EIGHT - LEARNING THE ROPES

The dreaded day has arrived and here we are at the Palma school of sailing, otherwise known as L'Escola de Vela. With its breathtaking panoramic view of Palma Bay, the school is hugely popular with aspiring Popeyes and during the summer months attracts children of all ages whose eager parents enrol them on courses while they slope off to enjoy uninterrupted peace at home. We are not so lucky, having foolishly signed up for this sailing course along with Ollie and Angel, the son of Juana and Pep. The two boys are full of enthusiasm and impatiently kick a ball around the sailing club car park as we all begin unpacking bags and belongings from the boot. When we last met, Juana and Pep suggested we take it in turns to make lunch each day so, having been allotted first duty, we arrive laden with a cooler box, food hamper, towels, swimwear and other life saving paraphernalia. At least we get to go home every evening so we don't need to bring pyjamas and toothbrushes.

Pep and Juana are full of good cheer. They're old hands at sailing and, although they don't own a yacht of their own, will do anything to hijack one belonging to somebody else. Much as I enjoy a little gentle sailing, I have never learned the ropes, preferring others to do all the leaping about, hoisting of flapping sails and kamikaze climbing of masts while I look out wistfully to sea, basking in the motion of the frisky waves.

Some years ago a British newspaper editor and I were invited to Indonesia to report on the construction of the world's tallest tower of bread, and who could refuse? It was enormous fun, until by misfortune we found ourselves in the midst of a maelstrom on the Java Sea in a private yacht provided by our wealthy host. As colossal waves reared like savage stallions around us, we slithered helplessly along the deck gasping for breath and drenched in spume. Praying we wouldn't be thrown into the mouth of a passing shark, we clung to fixed ropes and poles while our barefooted crew of two stood at the helm squawking hysterically in local dialect and crying every time they passed another fresh shipwreck. It was miserable hours later that our boat lurched into the port of Jakarta on a moaning wind, its engine having spluttered its last some time before. I remember crawling biliously from the deck and kissing the parched earth, vowing never to sail again while my companion downed a triple brandy at a nearby bar. I try to blank out the memory.

Pep nudges me. 'Hey, wake up, dreamer! We'd better all head to the main building or we'll be late.'

I scan my watch. It's nine o'clock and a sadistic sun is already glaring down at us. The boys skip ahead, their pace quickening when they see a large group of youths gathered on the marina. Angel begins waving at a tall boy in the throng and is delighted to see him return the gesture.

'That's Lucio! Come on, Ollie, let's get going.'

'Wait a minute, you two,' says Alan. 'We'd better introduce ourselves to the tutor.'

Pep fans the air. 'Leave them. It's OK. Angel has done this course many times. He'll look after Ollie.'

Much to my son's embarrassment I call after him, 'Wear a life jacket! Don't do anything silly.'

He turns round. 'I'm not a baby. Honestly, mother!'

And he's gone. I feel a panic rising. Why in heaven's name did we agree to do this? Alan is putting on his best Boy Scout smile to accompany his ancient olive green shorts. 'Ah, a bit of bracing brine in the air. Nothing like it!'

Juana slowly catches up with us. I notice she is carrying a trendy little rucksack while I lumber on with a wicker basket over my shoulder and a cooler bag in my arms.

We reach the doorway of the club, a dull white building set on three levels from which endless smiling youths emerge, their skin bronzed and lean, their faces animated. I notice that the club's frontage, with its rows of neat square windows facing the soft blue sea, is festooned with jolly nautical and international flags that flap in the breeze.

'There seem to be very few adults about,' I say.

'Well, apparently they don't get many takers for the advanced courses,' Juana replies.

'Advanced? I hope that's a joke.'

I'm beginning to wonder if I should make a bolt for it back to the car.

'Don't worry,' says Pep. 'Advanced just means we all have a reasonable knowledge of sailing.'

'But Alan and I don't have a clue! We should be in the absolute beginners' class,' I puff.

'Don't be ridiculous!' he says. 'If you've sailed once, you never forget the ropes. It's like learning to ride a bike...'

'Have you ever seen me on a bike?' I say.

