Metamorphosing Yacht and Rob gets Hammered

A couple of weeks ago I told the tale of Harold’s metamorphosing suit—which went from a size 44 to 40 during a rainstorm.

Well, not to be outdone, let me tell you about my metamorphosing sailing vessel—the ‘Bevan’. According to her certificate of registry she had an overall length of fifty-six feet. But this length proved in fact, to be rather elastic.

The Elastic 'Bevan'

Allow me to explain: When it came to dealing with a boatyard for haulage or slippage (they charge by the foot and most don’t look at papers), the ‘Bevan’ would shrink to around fifty feet. But for a girl in a bar the vessel would miraculously extend to around sixty feet. An exceptionally pretty girl might get it up to sixty-five!

However this week’s blog is not about my metamorphosing yacht, it involves my two great pals Rob and Willie when we were living in Gibraltar.

Rob was always the steadying influence. While Willie and I tended to become somewhat ‘rollicky’ at whatever bar we happened to be slurping at, Rob would exhibit extraordinary restraint.

But on this one particular occasion he threw caution to the wind.

We were at the Black Swan. And for whatever reason—somebody’s birthday perhaps—John Holland, our landlord and friend, did an after-hours thing for us regulars. The end result was that Rob managed to get hammered.

He had recently purchased a motor-scooter. It was kind of beaten up but for some reason, he was extremely proud of it. He wouldn’t even allow me to ride the damn thing because I was considered ‘too irresponsible’.

Fair enough.

When we left the trough at around three in the morning, ‘Rob the Righteous’ heaved responsibility out the door. The three of us piled onto the scooter—Rob, Willie sandwiched in the middle, and me at the rear (with the family jewels perilously close to the spinning back wheel).

I don’t recall the exact circumstance as to why I had taken a bugle to the bar, but I had—and as we roared down the main street at three in the morning, I blew on it with gusto.

Surprise, surprise! The police were roused from their slumber by my brilliant rendition of ‘Abdul The Wanker’ and a roadblock was hastily assembled on the main street. This our fearless commander Rob deftly avoided by ducking up a cobbled lane.

In those days, the police communicated with each other by blowing on whistles. From all around us now came the shrill piping of these instruments.

But they didn’t really need them to telegraph our position because between our uproarious laughter and my strangling of the bugle there could be no doubt as to our location.

Me, Rob, Willie

Gibraltar is a maze of tangled alleyways and passages and Rob swooped through these without a care in the world. At one point we went flying down a set of shallow steps and somehow managed to remain upright.

Eventually though, we were cornered and our romp was curtailed.

At the police station, the sergeant asked us, “What on earth did you think you were doing?” I don’t believe it was a rhetorical question, I think our actions were simply beyond the scope of his understanding. He probably had a very orderly mind.

The three of us were a trifle bewildered by the question. Do you have to have a reason for doing something stupid? After a long moment‘s silence Rob summed it up with, “I’m not sure.”

“Just get out of here!” said the sergeant. Cops in those days were neat guys.

Edited by Davina

To Pee or not to Pee, that is the question…

My other half has insisted that this particular story be told. Needless to say it is at my expense. I didn’t find it particularly humorous, but Davina did, so I hand the keyboard over to her:

At the time of this incident we were living in Kitchener, Ontario. Peter’s pal Rob had invited us over to his place to watch an important football game. Although Peter has little interest in football, the event provided a wonderful opportunity for the boys to consume vast amounts of beer.

Playing the role of dutiful ‘wife’ I endured the afternoon whilst the two members of the opposite sex cheered, groaned and guffawed depending upon what was occurring on the screen.

Davina--my saviour

When it came time to leave, I paid a visit to the washroom. I’d had two beers myself. Peter must have sloshed down around ten or twelve, but when I suggested he might care to visit the can, would he listen? Of course not. He’s a bloke. And an Australian to boot. Why would he heed the advice of a mere Sheila? He’d be fine until we got home—about a twenty minute walk.

Well, off we go. Ten minutes into the walk, our hero begins anxiously looking around for somewhere to sneak behind to relieve himself. But there’s nowhere. We’re on a main street with nothing but stores. “Why didn’t you go back at Rob’s?” I inquire.

