“And the sea-trial?”
“That is like a test drive. I suggest you take Shadow for the sea-trial first because it does not require any expense. If you are unhappy with the yacht, there is no need to spend money on a survey and your deposit will be refunded.”
I was panicking, and it wasn’t just the aftereffects of that decorative orange. The oblivious young man in the three piece suit expected me to take that yacht out for a spin. I’d backed myself into yet another corner. Parking a neutral expression on my face, I racked my brains for some way out that didn’t involve my telling this kid, who was engineering the first yacht sale in his life, that I didn’t really know a thing about sailing a yacht of that caliber. After all, I had at least hinted to Anna, in his presence, that I was quite an accomplished sailor.
“Oh yes, the sea-trial,” I stalled for time. “Well, what time works for you?”
“Perhaps this afternoon is convenient?”
“Ah, no, that won’t work.” I was still cogitating. I needed more time. “Tomorrow, yes, that will be much better. Maybe there will even be some wind so we can sail. Really put that yacht through its paces.” Then an idea hit me. “By the way, since I want to be extra careful and make sure there is nothing I miss on the sea trial, would it be okay to hire a professional to sail it tomorrow? And, is there someone you’d recommend who knows Beneteau sailboats of this size and model?”
“That would be fine. I know the skipper from the charter company that was going to manage Shadow. He knows those boats. I believe he brought that one from France. He is a delivery skipper, so he will know what it sails like on the open ocean.”
“Delivery skipper… interesting.” The wheels were turning. “He delivers to North America?”
“No, very much less expensive and safer to send yachts across oceans by cargo ship. My uncle uses Dock Wise.”
That sounded divine, but my problem wasn’t getting the yacht to Canada, it was getting Anna there.
“Alors, bonjour!” The skipper was the first to show up. Typically Parisian, condescending, and rather put out. Barking orders in French, he jumped on board. He looked to be in his forties, wired and bean-pole thin. His face bristled with several days worth of stubble, and he puffed away on a foul smelling Turkish cigarette.
I looked around for Erdem.
“You are Canadian? Do you not speak French? Perhaps you are deaf?” The skipper flipped plastic covers off the instruments by the big wheel.
“I’m waiting for Erdem. We are not leaving without him.” I said in English.
“Why not? This boat, I can sail her blind. She was to be my boat, my job. Erdem, did he not tell you? You come and buy the charter boats and now I am without a job. Merde! Tell your boss not to do business around here.”
Anna came up from below, speechless at the antics of the Frenchman.
“Apparently, our captain.” The words left my mouth in Russian before I realized they were the same in French.
“Non, you are the cap-ee-tan. I am your humble servant.”
Craning my neck, I saw Erdem making his way down the dock and waved him over. He broke into a trot, arriving moments later, every hair in place, tie perfectly knotted, not even a hint of sweat. The skipper, in Turkish, initiated an argument with Erdem resulting in an immediate end to any communication in English or French.
“Just so it’s clear,” I told the skipper, who I assumed was listening, “I’m leaving control of the yacht to you. I need to concentrate on its performance by watching and listening carefully.” That seemed to me a perfectly valid reason for not taking the helm. The engine was keyed to life and lines were untied. I watched and made mental notes. On the way into Marmaris’s large bay I asked questions like, “How much does fuel cost?” to determine that the engine burned diesel, without the embarrassment of asking directly.
Away from land, a stiff breeze picked up. Turkish instructions were exchanged between the skipper and Erdem, and ropes, called sheets and halyards, were cranked through winches. In short order, the mainsail was up and flapping. Anna glared at me, wraith like, paralyzed on a cockpit bench. The skipper spat his cigarette butt into the water, turned the big wheel, and Shadow veered. FOOMPH — the huge mainsail filled with wind, taking on the shape of a giant wing. The yacht leaned, tilting away from the wind. Anna gasped, scrambling for something to cling to.
Erdem, wrapping a giant metal spool with rope, saw her. “Are you okay?”
Anna glowered at me.
I exuded pure calm with a reassuring smile.
She wasn’t buying it. “Mamachka!”
Frightened by Anna’s reaction, Erdem signaled the skipper to steer Shadow back into the wind. The boat leveled out, but now the big mainsail was flapping violently. Yelling over the noise, he asked me if we should go back for Anna’s sake.
“Hell no!” I bellowed. The boat was sailing. That was finally something I understood. It was aerodynamics in action and I was thrilled. “She has to get used to it. Turn on back and let’s sail!”
Anna clammed up and stared forward. Erdem hauled on the sheets and the skipper, grinning at me with crooked orange teeth, swung the wheel around. Wind filled the main and Shadow accelerated and leaned away from it. The skipper killed the engine. Sudden tranquility, just the swish of water rushing by the hull was magic. Then Erdem released the big forward sail. It unfurled and filled with a colossal bang. After some more pulling, winching, adjusting and yelling, Erdem and the skipper had Shadow seriously heeled over and veritably flying. One thing was for sure, this yacht was fast! I was in heaven. Anna, however, seemed to be in purgatory at best.
Coming back in, and barely leaping distance from the boat to the dock, Anna jumped and bolted. She grabbed one of the dock’s sunshade struts for support and hung on. Her face was a study in extreme stress, not to mention a pale shade of green. Tying a couple of knots in the dock lines and jumping back aboard, the skipper found his English words. He gestured at Anna with a tar stained thumb, ” Your crew, she maybe is not so happy.” He chortled and plunged down the steep companionway. On his way back up, he had the case of beer the charter company stocked all its yachts with. “Your broker, he says you are to sail the Atlantic… with her!” He thrust his chin toward Anna, laughing.
“What do I owe you?”
He jumped to the dock with the beer under his arm. Walking away without looking back he called out, “Paid in full… and, good luck, mes amies.”
TWENTY-FOUR
A survey was the last condition of sale. It wasn’t going to be easy. Of the professional boat inspectors Omar used: one was in the hospital with his third or fourth heart attack, one outright refused to survey sailboats because of their cramped spaces, and then there was the English alcoholic who hadn’t been seen since a near legendary bar fight days earlier. How bloody frustrating! All I wanted, was to pay for the boat and get us out of there.
Erdem, however, was strongly in favor of doing everything by-the-book. “The survey, it is most important. I insist and so, I am sure, will my uncle. You will not get insurance without the survey and for crossing an ocean, insurance, it is necessary.”
I didn’t see insurance as necessary for crossing oceans. If something went wrong, who was going to collect? Heck, in our case, who was even going to know? “What-ever!” Time was wasting. So, under the brutal afternoon sun, Erdem and I wandered the docks asking anyone we saw about boat surveyors. As luck would have it, we found one — an eccentric late to middle-aged Australian living on an oversized Turkish gulet. Erdem was surprised to learn of a professional surveyor right there, in town — in that very marina — that neither he or his uncle knew about. I smiled, noting that serendipity seemed once again to be on our side.