'It's not a pretty sight,' interjects Alan. 'She's the exception to the rule.'

Pep waves his hands in the air impatiently and then takes out a cigar from his pocket.

'Listen, you'll take to it like, how you say in English, ducks to water.'

He lights up and lets out a plume of smoke while the two of us regard him suspiciously.

Juana slaps me on the arm. 'Pep's right. This is going to feel more like a holiday than a sailing course.'

At which moment an athletic man in blue shorts and a Ralph Lauren baseball cap approaches us and asks whether we are the two couples embarking on the advanced course. Pep nods enthusiastically and makes polite introductions. The man narrows his eyes and, looking each of us up and down, announces that he, Javier, will be our instructor.

'Only one other has enrolled for this week's course,' he says abruptly, studying a typed sheet of paper. 'She is flying in from Madrid and was instructed, like all of you, to meet me here.'

'Pues, it's only ten past nine. We can wait a little while.'

Javier shakes his head irritably. 'No. I believe in punctuality.'

Without further ado he strides onto the marina and we follow hurriedly in his wake.

'You have a basic knowledge already, right?' he barks, leaping onto a small yacht, his nimble fingers fiddling with some ropes.

'Si, si,' says Pep casually. 'Our friends might need a little help, and of course they are English so… '

He stops in his tracks. 'I don't speak English so what do you prefer, Catalan or Castilian Spanish?'

'Castilian,' I almost yelp. It's bad enough having to endure five days at sea with a self-satisfied crew for company without having to endure instructions in Catalan as well. Besides, Alan doesn't comprehend a word, so it would be a miserable voyage for him. We embark rapidly, and are about to set off when there's a cry in the distance and a pouting creature with tanned legs that seem to unwind endlessly from her chin, pants up to the boat. She throws back her head, golden curls spilling onto her back.

'Am I late?' she gasps in Spanish. 'I am Gloria. I just flew in from Madrid this morning.'

'Come on board.' Pep smacks his lips together unable to prize his eyes from her hour glass frame and chocolate brown eyes. He offers her a hand and she leaps up onto the deck. Javier gives her a curt nod.

'Put your belongings below deck please.'

Gloria swings her shapely legs down the wooden steps, all smiles.

'Vale, let's get going. Can you untie the fenders?'

Javier indicates the plastic protectors hanging from the side of the boat. I look gormlessly at Pep.

'Per favor, you must have untied fenders before?'

'Let me do it,' he huffs.

'Can I help?' asks Alan cheerfully.

The noise of the small engine drowns him out and suddenly we are jet propelled out of the mooring and Javier is steering our vessel into the open sea. Juana is settled at the bow of the boat looking sublime as she dangles a leg over the side.

'It's so beautiful,' she murmurs. 'Like a painting.'

Alan and I totter up the side deck, sharing concerned glances.

'Sit on a bench,' Javier calls above the wind. 'I will come and explain everything in a minute.'

We thump down onto the wooden seat, bathed in sweat.

Alan gives me a sympathetic smile. 'Hopefully there'll be a nice breeze once we get out to sea.'

I look over at Gloria, the nubile goddess and, to my irritation, see that she is adeptly untying the fender knots with Pep. She flashes me a perfect set of gleaming teeth and then throws off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a pair of enormous, bronzed, bouncing orbs in a tiny bra top and a miniscule bikini bottom. Pep chokes frantically on his puro and has to sink down onto the deck with the shock. Grumpily, I get up and position myself at the bow near Juana.

'There's some Madrileña rock chick on the boat with us.'

'Oh? I thought it was just us.' She looks vaguely around her and shrugs.

'It will give Alan and Pep something to ogle. Why worry?'

The sea is choppy, but the motion is vaguely relaxing and soon I settle into it, ignoring the coquetterie going on at the other end of the boat. We head southwards across the waves, Pep now steering, until we finally arrive at a small bay which Javier tells us is Cala Vinyes.

'As it's the first day, we can relax a little,' he says indulgently, anchoring the boat some way off from the shore. 'Fancy a swim?'

We fidget a little and it is only when he affixes a small metal ladder to the stern of the boat, that we take him at his word.

