A BERTRAM, THE AEGEAN AND TWO VIRGINS
A collection of tales
from two virgin sailors let loose in the Greek Sea
By Jon Burrows
Smashwords Edition Copyright 2011 Jon Burrows
Edited by Siobhan Callaghan
Cover illustration by Stephen Shaw
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Contents
“So you think you know engines”
End of the first season at Salamis
Part Two – “Living the Reality”
Hot sunny days and starry nights
Part Three – “We can always pay our way by chartering”
Religio Aequora (Fear of the Sea)
Life in the boatyard goes with a bang
How often have you sat in a sterile workplace and dreamed of sun, blue sea and bright sunny islands? Does your dream involve a boat or the enchanted Aegean? Are you ready for the reality?
The truth is that living your dream can be more akin to wrestling with demons or riding your nightmares.
This is the story of my wife Sue and I who shared a dream. A wish to spend our retirement cruising the Mediterranean, basking in warm sun, lazing in private and picturesque bays, and enjoying Mediterranean life. Before finally taking the plunge we chose to try touring the islands in the Eastern Mediterranean on our own boat as a prelude to our retirement. All of the years of experience of boat ownership in Northern Europe could not equip us for the chaos and insanity we live every time we step aboard, nor did it equip us for the crazy and sometimes loveable people we regularly encounter.
At first we thought that fate had specially selected us for its entertainment, but as the years have rolled on we have met others similarly cursed. And a curse it is. Crazy enough to make you want to sell up and walk away but perfect enough to make you want to go aboard time after time.
I am the proud owner of a bus pass, having wasted the greater part of my life climbing the greasy pole of corporate management. My career topped out managing the German subsidiary of a Japanese Multinational corporation, which required the stamina to cope with high stress levels and an ability not to laugh when events descended into farce. After hitting the cultural glass ceiling I bailed out and started, developed and disposed of a number of businesses encompassing research and design, clothing manufacture and a business consultancy focussed on risk management. So you would have thought that I would have known better than to get involved in this madness. However my one source of exercise and relaxation was to own and operate a variety of motorboats on the canals of the UK and the salty water of the North Sea. I always had the dream of spending my final days drifting around the eastern Med buoyed up by a surfeit of good food and cold beer; a dream which sustained me when the going got tough. I now regularly commute between the UK and The Gulf of Saronicas in Greece where the Bertram is based. Sue has to work to keep the Bertram in service and I have to do most of the maintenance work myself as the Bertram has pretty much bankrupted us. However pleasure does not come cheap and once immersed in the “Good Life” it’s hard to kick the habit.
This book of tales is the direct result of me sitting in the airport departure lounge at Athens waiting for my flight back to the UK, and contemplating my last trip. Absently picking bits of lime green expanded polyurethane adhesive out of my hair and yellow polyester resin from my beard. I think that the realisation that I had glued my feet into my boat shoes and stuck my toes together brought home the absurdity into which my life had descended. My situation was hammered home when the security people asked me to take off my shoes before I walked through the airport scanner and I had to tear great lumps of skin from my toes and insoles to get the shoes off. What was revealed was akin to some disgusting multicoloured tropical foot disease and brought horrified gasps from the security girl. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and say “I have a boat”, and to most Greeks that explains everything. Since then I have ended up wearing a variety of un-removable paints and resins on sundry parts of my body at various times and duration. For example did you know that two pack white polyurethane paint cannot be removed from your toenails and takes eight months to grow out. The hardened paint actually blunts the toe clipper. It doesn’t help that I look like a cross between Santa Claus and Captain Birdseye, at least not intentionally, so returning to the UK with bits of hardened chemicals attached to various parts of my body and clothing does tend to get me noticed. I’m the guy who gets the whole non verbal interrogation at the Border Control passport checking desk. That cool appraising look; the eyes flicking up and down whilst the scanner churns through the Home Office data base, eventually returning the text “Let the idiot back in.” Sue is now getting used to the post trip scrape down that I have to subject my body to, and it is now part and parcel of the joys of refurbishing an old boat.
So here are our experiences and the adventures of others who have shared their trials and tribulations with us over a beer as part of their recovery therapy. If you already own a boat then I suspect that there will be some wry head nodding, if not then please do not let our misadventures dissuade you from taking the leap. Life is too short not to live your dream, even if it turns into a nightmare once in a while.
It was July 2004 and the deal had been done, contracts signed and money transferred. The Bertram was ours, locks stock and rust; a boat conceived by fishing fanatics and built thirty years ago. Enthusiasts who wanted to get out into the Atlantic off Florida, chase game fish and not worry about getting home again. Bertrams have a reputation of being strong, reliable and dependable but ours was now showing its age and in need of some attention and care. This was our dream boat.
Inevitably the paperwork lagged well behind and this meant that we couldn’t insure the boat until the UK Part 1 Registration had been completed. Consequently we couldn’t go to sea in Greek waters. However as part of the purchase terms we could keep the boat on its existing moorings until the end of the year, so we decided to spend July on our floating apartment and take in some of the Athenian atmosphere. The boat was moored in Mikro Limeno which is the smallest but most exclusive harbour of Piraeus, home of the Royal Hellenic Yacht Club and one of the most fashionable parts of Athens. We would be staying in the heart of “where it all happens” and where the beautiful people come out to play. It also would give me a low stress opportunity to explore and understand the various systems on the Bertram and work out how to operate them, so we did not feel too bad. Anyway that was the theory.
