Tuesday August 5 ^th 2008
I was woken this morning by an irate farmer leaning on the horn of his tractor. He was sitting in the lane with a face like fizz. I got my shit together and pulled out of the field and headed back for the main road. With no better idea of what to do next I hung a right and pointed the car towards Puerto Pollensa.
The road was quiet and my mind wandered as I sped along. I hit a small industrial area and entered Puerto Pollensa via a roundabout that had a Fairview yacht franchise on one corner and an Eronski supermarket on the other. The town closed in around me and a few hundred yards later I reached the sea front.
Puerto Pollensa is essentially a holiday destination mixed in with a high number of ex Pats working their way to a funeral in the sun. The town is small and compact. The centre is a small maze of three and four storey canyons. I cruised around and exited the town onto what looked like a new ring road. I followed it round the town and crossed where I had come in. I kept going and dropped down to the beach front.
The beach was quiet and well ordered — none of your Magaluf or Palma Nova nonsense here. There are no towering hotel blocks lining the sea front. In fact it is more akin to a quiet US gulf coast town than your typical Spanish resort of old.
I parked the car across from the beach and got out. A small wall separated the sand from the road and a tractor was towing a rake behind it bringing order to the area. I sat on the wall and stared at the sea.
To my left a marina harboured a range of small yachts. To my right the coast disappeared into the distance.
Puerto Pollensa sits in a small bay and I looked over at the rocky promontory that formed the far side. Out on the bay a small fishing boat was setting out for sea and I wished I was on it.
The idea of being on the boat took on merit as I watched it carve a route through mirror calm waters. I could wait until Friday and try and exit through Palma airport but the odds seemed stacked against that being a trouble free journey. The alternative was staring me in the face.
Mallorca is the northern most island in the Balearics and there is clear sea between it and the coast of Spain. Not only that but it lies less than 200 kilometres from Barcelona. I figured that there must be some traffic between the two. Not the commercial ferry type — that might be being watched — but more the casual tourist type. Surely someone in the marina might be heading for Barcelona at this time of year.
Once in Barcelona I would head for Girona airport to the north. From there to Prestwick Airport in Scotland on a cheap Ryanair flight. That way I would exit Mallorca without going via Palma and enter Scotland without visiting Glasgow Airport. At least I would give myself a chance to get home without Dupree finding me.
It sounded good but I had no idea how difficult it would be to find someone that was both going to Barcelona, and willing to take a stranger. I went back to the car and drove to the town centre. Once I had parked up I walked down to the marina, picked a bar that overlooked the complex and ordered a coffee.
It was still early and people were thin on the ground. I was close to the entrance to the marina and watched the comings and goings.
An hour later, a little hotter and none the wiser I was still sitting in the same chair. I ordered a Coke.
I simply had no idea where to start. How do you hitch a lift in a boat?
The morning meandered along and I considered and reconsidered my options. Lunchtime arrived and the cafe busied up. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and I ordered pizza and a large plate of chips along with another Coke.
As I ate, I studied the other patrons hoping for some divine inspiration.
By two o’clock I was getting depressed. The lack of action was killing me.
At the back of my head I had the nagging feeling that the goons from Inca wouldn’t take long to figure where I was. After all how hard could it be?
I got off my seat and went for another wander and, as I walked, I passed a small bar ringing with laughter and looked in. Four men were standing at the bar giving the local beer a good hiding. I walked up to the bar and ordered a pint of what they were downing and earwigged the conversation, letting the alcohol take the edge off my growing frustration.
It became clear that the men owned a yacht in the marina and were on holiday. In for a penny and in for a pound, I gate crashed their conversation and asked which boat was theirs?
They were unfazed with my interruption and one of the men nodded to the door and we walked over. He pointed to the marina and tried to guide my eye to their boat. I couldn’t swear that I was looking at the right one but when I asked what type it was he went off on one. Halfway through I had to own up to knowing nothing about boats, but this just made him more vocal on the subject.
We drifted back to his mates and I bought a round. This went down well and soon I was knee deep in nautical terms and stories.
The guys were good company. They had been friends since school and acted the way you do when you know someone so well that you can read their thoughts. Ten years ago they had agreed to buy a quarter each of a yacht. None of them knew the first thing about sailing but they all fancied it. The current yacht was their third and a source of pride and joy.
I asked where they had been and where they were heading.
‘ Malaga then San Antonio in Ibiza then Mahon in Minorca and we came in here two days ago. If things go well we want to try and get to Barcelona and then down the coast and back to Malaga.’
I was amazed they didn’t notice my double take when they said Barcelona.
‘When do you head off?’