'I don't need that!' scoffs Gloria, gliding off the side of the boat like a mermaid.

I clamber down the ladder followed by Juana and gasp at the coolness of the waves. Alan and Pep follow, their eyes trained on the voluptuous Gloria who appears to be doing cartwheels in the water.

'How old do you think she is?' asks Pep.

'Young enough to be your granddaughter, I'd have guessed,' I say sniffily.

He pokes his tongue out at me and sets off in her direction.

'Don't have a cardiac arrest,' I snipe at the Scotsman.

He grimaces. 'Look, the girl's all alone so we must be friendly.'

'He's all heart,' says Juana caustically as she slices through the water.

Half an hour later, Javier asks us to return to the boat. With effort we crawl up the flimsy ladder onto the deck, wiping the salty brine from our faces. Alan and Pep remain in the water and together attempt to ascend the ladder. SPLASH! Pep goes flying backwards and lands on Alan's head. With irritation, the Scotsman regains his poise, crosses in front of him and brusquely grabs the rail. CRASH! A wave hits him and he wobbles back into the brine. From the deck, Gloria watches the spectacle with delight while Juana and I sit tartly by the side of the boat, relishing their humiliation.

'Come on,' says Javier. 'Stop messing around!'

Like a pair of slippery eels, they slither about on the steps but neither can get a firm enough grasp as the waves knock them off their feet. Despite our froideur, Juana and I can no longer contain ourselves and along with Gloria, begin laughing. It's better than a pair of performing clowns at Billy Smart's circus.

'Oh, I feel so sorry for them,' says Gloria in broken English. 'When you are old, it is not easy.'

With some impatience, Javier waves a long metal pole at them, and like a pair of antiquated limpets, they grip onto it and clamber back on board, exhausted with the effort. Juana stands over them, a towel entwined round her midriff.

'By the way, I took some wonderful photos for posterity,' she says with an alligator smile.

'You've done WHAT?' Javier screams at me above the moaning wind.

'I tried to hook the jib rope, but it came loose!'

'JODER!' curses Pep, using a rather ripe Spanish expletive.

Alan rounds on him. 'Don't make a crisis out of a drama!'

The triangular sail, otherwise known as the jib, slumps hopelessly on the deck while the rope that should be attached to it spirals up the mast out of sight.

'This is not good,' says Javier. 'We're a kilometre from land and we need that sail up.'

'What did you two idiots do?' Pep grumbles.

In a moment of weakness, Javier had decided to give Alan and me the task of attaching the halyard rope to the jib sail. Somehow, when hoisting the sail, the hook we used to secure it came loose and the wretched rope flew off up the mast, leaving the sail on the deck.

'We'll have to turn back unless we can retrieve the rope,' Javier says crossly. 'The mainsail won't be enough.'

We crowd round the silver mast while the sun jeers at us from on high.

'Well,' says Gloria sweetly. 'I'll just have to go up and get it.'

'What?' cries Pep. 'In this wind it would be far too dangerous.'

'It's good practice,' she smiles. 'I'll have a go.'

'You're an angel!' he exclaims.

I nudge Juana. 'In that case, maybe her wings can jet propel her up there.'

We snigger together away from the men folk, who eye us critically.

With some relief Javier gets out a harness and soon Gloria, in her teeny bikini, is swinging in the air like an accomplished trapeze artist, hoisted up on ropes by her male admirers below. Higher and higher she goes, swaying in the wind until, with triumph, she grabs the rope and hook and descends quickly like an agile monkey. Javier whoops with joy.

'You're a brick,' beams a windswept Alan.

'What would we do without you, Gloria?' says Pep with a smug smile.

Juana gives him a cold stare. 'Yes, what would we do?'

Javier is bobbing about in the choppy waves, trying to untwist the anchor rope. Alan and I watch anxiously from the deck.

'Tell your wife to reverse the rudder!'

'WHAT?' yells Pep as he leans over the side of the yacht, puro wedged between two fingers.

Juana grips the wheel, tension stamped on her face. 'What did he say?'

I shrug helplessly, not having caught Javier's rapid Spanish.

