Smokey Joe and the Smugglers

I see the Spaniards are getting in a snit over Gibraltar once again.

The 1713 Treaty of Utrecht ceded control of the peninsular to Britain and the Spanish have been bitching over what their ancestors signed ever since. Although Gib. still retains ties with Britain, it is basically run by the Gibraltarians and they are perfectly happy with the way things stand.

Kalinka--once again

When I was living there aboard the Kalinka in the late ‘70’s, Spain had closed the border and lofted helium balloons on steel cables to prevent planes arriving at Gibraltar from impinging upon their airspace. I recall some interesting landings when commercial aircraft were forced to swoop down to the runway like World War II dive-bombers.

The land border was closed, so to get from Gibraltar to Spain you had to go by ferry. But you couldn’t go direct. You had first to cross the Straights to Tangier, Morocco and then re-cross to Algeciras.

An acquaintance of mine devised a rather unique way of making the voyage to visit a girlfriend across the border though: He’d weigh down a wooden fruit crate with a couple of stones and swim out from the beach where he’d dump the stones, position his head under the crate and allow the tide to carry him to Spain. On an outgoing tide he’d repeat the process.

Predictably, the ruse was doomed to eventual failure. After three of these flotsam-like voyages, followed by three nights of passion, my friend was nabbed and spent six months in jail.

Gibraltar was chock full of miscreants plotting various schemes and scams. Almost wherever you looked, something was going on that shouldn’t have been.

In the boatyards, dubious-looking characters could be seen raising waterlines on pleasure craft in order to have them appear a little less obvious when burdened to the gunwales with whatever illicit cargo they were destined to carry.

A local character who went by the name of Maxie always wore a wide-brimmed Stetson and cowboy boots. One night, toddling home from the pub at around two in the morning, I spied the silhouette of Maxie’s Stetson under a pier. What he was doing up to his waist in water at two in the morning is anyone’s guess. Certainly not anything he should have been doing.

Charlie, a mechanic who occasionally did some work on Kalinka regaled me with tales of the old cigarette smuggling days. Gibraltar was a free port. Cigarettes and various other goods were stockpiled there for legal transhipment to other ports.

The accounting involved with these stockpiles appeared to be rather sketchy however, as from what Charlie told me, a good portion of the smokes left the port illegally in vessels meticulously tuned for high speed. Although not mentioned, I gained the impression that Charlie performed a good deal of the tuning.

MTB Boat

The vessel of choice was the World War II, seventy-three foot MTB which was powered by three Rolls Royce Merlin aircraft engines. According to Charlie, these supercharged engines could push the boats along at around seventy knots.

Most had been fitted with armour-plating on the lower part of the wheelhouse, which contained a second small wheel and compass mounted on the floor, offering the helmsman some protection from the Spanish patrol boats.

At one stage there were twelve of these vessels operating out of Gibraltar. The Spanish opposition fielded two patrol boats—one being an ancient corvette known as Smokey Joe. Depending on who you listened to Smokey was driven by a wood, or coal burning engine. She was still around when I was there so I can attest to the fact that whichever fuel she consumed, her moniker was well deserved.

It was apparently quite the event when the boats made their run. Thirty-six aircraft engines would be throbbing away throatily as the skippers waited for the right moment. When Smokey Joe and its companion were far enough apart to give the smugglers an opening to dart through, a lookout stationed on Europa Point would radio the go-ahead.

Upon receiving the signal, engines were given full throttle. Their bows would lift from the water and the whole rock shook as if from an earthquake. As they darted from the harbour, the patrol boats would attempt to intercept—but they were much slower. Smokey would blacken the sky with her ancient breath while, above the roar of the engines, the faint chatter of Spanish deck guns could be heard.

Arrrrh! Those were the days.

Hmmm. Always struck me as strange how Peter invariably found himself in ports where illegal activities appeared to be the order of the day…!  Davina