“I didn’t need to then,” he says.

Duh! Why anyone who’d just knocked back almost a gallon of beer wouldn’t realize it would have to come out—quite soon—is beyond me. I can only assume that the alcohol had dulled his reasoning—or, more likely, removed it entirely.

Anyway, my lord then informs me that we might have to pick up our pace a little. So now a pleasant afternoon stroll turns into something just short of an Olympic event.

But after a couple of minutes Peter makes another proclamation. Looking a trifle desperate now and not a little green around the gills, he announces. “I’ll have to run”.

So off he goes…..full tilt up the street and around the distant corner.

A few minutes later I round the corner – no sign of our desperado. I’m walking past a park that’s fringed with bushes when I hear a hissed, “Dee”. I look around. I see nothing but shrubbery. Then again, more urgently, “Dee!”

Finally I spot a rather sheepish-looking face all but invisible within the foliage. A hand issues forth holding the house key. “I’ve had a bit of an accident,” he announces. “Can you bring me back some pants?”

At this point I catch a glimpse of his two-tone Levis and double up with laughter.

“Dee, this is not funny,” he rebukes me sternly.

Au contraire, I think. Anyway, off I go—grinning from ear to ear. I return shortly to our stricken hero with trousers, a towel and a plastic bag.

I no longer have to remind him of the incident—a knowing look is all it takes to prompt an après beer drinking visit to the washroom.

Harold’s Amazing Metamorphosing Suit

Harold’s suit was tailored in the Dominican Republic where I lived for a number of years.

But before I relate the saga of this amazing garment, I must mention something concerning De Toekomst, the Dutch fishing boat. It was this vessel that took John Morris and me to the Dominican Republic in the first place.

If you happened to read last week’s blog, you might recall that I devoted most of it to lambasting Nigel, our supposed engineer aboard Toekomst. He remained with us for only a short portion of the voyage from Holland to the D.R.

Well, I received an e-mail (not from Nigel) reminding me of something rather stupid that I perpetrated after Nigel had been given the boot and when we were out in the middle of the Atlantic.

It was a hot day so I figured it would be rather nice to take a dip. But rather than pause our voyage, I came up with what I considered to be a brilliant idea. I rigged up a boom that stuck out over the side, attached a rope to its outboard point and tied a loop at the end of the rope.

Big game fishing

Being the creator of the device, I tested it out by slipping into the loop and leaping over the side.

It worked beautifully!

When I'd finished my little splash, John had a go. As I watched him cavorting around at the end of the rope, four points flashed through my mind:

(1) This is a fishing boat.

(2) We appear to be fishing.

(3) The only creatures out here are likely to be rather large and toothy.

(4) We could easily lose the bait without the slightest chance of catching anything.    
     Idiot here had completely forgotten to include a hook.

Anyway, as it turned out, they weren't biting that day and the mighty Toekomst took us safely to the D.R. And it was there that I witnessed, in person, the wonders of Harold’s amazing suit:

I was living in Puerto Plata. A couple of British Navy ships were in the area and scheduled to dock there in a few days. The British consulate thought it would be a grand idea to round up a few expats for cocktails aboard one of these vessels. At the time there was only a handful of Brits around so I was invited as well. Harold, who was British and about sixty at the time, was also one of the invitees.

The ‘do’ was to be semi-formal and Harold was not in possession of suitable threads. So with only a couple of days to go before the ships arrived, he took himself into Santiago where there were a bunch of inexpensive tailors. He selected one, chose his cloth and a day later he had his suit.

A few of us—including Harold in his new suit—went for a pre-party drink at a local bar. Harold regaled us with the virtues of his garment. “Perfect fit,” he announced proudly, turning this way and that to allow us to admire it. “And only forty dollars!” We were all suitably (pardon the pun) impressed. After a couple of drinks we headed to the docks, a ten minute walk away.

Well, about half way there it began to rain, and that’s when Harold’s suit became ‘an amazing suit’. In no time at all it had transformed itself from a size 44 to a 40. The retreat of the cuffs up his legs could actually be observed.

By the time we arrived at the ship Harold had to fight to keep his arms at his sides. Robin Hood in tights had nothing on him. But the tailor had obviously not skimped on the thread for, much to our astonishment and against all odds, the seams held.

