The Trojan Walrus Page 4
In those days most of the charter yachts in Greece were owned by private owners, and Spiros made it his business to know everything possible about every boat and proprietor on the Attic shore. His basic operating methodology was to contract for absolutely any requirement whatsoever, and then, but not until the deposit was received, go looking for the boats, skippers or hostesses to fulfil the particular needs of the client. In the high season, when late bookings came in and boats were scarce, or when they were broken down, late back due to bad weather or otherwise unavailable at the last minute, this led to some splendidly farcical eleventh-hour situations which would have destroyed the nerves of anyone with a conventional approach to business in a week; but Spiros was a man with a true genius for improvisation and the energy of a gibbon on adrenaline supplements. He thrived like a vampire in a blood-bank.
Spiros himself was as extrovert and flamboyant as his company was reclusive. Somewhat over average height, of coffee-olive complexion and evidently jolly fond of his food, he was not so much hirsute as shag-pile carpeted. Ringlets of coal-black hair sprang out half a foot in all directions from his head, as if at loggerheads with his scalp. His jowl was eternally blue with growth, a Zapata moustache drooped limply over his upper lip and his eyebrows resembled sea-urchins clinging to a rock. At his throat was a straight line where his razor daily demarcated between the cultivated and feral parts of his body, and from every gap in the buttons of his straining shirt-front erupted anarchic, wiry curls. What little could be seen of his face through the undergrowth was tanned to cinnamon, and when he pointed at something his fore-arm looked like a dachshund with no legs. Yet, if I have given the impression that Spiros’s predominating characteristic was hair, I must instantly correct myself: all his yak-like shagginess was merely the backdrop for his smile. For when Spiros smiled normally (which was pretty much at any time when he was awake with his wallet closed) the world about him grew brighter; when he made a special effort, which he did readily, the very sun of Greece acknowledged the competition, let out a grunt and upped its game.
A Spiros smile gave his whole head a workout. His hair-line shot up about two inches, his eyes retreated into fleshy fissures, his back-teeth popped round the corner for a word with his earlobes and his pupils blazed like the birth of a star. There was no doubting the sincerity of a Spiros smile; not because it wasn’t a calculated act-it very, very often was- but rather because you simply knew that he couldn’t be feigning it. He was merely revealing his true nature, albeit when it suited him to do so. Ambrose Bierce would have conceded the sincerity of a Spiros smile.
Spiros’s other dominant trait was his ability to talk both hind legs and the bum off a whole cavalry regiment. As equally at home in English as in Greek, he also possessed a deep confidence in his abilities in French, Italian and German (an opinion which his French, Italian and German clients would have been happy to contradict, had they ever been able to get a word in edgeways). When merely being sociable, he could comfortably occupy ninety per cent of any conversation... and not unpleasantly either. His entertaining fund of stories and jokes, delivered with natural timing and a sumptuous vocabulary, made a willing audience of most people. But when faced with the need to divert attention from something, or to talk down a complaint, he went into filibuster mode. Then, an ocean-liner’s foghorn couldn’t have got the better of him.
Spiros was a mighty believer in Hamlet’s maxim: ‘There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.’ It was a measure of the psychology of the man, for instance, that he never saw his position as owner of a charter firm without a boat as either absurd or disadvantageous, but rather took the view that it allowed him freedom in the market.
Spiros oiled his way past anything negative and could find a positive aspect to anything short of disembowelling… had he ever taken it into his head to defend Hitler, you’d have ended up giving the brute a Nobel prize for infrastructure. It wasn’t Tony Blair who invented ‘spin’, believe me... all he did was give it a bad name. The genius of Spiros’s spin was that after you’d been spun you queued up to pay for another ride.
* * *
When the Chief Executive (and only) Officer of Saronic Sea Charters fortuitously met with the archaeology lecturer he had immediately recognised several key points. First and foremost, the students didn’t have a lot of money, but there were a lot of them. Spiros instantly comprehended that this was a ‘stack ’em high and sell ’em cheap’ opportunity (which appealed to him not only commercially but also at an emotional level) and he identified that his product was perfect for the market… cut-price yachts for undiscerning clients was a niche he was ideally positioned to exploit.
Operating out of the high season was another feature which suited Spiros’s business model. In the low season he could have his pick of boats; he could match them exactly to his requirements, take or amend bookings at the last minute with confidence that whatever he needed would be available, and he could drive a devilish bargain with owners keen for some off-season income. Then he could cram each boat full of bodies paying on a ‘per head’ (but not necessarily ‘per bed’) basis, and his returns would be excellent. The condition of the boat was not critical… if a boat looked a bit ropey this was simply a tool for driving the price down a bit further, and if it broke down, well, it was a flotilla... another boat could tow the damn thing. But perhaps the most charming aspect of working in the off-season, particularly in spring when most of the Grave-Robbers took place, was the very decent chunk of loot it brought in early in the year... a most desirable state of affairs after a long winter.