An overnight flight and bus ride from the airport into Piraeus had left us drained and less than human. With gritty eyes we struggled into the marina just as the sun was rising. Walking through the arch at the entrance we were surprised by the level of activity and volume of noise coming from the yacht Club. At five in the morning the young Athenians were standing around with their hands full of coffee and each other, rock music flooding the entire marina with a pulsating beat. We pushed our way through the throng, concluding that there must have been a wedding reception or party at the club, and made our way onto the pontoons to the Bertram. She was moored in splendid demeanour, on the end of a pontoon surrounded by lesser sailing yachts, and the only motorboat in that part of the Marina. Climbing aboard, we made up the beds and passed out.
Waking at lunchtime the heat had already taken control of our senses with the thermometer edging towards 40°c. Adding to the discomfort was the pounding of a disco beat, amplified by the buildings surrounding the marina and forming a natural amphitheatre. Staggering out on deck I could see that the Yacht Club was still swarming with bright young things exercising their lungs and athletic ability. By now I had a suspicion that being close to “where it all happens” was going to be a slight discomfort during our stay and I mentally added ear plugs on to our shopping list. However a morning café frappe and croissants up on the roof of the Yacht Club was some consolation for the bedlam around us.
Fortified with caffeine and carbohydrates we set about taking a full inventory of what had been left on the boat (a bewildering array of junk) and finding what paperwork existed relating to the various systems. In short order we had mastered the marina 220 volt supply, the massive fridge freezer, the quirky cooking hob and a toilet system which made the earth move when used. Eventually we were ready to take a walk up the hill to the local supermarket for provisions. As we stepped off the boat I was amazed by the variety and size of the fish splashing around our boat and noticed that someone had tossed fish food into the calm waters around the pontoon. When we returned the pontoon was populated by a sizable number of youngsters, the type that always seem to be around a marina, all fishing with the level of attention and intensity of championship competitors. It was obvious what the attraction was, as the area was awash with swirling shoals of bright silver fish chasing the food pellets that bobbed on the water around the pontoon. I came to the conclusion that the phantom fish feeder had obviously “seeded” this part of the marina in the early morning to ensure a more productive fishing day for the kids. Within a couple of days we had settled into a routine involving industrial ear defenders, minimal exposure to the sun and enjoyment of the antics of the kids as they regularly and loudly pulled fish out of the water by the boat.
Having read the Cruisair air conditioning manual and deciphered the breakers on the distribution board I deduced that the second mains inlet on deck was to drive the aircon system. As bedtime approached and the ambient temperature fell to 30°c the Yacht Club was entering peak noise production and the transom was vibrating like the skin of a giant drum. Having concluded that the noise would be more bearable if we could close the cabin windows and have the aircon running, I confidently connected up the second mains circuit onto the deck inlet and took the cable ashore to the marina pontoon supply. I had to change the plug to a standard 2 pin Schuko from my English 13 amp in order to fit into the rusted and rickety mains distribution board, but that was no problem and it all fitted together perfectly. Making my way back on board I told Sue that tonight would be much more comfortable and threw the breaker on the distribution board. There was no bang, in fact no noise, no light, nothing. The Yacht club had ceased to exist and had disappeared into complete silence and darkness. At first I thought I had been touched by the hand of God and my prayers had been answered, the sense of religious experience enhanced by an expanding sea of lighters, lit matches and small torches twinkling around the marina, but pretty quickly I felt the cold chill of panic creeping up my spine. Guessing that my aircon system had been the final straw on an overloaded system and not wishing to create an international incident, I slithered onto the pontoon, doing a good imitation of a Special Forces operative, sprinted to the connection point, unplugged and coiled the aircon lead and slithered back onto the boat as surreptitiously as possible. That night we slept very well with all of the hatches and windows open.
Next morning I eased out onto the aft deck to the sound of a heated argument, crashing and banging from the shed at the end of the marina. The Yacht Club was deserted for the first time in days and peace reigned supreme. It was a perfect morning. Drinking my morning tea I felt a moment of guilt, but only a moment, and gave my attention to the large shoal of fish slapping around the transom. Someone had been feeding the fish again and a large amount of kibble like fish food floated around the boat. Already the kids were taking up their favourite fishing positions, their voices bright with excitement. The only off note to a glorious morning was a faint sewage like smell in the air. As the tea kicked my brain cells into action a small suspicion began to form. The previous evening I had been skimming through the mass of twenty year old system manuals and had a faint memory of something disturbing. I went below and hunted out the manual for the 1980’s Groco toilet system and began to read. Mr Makarios (the broker for the sale) had previously explained the system to me and confirmed it was safe to use in the Marina, but this was the first time I got into the details.
