Call me Columbus by David Holman-Hill Waters

 

Call me Columbus

“You’ll like this.” Said Tommy. Tommy is my neighbour from across the street; a Geordie ex-miner and a man with a wry take on life. We had strolled down to the new marina complex in Altinkum, Turkey, for dinner and are now sat, in the warm evening sun, sipping ice cold beer from heavily frosted glasses and lazily gazing out from the restaurant’s balcony, admiring the boats moored up below.

“Do you remember Simon,” asks Tommy, “used to have the apartment in the next block to you?”

“Stocky lad, mid thirties, sandy hair, wasn’t he going off to South Africa to be something to do with security.”

“Aye, that’s the lad.” Tommy sucked again on his beer, grinned and leaned back in his chair. Simon, had been a constant source of amusement and speculation during his residency.

Simon, according to Simon, had done it all; from being in the Paras to selling insurance; being a fully trained sports physiotherapist, a diving instructor and had travelled around the world several times turning his hand to whatever came along… you name it, Simon had done it.

Simon, Tommy begins to tell me, sold his apartment and, according to Simon, was on his way to being a close protection security operative in South Africa. However, having sold the apartment and with money burning a hole in his pocket, he, along with his chum McNeil, thought it would be a cracking idea, what with the new marina having opened, to buy a boat.

“Just look at the money making potential,” Simon had expounded “of being our own charter company”.

And so, to this end the two clubbed together to make the purchase. Having bought their new toy the obvious thing, they decide, is to take it for a spin down the coast to Kusadasi; sun, sea, wind in the hair, living the dream. No problem. What could possibly go wrong?

What could go wrong was that neither knew anything about boats and neither had ever been boating. This inaugural run then, to even the casual observer, might well be considered a somewhat rash and ill conceived notion for novice’s maiden voyage, but not to Simon. Simon is now on a roll and full of confidence. How difficult could it be? If you can drive a car you can drive a boat; forward, back, steering wheel for left and right, a doddle. And so they set off.

Novices that they are, it isn’t long before they managed to run the boat aground on a sand barr from which it will not pull free. “No matter.” Says Simon, they’d hail a passing fishing boat to tow them off.

“Had they not seen the sand barr marked on their charts?” Enquire the fishers. “Charts? What charts, don’t know anything about any charts” says Simon, “just pull us off”. “How much to pull you off then?” Say the fishers.

“How much? We’re not paying you”.

“Fine, you can stay there then”.

And away sail the fishers leaving Simon and McNeil still beached.

“Don’t worry” says Simon to McNeil, bringing a razor sharp intellect to bare, “tell you what we’ll do, you get in the water, I’ll lower the anchor down to you, you swim out with it as far as you can, drop it on the sea bed and we’ll winch ourselves off”.

“You what!” Says McNeil “How the fuck am I going to swim anywhere carryin’ a hundred pounds of anchor?”

Aah… They pay the next fishing boat to pull them off.

Nothing daunted, and here you have at least, to admire their sheer persistence, they continue down the coast.

“How much fuel have we got then?” Asks McNeil,

“I don’t know” says Simon, “didn’t you check?”

Still not put off by this lack of fundamental information they keep going, eventually arriving at a small bay where they know there to be a rather nice hotel and restaurant and, once again the spark of genius ignites. They come up with what they see as a brilliant foolproof plan. They figure that if they drop anchor in the bay, by putting their clothes in plastic bags to keep dry, they can swim ashore, get dressed, have a couple of beers, dinner, swim back to the boat and return home that evening. Easy.

Carried away by their brilliance, and several beers, it’s dark before they think of returning to the boat. The boat, which they had left in daylight, is unlit, and now in the pitch black of the sea and the night, they can’t find it. But, luck is on their side, out of the blackness a cruise ship passes, and by its lights, they find the silhouette of their boat and manage to scramble back aboard.

It’s only now, with something of a hammer blow, it dawns on them, ‘Oh SHIT!’ We must be in a major shipping lane! But now too, they are disorientated, so, which way to go… “I know” says Simon, ever the optimist and evidently now well into his stride as the blinding intelligence behind the excursion, “we’ll follow the cruise ship!”

God knows how, and certainly more by luck than judgement, they manage to get themselves, without further incident, back to the marina.

A few days later, having happily told Tommy and one or two others of this escapade, they offer to take them out for the day.

“Are yous outta your tree lad” says Tommy, “with yous two? Simon, have you got your skipper’s licence; learned to read charts; know how to operate the boat, the radar, the radio, the safety equipment?”

“What do you mean skipper’s license, I own the boat” says Simon, “I can go where I want when I want.”

“Ah diven’t think so bonny lad” says Tommy “Ah think the Harbour Master and the Coast Guard might have something to say about that, and… most definitely NOT with me on board.”

The boat has now been impounded for non-payment of harbour dues and Simon was last heard of selling time-share in Thailand.

You just couldn’t make it up.