When the captain of a boat sits on his own in the corner,
hands over his face, his bowed head shaking from side to side, it is reasonable
to suspect that all is not well.
Such was the scene Mrs Jones and I witnessed while on a boat
returning to the Greek island of Corfu after a day trip to Albania. We were
ensconced, below deck, in the covered area of a pleasure cruiser along with
around one hundred other tourists. The Ionian Sea had been choppy since we left
the port. Ten minutes into the voyage, and the boat was swinging from side to
side like a giant hammock in a gale. At first it was amusing to watch:
unoccupied chairs and tables sliding around like a scene from Poltergeist;
young men zig-zagging to the toilet, grasping the hands of seated fellow
passengers to steady themselves; and an Italian beauty, wearing more makeup
than clothing, sliding to the floor and unable to get back up, her long legs
akimbo.
From the outset I’d been making eye-contact with an obese,
disabled Romanian gentleman sitting directly opposite, leaning forward on his
walking stick, our mutual nods and smiles showing smug acceptance of the
situation. Two old sea dogs like us were not going to be phased by a bit of
choppy water. White foam rendering the windows opaque, as if we were all
entombed inside an iceberg, didn’t worry us. Real men, made of sturdy stuff,
while lesser mortals floundered. Suddenly, the boat lurched violently to
starboard catapulting the 17-stone Romanian towards me; he landed at my feet
with a thud.
I, and others, feigned to stand up to help him – if we had,
the pendulous swing of the boat would have put us all on our arses – but the
prostrate fella oozed calmness and rationality.
‘I’m fine on the floor,’ he said, palm of his hand raised
with the authority of a traffic policeman. ‘It’s the best place for me’.
And then the vomiting started. The kids who’d been
screeching and running amok on the outward journey were now sat in a line,
motionless, their faces displaying various shades of green and yellow. In
response to their communal retching, a number of plastic shopping bags had appeared
and were now being used to catch the dribbling puke. Some adults with sea
sickness – including the two holiday reps – had braved the wobbly walk to the
outside deck and were now vomiting over the side, their white-knuckled hands
clinging to the rails.
A young man who had been laid horizontal across three seats,
apparently sleeping, roused himself. He sat upright, appearing confused. In an
instant, perplexity was replaced by horror and he sprung to his feet and made a
dash for the toilet, his cheeks puffed out like an inflatable toad. He
stumbled, falling in my direction, and for a second we were almost
nose-to-nose. I resigned myself to being peppered with a semi-digested Albanian
buffet, but – and give the lad his due – like a skilled fighter-plane pilot, he
pulled off a last-minute swerve to the right and vomited over my shoulder into
a recess behind me.
Mrs Jones and I had remained seated throughout, absorbing the
chaos around us: upturned tables and chairs randomly sliding back and forth; a
chorus of retching and gurgling; white froth slapping against the windows as if
the sea had morphed into a fizzy drink; and a rotund east European lying on his
side at our feet, his chin resting on his hand, nonchalantly perusing the
mayhem. As the boat continued to veer like a giant swing at a funfair, we had
focused on the behaviour of our Greek captain. Oblivious to the stumbling,
vomiting passengers, the skipper continually ventured outside onto the exposed
deck – the open door letting in a howling gale – returning wet and windswept,
only to then repeat the action.
But now the captain had sat down in our midst. I – and I
suspect many others – looked to him for reassurance that everything was under
control. But we couldn’t see his features: he was slumped, hands over his face,
shaking his head from side to side. There was only one conclusion to be drawn:
the boat was sinking.
Mrs Jones began texting a farewell message to the kids.
I considered ringing my son to remind him of the cabinet
drawer where our will was kept.
My hand started to grope under my seat in search of a life
jacket.
And then the horizontal Romanian calmly asked the question
we all wanted answered. ‘Captain, is there something wrong with the boat?’
As if wakened from a trance, the captain lifted his head and
looked around, perplexed, trying to locate the source of the voice that had
intruded into his inner world. It took a few seconds to notice the fixed stare
from hulk on the floor and realise this was his interrogator.
‘No, no, the ship’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve just banged my
head on one of the rails outside’.
Ten minutes later, the sea calmed and we arrived safely in
Corfu town.
‘That was horrendous,’ said Mrs Jones as we got off the
boat. ‘I thought we were doomed’.
‘Just a bit of choppy sea,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what all
the fuss was about.’
Image courtesy of bplanet et FreeDigitalPhotos.net