Now the Groco is a clever system. When you flush the toilet the waste is ground up (as evidenced by the dramatic noise and boat shaking movement) into small pellets and then mixed with sea water in a holding tank. A high voltage electric current passes through the tank which causes an electrolytic action, breaking down the black water into aseptic waste which can then be safely ejected under the boat. On the basis of the manual we should not have any problems with using the toilet system, but given my suspicions, I looked through the system plans for areas of possible failure. Finally I concluded that I needed to focus on the holding tank. By now the temperature had crept up into the high thirties and as I tore up carpet and unscrewed hatches I was already wet with perspiration. The Bertram manual had a clear diagram of the Groco system so I had a good idea of where to look, and after a minor demolition job on some cabinets, exposed the area where the holding tank was located. Settling down onto my stomach I poked my head into the hatch and a large blob of sweat collected on my forehead, rolled down my nose and dripped onto a rusty C clip sealing a neat join in the sanitary pipe, right where the holding tank should be. One end of the pipe entered the back of the toilet and the other went out through the hull and into the sea.
Sitting back and marshalling my mental reserves I had to conclude that there were lessons to be learned from my experiences over the past few days.
Brokers are not always a reliable source of information.
A previous owner’s ideas of workable systems are not necessarily yours.
Never moor up next to a yacht club.
Never eat fish you catch in a marina.
Where to begin? Sitting in the depths of a cold wet English summer the dream of having our own place in the sun seemed to be so appealing. The sale of my risk management business left us with a modest surplus so the dream had some chance of reality. A lifetime interest in boats and yachting supported by a variety of memorable Mediterranean charters; not always for the right reasons, led us down the road to explore the purchase of a boat. Our tick list for this boat was fairly short; big enough to spend extended periods of time afloat, strong build quality; reliable engines and something to keep me busy. My wife is the more grounded member of our relationship and as we went through the pros and cons of acquiring our own boat it was I who stressed the joys of Mediterranean boating whilst Sue was focussed on the practicalities, costs and day to day housekeeping whilst afloat.
A trawl through the usual yachting magazines soon poured a liberal dose of cold water over our aspirations. It was obvious that even a modest British boat with enough space to provide a “live aboard” lifestyle was way beyond our means. Narrow boats and elderly Dutch barges were pretty quickly ruled out as the dream of Mediterranean boating was firmly fixed in our minds. Travels across the length and breadth of the country left us feeling even more disillusioned. We looked at a 50 foot Souter, solidly made of teak over mahogany in the early 80’s but only having one useable cabin. In fact the heads were bigger than most cabins on modern boats! We explored the possibility of a classic Weymouth 42, sadly in need of care and attention and resident in splendid isolation in a mushroom packing shed in the middle of Suffolk. There were boats of all types, sizes and constructions but none held any appeal.
In desperation we took a flight of fancy through hyperspace and trawled the internet. The choices were even more exotic and the prices at every level you could imagine. However there were a number of trends we identified which helped define our parameters. We would inevitably end up with an older boat requiring care, attention and probably substantial amounts of cash. As I have spent most of my working life fixing other people’s problems and working with a rapidly ageing brain, the concept of having a project which would allow me to find my “inner man”, get to grips with my hands and assorted man toys, appealed to me. Our tick list budget of £100,000, a good hull, reliable engines, good build quality, sleeping arrangements for six and comfortable for two to live on for extended periods seemed to be an almost impossible set of criteria. The sum total of our research indicated that we would be looking for a boat of around 40’to 45’, that it would be built around the early eighties when GRP was starting to replace wood as the primary boat building material, and the best engines around for that period were General Motors Detroit Diesels.
Hours spent searching across the various yachting websites threw up a surprising number of options within our criteria, mostly based in the Med or the USA. Concerns about CE issues ruled out the States although the prices on a like for like basis were about 50-60% of like-for-like UK prices. We reckoned that the cost of shipping, CE qualification and conversion to 220 volt systems would probably bring the boat up to UK prices and I came to the conclusion that the risks were too high. That left the Med. It was a lucky strike that brought up two boats on a Greek brokerage web site. A 1975 Fleur de Lys and a 1980 Bertram 42 Aft cabin, both based in marinas around Athens. To be honest the Fleur de Lys fitted my “gentlemanly aspirations” but I had worries about the state of the woodwork. Sue favoured the Bertram, swayed by the aircon, spacious accommodation and a big aft deck. Personally I thought she was an ugly looking wench, top heavy, awkward proportions and a décor locked into the 80’s,(I mean the boat of course), and definitely not a gentleman’s yacht. The concept of buying a boat in Greece was extremely scary, occupying many evenings worth of discussion that summer. As we sat at home on the veranda watching the rain drip down onto the garden the list of what we did not know grew longer and longer. How do you find a marina to berth her? What regulations do we face? How much would it cost? How do we cope with the language problems? The price of peace in the family was a one week holiday to Greece and a short visit to the Yacht Brokerage at Piraeus to look at a few boats. Little did I know what we were letting ourselves in for.
3 – 6 Months Later; Piraeus
It was mid September and the paperwork was complete. The Bertram was no longer registered as Greek slang for “a cocky sod” but as something more befitting her English registration. As agreed with the previous owner, his resident boat Captain Stavros, was to spend a week with us showing the ropes whilst we took a trip around the islands of the Saronicas. My expectation of what we would learn from Captain Stavros was fairly low given that his experience of motor yachts appeared to be rather limited. Although he had spent a lifetime at sea on super tankers and was an enthusiastic sailing yacht owner, his involvement in maintaining the Bertram appeared to stretch no further than varnishing and cleaning. Most worryingly his boat handling skills were based on sailing yacht techniques. So for two virgins in the art and practice of Mediterranean motorboating it was unnerving to realise that I could drive this boat more proficiently than its erstwhile Captain.
