The Trojan Walrus by Julian Blatchley

Author:Julian Blatchley
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784626372
Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
Published: 2015-10-16T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

SALVAGING PRIDE

A spot of harry-roughers... great hydrofoil journeys of the world... malodour-de-mer... techniques for rough weather... what to do when they don’t work... blowing for a tug... how to tow if you can’t do it properly... the bun-fight at the Omega Kappa corral... philotimo... an unlikely explanation accepted... the reward of virtue.

In terms of my reputation I may not have been achieving much on the romantic front, but my Barnacle Billy-ness was about to have an opportunity to exhibit itself.

Lochinvar had been struggling. She was a good-looking boat, a Gib-Sea 106 with a very sweet sheer, and she was a capable sailor; but she was not designed for the bloody-minded conditions we had encountered together over the last two days.

Firstly we had beat thirty-five miles to windward into a relentless north-north-east, driving over steep, short, slamming seas, which are so typical of the Eastern Mediterranean, under a treble-reefed main and half a genoa. That had been rough, and wet, and very tiring; and yet we had made headway, and the exhilaration of bucketing over the ramping, slab-sided, thuggish waves had still held some charm. The astringent spray, the whipping freshness of the air, the profound, cathedral-vaulted, cobalt lustre of the deep, deep sea as we clove into it, combined with the sheer achievement of making progress would be compelling memories long after the aches, the chill, the hunger and the weariness had been forgotten. The second half of the trip, however, was one of those sailing experiences which make one wish that one had lived one’s entire life up a mountain, and bred vampires for a hobby.

The call had come a couple of days earlier, when Spiros had managed to trap me at about four in the morning at the Jungle Bar, where I was just having a last glass with the owners, Stathis and Mary, as they put the shutters up. Mary was mixing the gins as Stathis and I carried two last clients, overcome by their exertions, outside and arranged them comfortably in the municipal flowerbeds to pass the rest of the night. Jingle, jangle.

“Julian! Phone!”

I knew what would happen, but I picked it up anyway. And I said yes. (I always said ‘yes’ in any case, but after a pleasant evening with Dr Tanqueray I would probably have volunteered to take a petrol-tanker to Dunkirk). Then I packed a bag, forestalled a hangover with a heart-attack breakfast at George’s Cafe, and caught the first Flying Dolphin to Monemvasia. It had been blowing a stiff northerly for a week, and Spiros had a boat stuck at the bottom of the Peloponnese. Fifty-five miles, give or take... it would be a bit of a punch to get back, certainly, but all the same I considered it money for old rope. I blithely assured Spiros that I’d have the boat back the following night. I was a pillock.

There was a Flying Dolphin hydrofoil link down to Monemvasia. One had to get to Spetses, change onto another boat which went

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