How to Quell a Mutiny

A few blogs back I mentioned a voyage to the eastern end of the Mediterranean in an ex-Dutch navy vessel. She was sixty-five feet long, powered by twin diesels. Aboard were a couple of Dutchmen, two Americans and yours truly.

Because the boat flew the Dutch flag, I considered it expedient to promote one of the Dutch crew members, Conrad, to official captain. He was the one who, in a previous blog, lost his vessel to the Spanish Coast Guard off Gibraltar.

With certain individuals, authority does not sit well. Conrad turned out to be such an individual.

Judy, my girlfriend at the time, came along for the first leg of the voyage. She was to disembark in Italy and fly home.

No sooner had we left Holland than—according to her—Conrad began flexing his captainly muscles whenever I was elsewhere on the vessel. He might be standing in the wheelhouse scowling off into the distance or peering intently at a chart when he’d issue an order for coffee—the implication being that his presence in the wheelhouse was vital to the safety of the ship. This, despite the fact that I was doing the navigation, someone else was steering and we were virtually alone on the ocean.

 

At first and in the interest of maintaining harmony aboard the vessel, Judy grudgingly complied. Her acquiescence however, merely served to heighten Conrad’s air of self-importance. By the third day of the voyage she’d had enough and demanded some kind of intervention on my part.

With mutiny looming on the horizon, I was forced to take drastic action. The situation however was somewhat delicate, and required a degree of diplomacy. My solution was to provide Judy with a bottle of pee. “Whenever Conrad orders a coffee,” I recommended, “Add a little of this should you feel so inclined.”*

From that moment, Judy became our captain’s most willing steward. On we steamed—a happy ship no longer under the dark cloud of an uprising.

Mechanical problems forced us into Lisbon, Portugal, where we spent the best part of a week. Each evening, Captain Conrad led the two younger hands around the various houses of ill-repute. And each morning, chest puffed out like that of a bantam rooster, he would hint shamelessly of his horizontal accomplishments.

Conrad's Steward

Needlessly to say, Judy was not overly impressed.

At first, the two lads followed the older roué around like obedient puppies, but by the time we left Lisbon they were barely speaking to him. I don’t know what caused the rift; maybe they simply came to see him for what he really was—a misogynistic blowhard—or maybe he borrowed money. I never did find out.

Anyway, off we went again, rumbles of discontent now emanating from a different quarter.

Fifty or so miles from the Straights of Gibraltar, Conrad approached me sheepishly. “Errr… I think I might have to see a doctor.”

We were already way behind schedule so I was none too happy. “I guess we’ll have to put into Cadiz,” I sighed.

“Errr…I’m not allowed into Spain,” he said. “Perhaps Gibraltar…” His banishment from Spain was obviously due to the past seizure of his boat and his stint in a Spanish prison.

“Sorry,” I said. I’d had a spot of trouble in Gibraltar and wasn’t welcome there. “You’ll have to wait until we get to France.” Conrad squirmed at the thought of what might be happening to the family jewels during the four days it would take us to reach France. He knew there was no chance of me heading back to Portugal so the idea was not brought up.

Judy, of course, was delighted when I mentioned the plight of the previously strutting Don Juan.

A little later, the two younger members of the crew confessed to similar afflictions. There were concerned looks when I announced that they’d have to wait until we reached France. At this point, one then confessed that he was not allowed into that country.

So it was on to Italy—another day.

Shortly after we passed through the Straights of Gibraltar, the two young crew members approached me once again. “We’d like your permission to throw Conrad over the side,” the Dutchman said.

Hmmm…thinks I... But reason prevailed. “That’s probably not such a good idea,” I told them. “We’ll be weeks filling out forms and answering questions. If you can put up with him for five more days, I’ll dump him off in Italy.”

And that’s what we did. He was put ashore in San Remo.

I know for sure that one of the first places Conrad would have visited there would be a coffee shop. I’ve often wondered if he found that first cup of land-based coffee a trifle bland.

Oh yeuk!! Davina

*For those of you who might be a little squeamish, urine is completely sterile. It has  

  been frequently quaffed by shipwrecked sailors in lifeboats.

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

Willy's Unfortunate Condition

Another Kalinka* story.

Willy and I had just returned to Gibraltar from a voyage along the coast of Spain. No need for details here—suffice to say that the trip had not gone well.

Kalinka in front of The Rock

By the time we dropped the hook in the anchorage, Willy and I had ceased to be on speaking terms due to some disagreement we’d had along the way. I was, however, civil enough to serve him a plate of the stew I’d prepared that evening.

Three things must be explained at this point:

1) The toilet on the Kalinka was situated in a corner of the saloon. It had its own enclosure, but it was right there—the door opening directly into what was basically our living room.

I had plans to move it and I think the previous owner of the vessel had the same idea because, attached to the outlet valve was a rather long length of flexible tubing. This was not marine grade reinforced rubber but more like the suction tube you’d find on a household vacuum cleaner.

2) During our little jaunt, Willy had managed to pick up some kind of stomach bug that had cleaned him out completely and left him thin as a pencil.

3) At sea, I always turn off all outlet valves.

So, Willy and I sat across the table from each other eating our meal in silence. Shortly afterwards however, that silence was broken by the gurgle and rumble of Willy’s tortured stomach.

A couple of minutes later, he made a desperate dash for the toilet.

After a rather protracted session on the throne, I heard him begin to operate the pump—a long lever situated beside the toilet bowl. It made a kind of vwooping sound. But as Willy pumped, the vwooping got higher and higher in pitch.

You stupid bastard, I thought. You’ve forgotten to open the sea cock.

I was tempted to tell him, but resisted the urge.

Willy and me in a more amicable moment

Instead, I allowed the vwooping to build to an impossible high.

Then there was a bang, like the crash of a drum at the finale of a symphony.

I pictured the scene. The hose coming off the seacock and thrashing around the small enclosure like a demented snake. As it turned out, that is exactly what happened.

A moment of silence, then the door slowly opened.

Willy looked like he’d been plucked from the Okefenokee Swamp.

Without a word he strode across the salon, climbed the companionway and I heard the splash as he went over the side.

He’d left the door to the toilet open though. And there on the back of it was a perfect silhouette of Willy.

My punishment for my lack of sympathy was that I had to do the cleaning myself as Willy’s delicate constitution was not up to the task.

*See blog dated 3-11-‘12