Nevertheless we had arrived at Mikro Limeno the previous evening and installed ourselves aboard. The early September weather was perfect, 28°c and light northerly sea breezes, a welcome antidote to a wet and miserable English summer. Bright and early next morning Captain Stavros appeared on the Pontoon. My first thought was “where is his kit?” and the answer came after the ritual “Calemara.” Captain Stavros had checked the weather forecast and decreed that we were in for a bad blow; we were staying in the marina. My first thoughts as I enjoyed that perfect morning were sceptical and I suggested that we should have a go as we could make it to Aegina Island Port in one hour. He looked pensive, shook his head and repeated his advice that we should stay in port. Further discussion ensued but he would not be moved, and by then Sue was starting to side with him. Three hours later we were battening down the boat and putting out extra warps as a force 8 hit the harbour. My only consolation was that the wind had discouraged the bright young things from their usual noisy presence in the Yacht Club so there was only the howling wind and clanking of halyards on masts to disturb our peace.
The next morning was perfect, the gale having blown itself out overnight. Captain Stavros turned up early again this time with his kit bag and we were off. The Detroits were fired up; barking their unmistakeable loud and proud exhaust note. I cast off the springs and we were free. Standing next to Captain Stavros at the helm station I was surprised to see him wrestling with the wheel, trying with limited success to get some steerage way against the breeze and current around the harbour, sweat pouring out of him. My suggestion that the miniscule rudders on the Bertram were never designed for low speed handling and he should use the throttles and gears were met with an indifferent shrug. Eventually we were out into open sea and bearing south. After discussion in which my plans for a stop over at Aegina Island met with a distinctly negative response, we agreed to head for Poros Island down on the Pelopenese. However as a small concession Captain Stavros proposed that we may enjoy an afternoon stopover in the western lee of Angistri Island in a little bay he knew. That sounded good so off we went. The trip was idyllic and totally uneventful. An hour or so of pleasant motoring and Angistri emerged from the summer haze in front of us. The little bay was perfect, protected on one side by the majestic sweep of the Pelopenese and the island on the other. There was only one other sailing boat at anchor and even the raucous noise being generated by its crew did not spoil the scene. We anchored and cut the engines, so Sue and I went below to change into swimming gear with the definite intention of sliding into the warm and welcoming waters of the bay. However there was a bump, then scraping and loud laughter and Greek chatter. Finally getting back up onto the aft deck we found it populated by half a dozen assorted young Greeks. Captain Stavros, smiling broadly, announced that we now had his son, his son’s wife, his son’s wife’s brother and his wife and on and on until I lost track, all on board with us. The upshot was that “quite by accident” we had rendezvoused with the younger elements of his extended family and it seemed we had an obligation to entertain them. Luckily there was a small Taverna on the beach so by common consent we shuttled backwards and forwards in their inflatable dinghy until we were all seated in the shack on the shore. We were not best pleased at this turn of events and the obvious deceit involved. Our lack of enthusiasm and involvement in the procedures was plain to see and Captain Stavros began to understand that he had made a major misjudgement. In an effort to rescue the situation he proposed that we should be leaving if we wanted to get to Poros before nightfall. His family had the grace to ferry us back to our boat but the goodbyes were a little strained.
The Detroits were kicked back to life and with a swirl of prop wash we were off again. Heading south in the late afternoon was perfect. The heat haze had been blown away by the evening breeze and eventually the gap in the hills appeared where it should, and the bay formed by Poros opening up in front of us. As we made our approach I noticed that the depth sounder was not working. When I asked why not, Captain Stavros explained that it only worked intermittently and he never used it anyway. Starting to feel uneasy I asked how he knew he had enough water under the boat. His answer was typical of his approach to boating. He explained that if the water was deep blue it was deep so no problem, if it was light blue there was around three metres clearance under the boat, if it was yellow there was maybe a metre and if there were waves off the rocks it was too late to worry, you were aground. Sue glanced at me with a look of panic on my face. I have to say I was not reassured by his approach.
Poros, like so many Greek island towns, is built on the side of a small mountain rising tier upon tier like a many coloured layer cake. It is separated from the mainland by a narrow channel which acts as a natural harbour. What amazed us was the number of Superyachts and large luxury boats anchored in the bay. As we approached the harbour wall Captain Stavros made a call on his mobile and sure enough as we made our approach there appeared a gentleman dressed in white shirt, trousers and shoes, directing us to a suitable mooring space and ready to take our warps and tie us up to the harbour wall. As Captain Stavros wrestled with the wheel rather than the throttles, our approach was a little erratic, but eventually we lay comfortably between a 70 foot motor cruiser and an even larger sailing yacht, all shiny steel and varnish. Captain Stavros then announced that I was expected to tip the gentleman in white ten euros for the boat docking service. We concluded that this was a place where style and conspicuous consumption was the order of the day. The passerelle was let down and Captain Stavros jumped down to embrace the helpful gentleman. After much hand shaking and embraces he explained that the man in white was his cousin and that on the following day his wife and children would come down to meet us. The penny dropped. Captain Stavros had taken us to his home and at our expense was entertaining his friends and family, revelling in his role as the Captain of the Bertram. He then went out of his way to escort us around the Port and introduce to a bewildering number of shop keepers, restaurateurs and assorted souls lounging in cafes. It became clear that both he and the Bertram were very well known in the Port, and we were glad to be left in peace as Captain Stavros headed off to spend the night with his cousin. Now we could enjoy the boat on our own terms.
