Adjacent to the Argonauts by Julian Blatchley

Author:Julian Blatchley [Blatchley, Julian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781848769717
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd

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It would be unjust to suggest that the arrival of the flotillas was in any way as Wagnerian as the pile-up. Never the less, we were pleasantly entertained (and occasionally involved) for an hour and a half or so. By the time we arrived back on board, the two lead-boats were in, and the two skippers were whizzing about in inflatables, directing their respective charges into the best places remaining. One flotilla consisted of twelve yachts with mainly British clients, in uniform boats about thirty feet long and smart matching logos. The other was an agglomeration of much larger boats, which were of differing designs and hues between thirty-five and fifty-odd feet. Their clientele could be identified beyond doubt as American, even without referring to the stars-and-stripes that fluttered at every yard-arm. Both nationalities displayed a debonair disregard for hallowed practice in parking their boats, but before I come to them, let me introduce you to Alf.

As I returned to the boat, I noticed our Austrian and Italian neighbours once again pacing their decks in agitation. The cause was a small, dark-green sailing boat with an incredibly faded red ensign, which was performing the circling stage of the berthing-dance just in front of us. We had just got down our gangplank when the newcomer, whose boat, her spray-dodgers informed us, was called Idleswyne, committed himself to what appeared to be a stern-first approach. A very elegant lady on the fore-deck dropped the anchor instantly on the skipper’s casual wave, and the boat gathered sternway smoothly. The anchor was efficiently run and snubbed, and Idleswyne reversed true as an arrow for the space between Nissos and the Austrian. The latter was again wielding his boathook on his foredeck. Just when it appeared that Idleswyne could no longer miss her designated space by anything short of spectacular divine intervention, the skipper shouted out to his anchor-lady,

“Daph, old thing! Hold the pick, the gearbox has gone tits-up again!”

“Righty-ho!” came the reply, and a second later Idleswyne was brought up sharp with a jarring crash by a casual flick of the windlass pawl. With her engine still running astern, she swung broadside-on to her original track and started to progress backwards across our bows.

Neither the skipper of Idleswyne, who was cheerfully whistling and hammering violently at some unfortunate object in the sole of his cockpit, nor his anchor-lady, seemed in the least put out by events. I managed to slack my anchor-chain down a bit before they caught their keel on it. Idleswyne reversed blithely over our anchor and that of the once-more operatic Italian, whilst on our port side the Austrian made several unsolicited, diabolical swipes at their front end with his Ninja-stick. With the last one, he caught their forestay at full stretch, which at least had the beneficial effect of disarming him; he was left with only the handle end of the telescopic boathook in his hand, and at this point becomes un-interesting and fades from the story.

Having apparently exorcised the

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