'I think he said something about turning the boat.'

Juana grimaces at me. 'Turn it, HOW?'

'God knows,' I trail off.

Juana shakes her head impatiently.

'Just keep it steady!' snaps Pep.

We are in open water off Cala Blava and in the wild, blustery wind are edging dangerously close to a vast old brigantine anchored close by. It is beautifully restored and its huge, billowing white sails, like bulging lungs, rise and fall in the wind. Javier climbs up the ladder and, dripping wet, shouts instructions to Juana at the other end of the boat. She in turn fires the engine and in what seems like a moment of madness, heads straight for the side of the brigantine.

'STOP!' we scream out in unison.

Javier is sashaying towards us along the deck, his dark hair ruffled and glistening with sea water.

'What are you doing?' he shrieks. 'I told you to put it in reverse!'

'I'm trying,' whimpers Juana.

The crew of the other boat peers anxiously over the side, the captain looking furious.

'Have you gone mad?' roars Pep at his wife.

'Oh, shut up! You do it if you're so clever!'

Juana desperately changes tack and, by a whisker, the boat slides past its towering neighbour just as Javier bounds up to her. There's a united sigh of relief.

'I thought that was it,' mumbles Gloria.

'You weren't the only one,' growls Pep.

'Some holiday this is turning out to be,' I mutter to the Scotsman.

He has opened a can of beer and takes a long draught. 'Never a dull moment, eh?'

'You could say that again,' I say, grabbing the can from him and taking a long swig.

Javier's eyes are still blazing as he brusquely shoves Juana aside.

'Let me have that!' he snaps, covetously grasping the wheel. 'Advanced sailors, indeed? You lot still have a great deal to learn.'

The wind is but a dying man's whisper as we steer a course into the bay of Magaluf. To our side an enormous catamaran teeming with tourists barges its way from the shore out into the calm sea. Standing on the deck, a man in a white ensemble is hollering from a microphone and disco music thumps so loudly that the vessel appears to be both vibrating and gyrating to the beat.

'It's a disco boat,' says Pep.

'You don't say,' I reply.

He sighs impatiently and walks along the deck towards the bow. In the distance hordes of tourists swallow up the golden beach, and yachts bob up and down all around us.

'We'll have lunch here and hope the wind picks up later, OK?'

I give Javier a nod and carry on practising my infernal rope knots. I have conquered the bowline, a sort of hangman's knot, and, with help from Gloria, can just about perform the clove hitch, which is handy for hitching fenders to outer rails. Juana, Gloria and Alan lie sprawled on wooden benches basking in the sunshine while Pep clambers up onto the side of the boat, face to the wind. Just as the engine dies and Javier is securing the anchor, there is a loud cry followed by a tremendous splash. All of us rise in a flash and spring to the sides of the boat. There, coughing and spluttering in the water is Pep, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

'What are you doing down there?' barks Juana.

'What do you think, you stupid woman? I fell in!'

Javier throws him a life ring and with the trusty long pole manages to direct Pep to the stern of the boat where with a ladder and much tugging we get him back on board.

'That'll teach you to show off,' I say.

'Yes, at your age you must be careful,' Gloria chimes in, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

Alan offers him a can of beer from the cooler box.

'Here, this'll cheer you up.'

Moodily, Pep takes it from him and with eyes downcast, stomps off with a towel to the galley below.

The waves are lashing the side of the boat and I feel as though the entire vessel is going to capsize as we lurch over onto the starboard side. The sky wears an ugly grey scowl and the wind is whipping the sails which dance about as if possessed. I grip onto a shroud, one of the sturdy wires that support the mast, and pray that we will get back to shore alive. The wind rattles the cloth of the mainsail so violently that Javier sways unsteadily up the deck and issues sharp instructions on all sides. Pep wrestles with the wayward wheel as Gloria leaps about adeptly unravelling sails and securing knots. We are all soaked to the skin as water cascades over the deck. I feel my teeth chattering and a cold fear courses through me.

'Don't move!' barks Javier. 'The sea is getting very wild and now we have a flotilla of racing boats approaching.'