The guy who had tried to show me the boat told me they were leaving first thing in the morning. They wanted to try and get there while it was still light. I asked if they wanted a passenger and they laughed. I said I was serious and they went cold on me. Then they got bored with me and made their excuses before leaving.
I sat with my drink and contemplated my next move.
I could trawl the marina for someone else bound for Barcelona but I could look long enough.
I left the bar and found the four men a couple of bars away. I didn’t go in but found a cafe opposite and waited.
Just after four they tumbled out and walked towards the marina. I fell in behind them, keeping well back. They were laughing and joking as they staggered out onto one of the piers. Four boats from the end they leapt on board a tidy looking motor cruiser. I reckoned she was forty feet, maybe a bit more, in length. I retreated to the entrance of the marina and decided on a course of action.
I returned to my car and emptied the suitcase onto the back seat. Bundling a few toiletries and one change of clothes into the front seat, I packed the rest into the boot and closed it. A trip to a nearby Spar and I had purchased two two litre bottles of water, a large bag of crisps and four chocolate bars. I asked the shopkeeper for an extra plastic bag and I bundled the stuff on the front seat into the spare bag.
A few moments later and I drove the car to a public car park, locked it and placed the keys behind the front left wheel. Avis would find out about it when I got home.
I chose another cafe that faced the marina and settled in for the wait.
Just before seven I saw the four men making their way to the town. The laughing and joking had been replaced by silence as the alcohol in their system took its payment for the early jollity it had provided. As they walked past I dropped my head under the table, as if I was looking for something.
Once they were gone I got up and walked into the marina.
It was dark but there were signs of life everywhere and I nodded to a few people as I worked my way out to the boat — trying to look as if I belonged there.
Luckily there was no one else on the nearby boats and I slipped on board the four lads’ cruiser, clutching my two bags.
I had expected the door to the cabin to be locked, and already had my hands on my tool kit, but it was open and I went inside. I entered a living room with bench seats down either side. A small kitchen was tucked into the left hand corner near the entrance. To the right was a small toilet. At the far end there were two doors. Both opened onto bedrooms. The one on the left was the master bedroom with a large double bed. The one on the right was smaller with two single beds against each wall — barely inches between them. I wondered who shared the double bed?
Returning to the deck I scanned the rest of the boat. Two chairs sat either side of the door to the cabin, one with the steering wheel and various instruments in front of it.
Behind the chairs sat a horseshoe arrangement of two long runs of plastic covered seating with a gap at the rear for the entrance to the boat. In the centre of the horseshoe the floor shone with wooden decking. A large trapdoor sat near the back and when I lifted it I found myself looking down on the engine. I closed it and went back to the cabin but after a few minutes I realised there was nowhere to hide.
Back on the deck I reopened the trap door to the engine room and dropped in.
I had to bend double due to the low roof.
The room was dominated by the engine but it was possible to circle it. I did so and, at the back sat a row of cupboards. A quick search of the cupboards revealed an array of bits and bobs from rope to torches. Below them was a door that ran the width of the boat. The door opened by dropping to the floor. Inside was a dog’s dinner of material including what looked like a lifetime’s supply of porn.
I bent down and realised that if I pushed everything to the front I could slip in behind the contents and hide. I wouldn’t survive a military inspection but nothing in the cupboard looked like it was well used — save the magazines. I didn’t think that the men would be back for a while so I re-arranged the cubbyhole to leave a space at the back.
Happy that I could slip in quickly, I exited the engine room, jumped off the boat and returned to the town.
It took me half an hour to find the men. They were sitting in a restaurant chatting quietly, water not booze stood on the table and it was obvious they were keeping a clear head for the morning.
At ten thirty they waved for the bill and I made my move. I walked quickly back to their boat, jumped on board and opened the engine room door. I dropped down and pulled it shut.
The place was pitch black and I cursed myself for not bringing a torch. I banged both shins getting to the cupboard, cut my thumb fiddling with the latch and settling in took longer than I had expected. I heard the sound of footsteps on the boat just as I pulled the cubby hole door shut.
There was a lot of clumping and chat as the men readied for bed. I soon discovered that my head was below the toilet, as one of the men dropped a log that sent a nightmare smell into my space.
After an hour the boat fell quiet and I realised that I should have stayed on the dock and snuck in later. It was already getting cramped and hot but I couldn’t risk moving around. If someone heard any noise it wouldn’t take long to find me.
I tried to make myself comfortable but I was on a loser. Twisting and turning, all in silent mode, I put my hand on the familiar tube of a torch. I pulled it to my body, covered the lens and threw the switch. At least I had light. I didn’t think it would be seen upstairs. I hoped it wouldn’t be seen upstairs.
So here I lie whispering into the recorder.
I have no idea what tomorrow might bring.