Well as it turned out not so quiet. We had moored in a section where the path behind the harbour wall was quite narrow and the main port road ran past us to the ferry berth. On the other side of the main road were a wide selection of cafés packed with locals, ships crews and holiday makers all revelling in the “see and be seen” culture. Nevertheless it gave me time to study the wide range of equipment employed by other boats to get their crews aboard and off onto the harbour wall. The range is immense, from wooden planks used by sailing yachts to enormously complicated feats of hydraulic engineering used by the Superyachts. The system on the Bertram was fairly simple; an aluminium gangplank pivoting off the top of the transom and supported by two ropes fixed at the end suspended by two ropes running through pulleys and rubber jammers joined at the end of our sun canopy. The ropes allowed the gang plank to be raised and lowered easily when required, and it could be held off the ground by the jammers which gripped the rope and held it. Up to this point the greater part of our boating experience had been gained in the cold North Sea and the Solent where berthing was either on a Marina pontoon or lengthways on to a harbour wall. This was our first experience of “stern to mooring” where the boat is secured at the bow by dropping the anchor some way from the mooring and once the boat has motored back to the harbour wall the stern is secured to the mooring points. As I examined our simple system I began to having nagging doubts about its reliability and safety. This was the first time we had used our passerelle in anger and my wife had already expressed her fears that the springiness and movement were dangerous. However our system appeared to be no worse than many others so I opened another beer and relaxed.
The next day dawned fresh and bright with us keen to get underway and get some serious boat handling under our belt. We had just finished our breakfast when Captain Stavros bounced up the passerelle and in sombre voice advised of another storm on its way and his desire for us to stay where we were for a day or two. Our thoughts and discussion revolved around believing him or suspecting ulterior motive as his sister and her family were arriving on the ferry later that day. As we talked and shared another coffee, the aft deck was becoming uncomfortable with the onshore wind smashing a swell against the harbour wall and bouncing the boat quite wildly. The end of the passerelle was swinging dangerously and intermittently smacking onto the harbour wall so I raised it around eighteen inches off the ground and locked the ropes into the jammers.
Captain Stavros finished his coffee and as he turned he noticed yet another friend walking along the harbour pavement. He bid us a perfunctory farewell, turned and launched himself down the passerelle. What happened next had to have been seen to be believed. It could only be described as a crash course in quantum dynamics relating to independent manned flight. As Captain Stavros bounced onto the end of passerelle a wave lifted the end around two feet into the air and simultaneously one of the rope jammers gave way under the increased weight. The passerelle swung sharply to the left and suddenly stopped, dropping onto the harbour pavement with a crash. The effect of this gyration was to massively multiply the forces acting on Captain Stavros’ body; launching him into space with the pace of a guided missile. Afterwards one had to admire his sense of balance and determination as we watched him land on the harbour pavement windmilling his arms to regain his footing. His body tilted forward in the pose of an Olympic sprinter and he shot forward as if leaving the starting blocks, face locked into a mask of panic. The momentum generated by the crashing passerelle flung him across the pavement, all arms and legs as he stumbled across the road. He just missed a motorcyclist and with all of the grace of a swimmer starting a race, belly flopped across the table of two very stylish German ladies. His impetus carried him across the table, taking two large frappachinos with him, until his face connected with the front window of the café. By now the table had given up the unequal task and collapsed, triggering a magnificent display of Germanic muscularity as the ladies threw themselves backwards, away from their fountaining coffee; this in turn initiated a domino of beautiful people tipping over, legs in the air and spraying coffee over Ralph Lauren and Christian Dior logos with abandon. By the time we had scrambled off the boat and reached the café it looked like a cyclone had hit it. We finally found Captain Stavros under the furniture and, ignoring the vociferous curses and threats, helped him back across the road and sat him on a bench close to the boat. His injuries were both many and various and we spent a solicitous twenty minutes swabbing down his bloody bits before the first of his family arrived to bear him off.
The next day dawned with light winds, bright sun and a sparkle in the air. The swell had given way to a gentle ripple and the café had managed to restore some semblance of order. Captain Stavros appeared in the early afternoon sporting a wide variety of bandages and sticking plaster but pride of place was given to his right hand which was a complete ball of bandage. Refusing to step up the passerelle he announced from the pavement that he was withdrawing his services as he was unfit for duty. Offering our sympathies we stepped down the passerelle, now fixed to my standards, and shook his left hand wishing him well for the future. He replied that he was leaving for Athens on the next ferry and wished us an enjoyable holiday. Seeing the café owner lurking in the doorway and not wishing to become involved in a confrontation he turned and sped off into the ferry queue before the owner of the café could catch up with him.