I turn my head and see not far off behind us a line of fast moving yachts, their sails to the wind.

'They're competing in the Copa del Rey. We're going to have to tack.'

Why fate has decreed that competitors for the King Carlos Cup should wind up in our stretch of water at this very instant, I cannot say. Here we are in the enormous fist of the Bay of Palma and yet like dodgem cars we seem to be careering towards one another.

'All of you, sit over here, port side. We're going to swing round.'

Using our weight to ballast the boat, Javier manoeuvres the vessel and we change direction. We are heading into the wind, and the noise of the flapping sails and hissing sea drowns out the voices of my companions. Alan gives me a reassuring smile, but when he averts his gaze I see genuine fear in his eyes. Where the hell are the life jackets, that's what I want to know? Stowed away uselessly down in the galley, I suppose.

'Javier's going to gybe,' shouts Pep, as he huddles low on the deck and takes a seat on the bench beside me.

'Gybing. Don't you remember anything? We're going to turn the stern through the wind. Watch out for the boom.'

The one thing Alan and I have gleaned on this voyage is that when the mainsail's pole, the boom, swings horizontally across the boat, we must duck our heads to avoid decapitation. Like a pair of useless rag dolls, we sit watching the hyperactivity going on around us, our knuckles white from hanging on to ropes. At times, the yacht lists so close to the waves that I feel as if my hair must surely be touching them. Someone is shouting.

'The boom! Watch the boom!'

Instinctively we crouch down and the boom cuts through the air like a scythe. Suddenly the boat makes a wild turn and then levels off. Javier, his shirt clinging to his skin, staggers up the side deck and soon, to my relief, I see a shoreline come into view.

'Thank God!' I yell at Pep, pointing to the land.

He grimaces. 'Don't relax yet. The sea is crazy and if one of us fell in now, we'd be sure to drown.'

I'm unnerved to see he isn't smiling. We pound through the waves, one minute falling forward, another leaning back so far I am sure we will all be shaken over the edge into the mouth of the sea. Miserably, I wish I had never agreed to do this course, to have put my life in what I perceive to be unnecessary danger. I think of what would happen to Ollie if the worst happened, if we never made it back.

Pep is suddenly shaking my shoulder. 'Cheer up, it's not that bad. Believe it on not, I've been in far worse scrapes than this.'

'Hundreds of times! That's the thrill of it all and think how lucky we are to be right in the midst of the Copa del Rey?'

'Actually Pep, I'd rather be watching from a hospitality tent on dry land with a glass of cava in my mitt.'

'Me too,' says Alan, licking the brine from his lips.

It is thirty minutes later that the waves abate and, spent, our small battered yacht limps into the marina.

'God, I need a drink,' sighs Alan, visibly shaken.

Javier is laughing. 'That was fun, wasn't it?'

'I think that's the end of my sailing days,' I whimper.

'Nonsense!' he yells robustly.

We moor the boat and make sure everything is ship shape before we head for the bar. Sitting on high stools by the counter, licking ice creams, are Angel and Ollie. They whisper to each other and giggle, probably amused at our dishevelled appearances. I have never been so pleased to see my son. Shakily, I take a beer in my hand and salute the rest of the crew. Gloria curls a golden arm round my neck.

'You and Alan were such good sports. We have all sailed before, but for you it must have been tough.'

'Una pesadilla!' A nightmare, I say.

Javier gives me a hearty pat on the back. 'Come on, you enjoyed it really. A little adrenalin is good for the soul.'

Juana and Pep raise their glasses.

'At least we're still speaking,' says Pep.

'Just,' I reply, giving him a good kick on the shin.

'Before I forget,' says Javier. 'I have a little memento for all of you.'

From a leather folder, he draws out five certificates.

'This marks the beginning of your sea-faring career.'

Grabbing a waiter, he gets out his camera and holding our certificates aloft, we huddle together and say Manchego to the lens. Customers at other tables start clapping and Pep, ever the showman, gives a little bow. I look out incredulously at the tranquil scene before me, the shiny yachts rising and falling gently in the marina, and the bronze disc of the sun suddenly bursting forth from behind a cloud.