pocket.”

The young man was quite polite. He produced a book from somewhere and pointed out a section which said something like: A concealed firearm is one which could reasonably fit into a pocket or handbag, is capable of being loaded with a round of ammunition and is capable of firing said round. “You could get up to twelve years for this.” He said it as if a reasonable individual might hardly expect anything less.

“But that’s ludicrous,” I protested. “This thing is like a bullet without a gun. It can’t be fired without other equipment.”

He shrugged. “The wording of the law makes no allowance for that.”

I asked to see a supervisor, who turned out to be angry before even meeting me. Perhaps he’d been having a nap. Again I pointed out the ineffectiveness of the offending item as a concealed weapon but, as with his younger co-worker, any form of logic only served to agitate the supervisor further. Before long we were exchanging un-pleasantries.

The police had been called and were on their way to arrest me. Just as they walked through the door the supervisor’s rage reached a crescendo and his face reddened to the shade of a plum. Suddenly he clutched his chest, let out a howl of pain and crumpled to the floor.

One of the cops tried to revive him with mouth-to-mouth, but to no avail. 

The young inspector was in tears. “He was due to retire in a month,” he said forlornly. “I wish I’d never arrested you.”

Finally we agreed on something. “So do I.”

I was taken to a police station, booked, fingerprinted, photographed and a preliminary hearing was set for some two months hence. I later phoned the police ballistics department and told them of my situation. “Totally ridiculous,” said the cop.

The charges were dropped two days before the hearing.

Some time later I told this story to an acquaintance and she said, “Oh my God. You must have felt terrible.”

I was taken aback by the remark: Here was a man in a uniform, knowing I’d done nothing wrong, who was willing to send me away for twelve years - for what? So he could get a gold star in his retirement book?

No, I didn’t feel terrible. In fact, it’s probably the closest I’ve ever come to believing in a benevolent God.

(Edited by Davina Chapman)

Bureaucratic Brilliance

My mind has taken a turn for the worse. It’s become all mushy like jelly and I can’t think straight. That’s why the blog is late. At first I was worried. What on earth can I do if this condition persists? Then the answer hit me. I’ll become a government bureaucrat. A mushy brain would be nothing but an asset!

How can I be so disparaging you may think? Well, personal experience tends to affirm my position.

Many years ago when I sailed into Tangier Harbour an official set about examining the ship’s papers. Whilst doing so he nodded thoughtfully and made numerous notes in a little book. His examination took some time, but I managed to hold my tongue and not laugh. I felt he might be insulted if I mentioned he was holding the papers upside-down.

Another time, I was checking in to Porto, Portugal. The official put numerous stamps on various papers then indicated where I was to put the ship’s stamp. But I didn’t have one. “But Senhor,” he reasoned, “the papers must be stamped by the captain.”

On the table was a half finished bottle of wine. The cork had a plastic top with some sort of crest embossed into it. I extracted it from the bottle, applied it to the ink pad and made my mark on the papers. The official laughed. All was now in order.

But it is not only ‘those ignorant foreigners’ who nurture bureaucratic buffoonery - we have more than our fair share here.

To operate a power driven vessel in Toronto Harbour requires a special licence. To obtain this, an operator must pass both a written and practical test.

The written test is the obvious stuff about buoyage and rules that supposedly prevent one vessel ramming into another. The practical test demonstrates to the examiner that the examinee is actually capable of driving a vessel.

I obtained my Harbour License some ten years ago in a twelve foot aluminium dinghy with a small outboard engine. I had to throw a lifejacket over the side and show that I could pick it up without chopping it to shreds with the propeller. This of course was to demonstrate that if someone fell overboard, I stood a fair chance of rescuing them in one piece.

I then had to show that I could put the vessel alongside a dock in a fairly professional manner. Sort of like the part in a driving test where you have to park the car. The instructors don’t like to see damage resulting from the manoeuvre.

The test took roughly an hour.

Soon after passing this, I took another test. This one was to permit me to captain a harbour cruise boat owned by my wife. The vessel, the ‘River Gambler’, was licensed to carry five hundred passengers. This ticket required only a written test. The governing authorities appeared not in the least interested in my ability to competently pilot the vessel.

Go figure!

(Edited by Davina Chapman)