Later that night, as we enjoyed the delights of a local taverna, our attention was drawn to a large group of locals in the next bar laughing with great gusto and back slapping. At their centre was a young man performing a wild gyration comprising windmilling arms, on the spot jogging and some serious wobbling. It did not take much knowledge of Greek to realise that Captain Stavros was now a legend in his own lifetime on the island. We left next day for quiet fishing harbours and anonymous practice in boat handling. Two virgins gaining experience in their own time and in their own way.
After consideration of what had happened I had to conclude:-
I should have more faith in my own abilities as a Captain.
In future we should avoid any harbour populated by Superyachts
Passerelles should be classed as weapons of mass destruction.
4 – Five Months Earlier; Athens
My strongest memory of that first visit in June before we bought the Bertram was the heat. Sue had convinced me that we should at least explore the opportunities of a boat based in Greece and bribed me with the promise of some time on the beach. A cheap overnight flight from Heathrow and our lack of local knowledge meant booking a hotel in Piraeus over the internet. There was a major international shipping convention in the town so every hotel we could find was fully booked or going for wallet ripping prices. However we tracked down a family hotel just outside the port, which seemed to be a reasonable price, and could meet our request for a quiet double available at four in the morning. We left the air terminal at El Vincentia around three in the morning and as we walked out of the air conditioned terminal into the Attica pre dawn, the warmth and humidity were uncomfortably tangible. We were wet within minutes. A one hour trip by bus to Piraeus port was blessed with air conditioning, empty roads and luckily the hotel was easy to find. The porter was present and alive. Roused from his pre dawn dozing he groped around under the desk and led us to the rear of the reception hall and down the staircase into the cool of the basement. A fumble with the keys and he threw open the door with a dramatic flourish. Sue walked into the room with me following. Her sudden stop caused me to collide with her back and the cases I was carrying shunted her further into the room. We shuffled around to regain our balance and I looked around. The room was as welcoming and comfortable as the changing rooms in the local swimming baths. One of the most striking features was the waterfall trickling down the back wall. The room was at the back of the hotel, and quiet it was apart for the noise of a massive air conditioning unit right outside the minute window. The window ledge provided a last resting place for assorted insects and other wildlife that had found its way into the room and expired in the wet. The bed produced puddles when the mattress was pressed and the driest area was the shower tray, in the middle of which stood the lavatory. We bailed out as fast as we could and headed back to the port. At 5.30 am we explained our problem to a lady in one of the numerous ticket offices. By 5.45 she had found us a room in a three star hotel by the beach at Glyphada and tucked us into a taxi. The room price was cheaper than the original. First lesson learned; you can trust a Greek when there is the opportunity for a commission. Second lesson, don’t trust the internet when your well-being is at stake.
That afternoon and after a nap we made our way to the agreed meeting place in the centre of Piraeus, wading through the heat and dodging from shade to shade. Our first purchases were baseball hats and sunglasses from a street kiosk. At the appointed time a dinky little car appeared on the street corner with the brokerage company’s name on the door. A substantial Greek Gentleman, resplendent in a cream linen suit unfolded himself from the inside of the car. Unfortunately the clearly desired image of sartorial elegance was sandbagged by the many creases, crumples and damp patches, but he enthusiastically introduced himself as Mr Makarios and shook our hands with great solemnity and reverence. After the usual pleasantries we set off to look at boats. What we were not told was that the first boat was in fact based at a ship yard on Salamis Island, where the brokerage have their main base for their sales stock, and where their charter Superyachts are based and repaired. The journey highlighted a ferry trip from Perama, which must have the highest concentration of boatyards in the world, across the site of the Athenian defeat of the Persians around 2000 BC to Salamis Island, and on to a boatyard which was like the set of a Mad Max movie.
Standing on the ferry top deck in the midday heat, as the converted tank landing craft chugged across the straights, gave me time to reflect on what we were doing. So far all of the Athenians we had met were friendly, spoke reasonable English and gave me no reason to suspect their honesty. Maybe buying a boat here wasn’t such a bad idea after all. A short ride in Makarios’ car up the side streets and roads of Salamis finally put us back onto the coast and village of Ambelika, a nondescript collection of characterless concrete houses built at one end of the ancient harbour. The general view wasn’t inspiring; large industrial ship building yards surrounded by rusting hulks, piles of dead and rotting boats and scummy sea water. The air was tainted by the smell of old diesel, burnt metal and dead fish. But the boatyard appeared secure with Colditz-standard chain link fencing and large German shepherd dogs dancing around inside the yard.
Once inside Mr Makarios took us to a quiet corner and introduced us to Flouflakis, loosely translated from Greek as “cocky sod.” She was mounted on bracketed supports with her deck around two stories above the concrete surround. Mr Makarios seemed keen to get us up the step ladder beside the boat and onto the deck, which made me suspicious, consequently I hung back to have a good look at the hull and propeller shafts. While I was surreptitiously peeling off old anti foul paint and sticking my penknife into the GRP I was surprised to see how little damage there was on the hull. Very few scratches, no blisters and only a few obvious repairs. I had just started to ponder how a boat 25 years old could look so pristine when Sue leaned over the railing and imperiously commanded to come up. When I reached the top she was standing on a vast aft deck with an “I told you so” expression on her face, and grabbing my arm pushed me down the hatch into the saloon.