Edited by Davina Chapman

An Insufferable Clown and Smudged Lipstick

I felt lazy last week so didn’t do a blog. Only two people complained!

Like it or not, here’s another tale of De Toekomst, the Dutch shrimper that John Morris and I sailed from Holland to the Dominican Republic.

I can’t recall how or where John managed to come up with Nigel—our supposed engineer—but we would have been better off if he hadn't bothered. Nigel was from England and modeled himself on John Lennon—long hair and wire rimmed glasses (which I suspect had plain lenses). He also used the term 'Brahma' to express approval of something.

   

It wasn’t long before both John and I were thoroughly fed up with the clown. The thought of his long hair becoming entangled in the moving parts of the engine didn’t unduly perturb either of us.

   

One of Nigel’s pet themes was the importance of being able to adapt readily to adversity and hardship. But when our cooking gas ran out, he fell short of the mark.

While John and I contented ourselves with cold food and drink, Nigel became desperate--he had to have his hot food and cups of tea. I suspect he would have held matches under a saucepan or kettle had the vessel not been equipped with a diesel heater in the galley.

De Toekomst

John and I were in the wheelhouse quaffing a couple of beers as we steamed down the coast of Portugal on a calm sunny morning. We could see the top of Nigel’s head through the forward hatch as he held a pot of baked beans on top of the heater—a device obviously designed to warm a room rather than cook food. You could rest your hand on top of the thing for a few seconds without being burned, so the process was destined to be a time-consuming.

The temptation was too great for me to resist: I padded forward on bare feet, stuffed a rag into the belching chimney then snuck back to the wheelhouse to observe the results.

It was not long before black smoke began billowing from the hatchway. I’ve got to hand it to Nigel though, he was no quitter. Every few seconds his head would come thrusting out through the smoke, eyes watering as he gulped air like a beached fish. It obviously never occurred to him that something might be amiss with the chimney. Perhaps he’d been emulating his hero a trifle over-zealously in terms of hallucinogenic substances and damaged his brain.

Oh…I almost forgot. Another Nigel story. One that almost ended in disaster. This could be the only recorded incident of lives being saved due to someone having to take a leak.

We were heading down the English Channel, pounding into a head-sea on a black night with the wind approaching gale force. Our hero was at the wheel while John slept below and I was curled up on the small wheelhouse bunk. I awoke around three in the morning and went aft for a pee.

From day one, Nigel had been obsessed with the radar—drawn to it like a moth to flame. On a number of occasions I’d cautioned him not to use the device as a substitute for a proper visual lookout, but he remained unconvinced.

Upon finishing my business, I returned to the wheelhouse where Nigel had his eyes glued to the radar. “There’s something funny going on,” he announced. There was a solid line bisecting the screen.

Shoving him aside, I spun the wheel hard. His ‘something funny’ was the towering side of an oil tanker. We missed it by no more than a hundred feet. I was tempted to throw the idiot over the side that night, but managed to restrain myself.

John gave Nigel the boot when we reached Gibraltar.

We remained at the ‘Rock’ for a month or so, painting the boat and installing an automatic pilot for the Atlantic crossing. Because of a previous run-in with certain Gibraltarian authorities, I was not permitted ashore. As long as I stayed aboard the vessel I was okay—it was considered to be Dutch territory. But if I set foot on the dock I’d be arrested and thrown in the clink for three months. The authorities stationed a twenty-four hour guard by the boat.

But I had a bunch of friends in Gibraltar and some of them would drop around for a drink of an evening. Hidden below decks, the girls would dress me as one of them—with wig, lipstick and mascara—and we’d toddle off to the Black Swan pub.

All went well until one night when a brawl broke out and five coppers came swarming into the ‘Swan’. I must have been spotted darting out the back door without my wig because when I attempted to sneak back aboard the boat, there were two officers waiting on the dock beside it.

I was forced to backtrack around to another pier and swim to the vessel. At that time, the water by the docks was a cesspool—choked with oil and all kinds of horrible stuff. I emerged from the water on the far side of the boat like the creature from the swamp.

   

Worst of all though, my lippy was smudged.

Edited by Davina Chapman

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