The first impression was of a scene from an early 80’s B movie, the second impression was of an amazing sense of space. Having spent so many hours in small saloons on big boats and pokey saloons on small boats I just wasn’t ready for the space and light that flooded in. I was then manhandled down into the aft cabin. Amazement again; not one but two double bunks and a head with a shower that I could actually fit in. By now Mr Makarios had the sense to sit back and say nothing as Sue launched into a new episode of Changing Rooms. Determined to find something amiss I climbed down through the engine room hatch to have a sniff around. There was almost the atmosphere of a museum storeroom down there. Obvious signs of general maintenance but no feeling of regular use. No oily smells, just a faint hint of Diesel around the big sleeping Detroit engines. I had to ask the obvious, and when I had climbed back up into the saloon I addressed Mr Makarios and queried “why does the boat appear to be so little used.”
The reply was a rather obvious statement “the owner did not use the boat very much” followed by silence and a shifting of his gaze out of the saloon window. I had to press him to obtain the information that the owner did not like the boat. His reluctance to give up more information was puzzling so I climbed up into the wheel house. My suspicions aroused I checked the engine hours recorder on the dash board. 300 hours. Now alarm bells were ringing. 300 hours on a boat 25 years old, not likely. I went back down into the engine room and checked the engine hours dial on the side of the Onan generator, 350 hours. Now I could believe that an enterprising and unscrupulous owner might reset the engine dial, but who would be devious enough to do the same with the genny? I made my way back out onto the deck and stood beside Mr Makarios in the shade of the aft deck canopy. I suggested to him that from what I can see the boat has only been used for an average of 12 hours per year. He thought a little and replied that possibly I was right but not every year, sometimes more, sometimes less. By now he had accepted that I was not going to let the issue go and there was an edge to the conversation. Meanwhile Sue was poking into numerous cupboards and corners, having an intense conversation with herself about colours and furnishings. Mr Makarios slumped against the rail, wiped his damp forehead with a pristine white handkerchief, and started his explanation.
It appeared that the present owner bought the boat from a Swiss businessman who brought it from America for holidays in the Aegean. However he never had time to use it so it just stayed there in the boatyard for many years. He also had continuous problems with licences and permits so it just rested on its cradle. Five years ago the present owner, a famous Greek yachtsman, decided that he was getting too old to handle a sailing yacht and thought he would try a motor yacht. He also kept his boat in the yard so they knew each other. A deal was done. The heat was building and although the canopy kept the worst of the sun off the aft deck we were both sweating profusely. I suspect he wanted to find cooler shade, as did I, but since he had started the story he was going to finish it. The owner bought the boat and because he had many contacts in the boat business, he engaged engineers to correct the many problems caused by its lack of use, and employed a Captain to look after it. When the boat was ready he put it in the water and decided to take his wife to Ydra for a holiday.
Ydra is a Greek World Heritage Island 80 miles from Athens and is very beautiful. It also hell on earth in summer, as literally hundreds of boats fight to get a place in the harbour. Even I as a Mediterranean virgin knew this but Mr Makarios continued his tale. The new owner, his wife and his newly appointed Captain set out full of optimism, but neither were used to a two engine motorboat. Handling 17 tons, two engines and 900 horsepower is not the same as a 6 ton 30 horsepower sailing yacht. As a result they had a multitude of stress inducing problems in Aegina and Poros Island before they got to Ydra. Their lack of knowledge, and experience with a heavy and powerful boat, coupled with the constant need for delicate manoeuvring in the small crowded harbours, just added to their sense of helplessness and stress. It was so bad that the owner’s wife quit the boat in Ydra and returned home on the hydrofoil. When they finally made their way back to Salamis his wife told him that she would never go on the boat again, and she never did.
Mr Makarios paused to reflect on the injustice in the world and perfidy of womankind in general. He then elaborated that the boat was subsequently used only by his son and his family to go for day trips during the summer. Sensing the oncoming question which was building up he added that the Captain has a house on Salamis and looked after the boat. My next question caused him to look away to the other side of the ancient harbour and pause for reflection, but I had to ask how long the boat had been up for sale. He replied that it had been advertised for five years which is why the price was so good. The owner was contemplating retiring and had bought a farm on one of the islands. He needed the purchase price quickly which is why the price had recently been substantially reduced.
On the car journey back to the Salamis ferry there was silence in the car but Sue kept slipping me knowing looks and squeezing my hand. On the return ferryboat she pulled me away from Mr M. and asked what my thoughts were. I pointed out that it was the first boat we had seen whilst we had been in Greece but the hull is like new, the engines aren’t even run in and from what I can see the major problem is lack of use. Again she asked me how I felt about it and I suggested that we should look at more boats but could do a sea trial on the Bertram and check it out.
The next morning Mr M arrived in his little car in a jolly mood. Once we were installed he announced that he had good news and bad news. The bad news was that it was not possible to visit the beautiful Fleur de Lys which I had specifically requested to see as there were unspecified “problems” with the owner. The good news was that the Bertram was being put into the water that day and was being moved to its permanent summer mooring at Mikro Limeno, the small harbour of Piraeus. If we wished we could use the event as a sea trial and try the Bertram out on the water. There seemed to be no other options so off we went for another trip to the boatyard on Salamis. Once there we were suffering a scorching hot day but at least the great bulk of the propped up Bertram provided some shade, where we huddled together slowly cooking. Eventually a slight and weather-beaten individual appeared and announced himself as Mr Stavros, the Captain of the Bertram. He looked stressed and had the nervous movements of a small bird, constantly jerking his head to the left and right and also had a habit of repeating your question before answering. Although irritating, his mannerisms had a quaint charm, and with much self important shouting and gesturing to the boatyard hands the great ritual commenced. The 100 ton travel hoist manoeuvred into position and the Bertram lifted from its cradle, rocking and rolling its way down to the slipway and into the scummy water. Finally she was bobbing gently against the quay and emanating a sense of wanting to be unleashed. We climbed aboard and spread out around the spacious aft deck. Captain Stavros pressed the starter buttons and with a great roar the Detroit Diesels came to life. The racket was deafening. The DD’s are not engines for the faint hearted; loud and proud, like a pack of Harley Davidson motorcycles racing through a tunnel. Eventually they settled down into their throaty rhythm and the fumes dispersed. I had focussed on watching the procedures Captain Stavros was running through to get all of the systems functional but when I turned around Sue was stood by the rail with a wide grin on her face. As sea trials go it was a non event. The Bertram powered her way out into Salamis Bay shrugging aside the slight chop with indifference and once the throttles were opened she lifted onto the plane like a thoroughbred. The Bertrams are built with semi displacement hulls designed to handle the Atlantic seas off Florida whilst the owners engage in some serious fishing, and to get them home again in heavy seas. This one literally flew across the water with an ease I did not expect. Responsive to the wheel and capable of sharp turns, she captivated me. I began to understand why these boats had such a strong and enduring reputation. They feel really solid and safe in the water and this one made Sue smile in a way I hadn’t seen for years. All too soon we were edging into the small harbour of Mikro Limeno in Piraeus. By then I really had to put some effort into holding my poker face and discourage Sue from showing too much enthusiasm. We said our goodbyes to Messrs M and S and agreed to meet at our hotel the next morning. It was a long and intense evening.
We had cracked it. Sue and I had finally mastered the art of “stern to” mooring having pulled off a perfect arrival into the harbour of Aegina Island. We had just sailed the Bertram and our family on the first cruise, and had spent the previous week touring the quiet bays and small fishing harbours practicing our anchoring and manoeuvring skills. We had to build up our confidence before we faced the terrors of this infamous harbour, surrounded by cafes and tavernas packed with the most knowledgeable and critical sailing audience in the world.
Once moored, Sue, my daughter and her boyfriend and I disembarked to enjoy a celebratory beer or two and chill out. Whilst enjoying the atmosphere (it was a very hot day) we watched a 9m Finnish flagged sailing yacht manned by a skeletal octogenarian slowly and deliberately trawl up and down the harbour looking for a space to moor. The problem was that he had left his anchor trailing off the bow and it was ploughing across the bottom of the harbour. The inevitable result was a collection of a full set of anchor chains pulled off the bottom of the harbour floor. Eventually he ground to a halt pinned down by the weight of chain. How we laughed at his attempts to unhook the collection of chain on his anchor.
As the afternoon wore on the Mediterranean climate did its usual trick of going from flat calm to force 7 in the blink of an eye. As the wind was from the west it created a 1m wave across the harbour and the moored boats were doing a brilliant version of a Mexican wave as a result. I had to go back to the boat to check the warps and to my horror found the swim platform grinding away on the harbour wall. It didn't take long to work out that one of the anchor chains carefully rearranged by our Finnish friend was ours. Given the severity of the situation I decided to take up chain and try and reset the anchor. No hope. The option of tying onto the yachts on both sides was knocked on the head by their size (10m) and a vociferous assault of bad English and rude Dutch. As far as my neighbours were concerned this was my problem. Reluctantly I recovered my very chilled crew with the intention of taking the boat out and relaying the anchor. Good plan but bad idea. The wind had pulled the complete fleet of twenty plus moored boats into a 45 degree slant. When I powered up my two 450 hp Detroit Diesels (not the quietest engines in the world) it initiated panic across all the yachts around me, with four or five skippers around me shouting excellent advice in a variety of languages I don't speak. I nudged out whilst Sue started recovering the anchor and almost immediately advised me that we had collected someone’s anchor chain. Meanwhile the warm afternoon had turned into a howling gale and my boat was only halfway out of our slot, the bow pinned down and the stern dancing about like Mohamed Ali. Suddenly we were surrounded on both sides by willing and enthusiastic hands as other boat owners clambered onto the neighbouring yachts to “help”, and an enthusiastic international game of “push the Bertram” ensued. By now I was aware of two key facts. Firstly I had no control over the boat at all and secondly the Greeks were leaving the cafés to get a closer view of the entertainment which we were providing.