It is often said that the three most important things about a business are the location, the location, and the location. As we have seen, Spiros’s business was based (in so far as it was based anywhere) at Alimos Marina in the Athenian suburb of Kalamaki; but Alimos houses half the charter boats in Greece and that Sherwood Forest of aluminium masts is stalked by many Sheriffs of Nottingham... wits are keen, secrets are badly-kept, and ethics is a county east of London. Spiros originally moved the Grave-Robber to Poros, thirty miles south-west of Kalamaki on the opposite side of the Saronic Gulf, purely to keep the enterprise away from the competition of the Alimos vultures; however, it quickly turned out to be a brilliant tactical move in many other respects.
Poros was and is a simply beautiful place to start and end your voyage. The island is not only an ideal terminus, it is also a fully-fledged destination, and the holiday starts the moment one arrives. Whatever your needs, tucked away somewhere between the Sleeping Lady in the west and the castellated island of Bourtzi in the east, you can find pretty much everything required for an island holiday… character, azure water, rural peace, stunning vistas, beaches, secluded bays, discos, restaurants, bars, cafes, excursions, antiquities, water sports… and for a sailor, there are so many bays and anchorages that one could, in fact, have a perfectly good sailing holiday without leaving the island at all.
For the Grave-Robber, Poros was perfect. It had reasonable connections to Athens by road or ferry. The kids could visit the archaeological sites at Corinth, Mycenae or Epidavros by road en route. Ancient Troezen lay only a couple of miles away, and the remains of the Temple of Poseidon were on the island itself. As far as sailing was concerned, Poros provided a safe harbour centrally placed between the Saronic and Argolic gulfs, giving a range of short cruising options depending on weather and time. The sailing was almost always decent, and the journeys a good duration to fit in with other aspects of the holiday.
So Spiros had a product, but he was also possessed of a vision which not all his countrymen can boast… he was willing to play a long game. In favourable circumstances he was prepared to give patience, and even modest investment, a try. He realised that if he played his cards right, this was not a windfall but rather an annual crop, one which could be nurtured, cultivated and harvested so long as archaeologists retained an interest in... arches, presumably, or whatever it was they liked so much. He skimped and saved on the boats,
but only to a point… his outrageous brinkmanship had a line beyond which he knew that his charisma would not prevail, and that point he only ever crossed accidentally.
Not content with the sailing action, Spiros managed to involve himself in the entire tour, making hotel and restaurant bookings, organising bus rentals and airport transfers, and helping himself to a slice of the airline reservations action. He organised discounted visits to water sports schools, dinners with Greek dancing entertainments, disco-evenings, sailing races and barbeques; he even had the gall to get involved in the educational itinerary as well, booking site-visits, museum tours, lectures and presentations. In fact, in a very short time, he had made himself so much a part of the local archaeological community that he became a habitué of the archaeological social scene in Athens... without anyone thinking to question where he came from, and despite the fact that he thought an Ionic column was a list of things he had borrowed from someone called Nicholas.
Thus Spiros advanced in the world by wit, adaptation and brazen opportunism. With the charm of Terry Wogan, the cunning of Richelieu and the tenacity of boarding-school porridge on flock wallpaper he refined his creation and wooed his client. By the time I arrived on the scene, he was bringing home the bacon by the sty-full.
The charter was a four or five day event with a loose itinerary to allow the best to be made of the prevailing winds, and it had a well-set format; short voyages with swimming-stops, arrivals early enough to enjoy the town or beach, and two or three group meals or entertainments. Spiros always skippered one boat himself, to be ever-present with his Hollywood smile and blast-furnace personality to put the best and most creative interpretation on any difficulty or deficiency.
A few lecturers would attend, and these Spiros took care to accommodate separately from the students, in a small, new boat, with a sober skipper and strict allocation of one bed per person. Everyone else was lodged rather less formally; people slept in the bunk or boat most conveniently to hand when their stamina failed them, with the more determined socialisers generally ending up on the floor.
It swiftly became apparent that girls predominated over boys by a ratio of about three or even four to one. Apart from a tendency to use more water than the boys, this caused no problems… the girls, possibly because they were accustomed to fairly basic conditions on archaeological sites, were not disconcerted by the basic accommodation, and they were a worldly-wise species well capable of surviving in the robust arena of Greek courtship. Spiros soon found that, on balance, the girls were a positive asset, as a preponderance of female clients made it easier for him to find skippers at reasonable rates. In fact, rural society in Greece in the eighties still took such proprietary care of its unattached womenfolk that, at the end of a long winter barren of tourist girls, there were rumours that several of the Grave-Robber skippers actually paid Spiros for the privilege of working for him.
* * *
So this was the Grave-Robbers Flotilla, and I was a very happy chappie to be involved, especially as I was to be the captain of the flag-ship, as it were.
My boat was Iraklis, which means ‘Hercules’ and is pronounced ‘Irra-kleeyse’, with the stress on the last syllable. She was a Jeanneau Trinidad forty-eight footer, a boat with a good sailing reputation and a distinctive look deriving from having a curved deck-house over the saloon. Ketch-rigged5 with a capacious but shapely hull, she had a large, comfortable cockpit, two good-sized double cabins, two cabins with bunk-beds and a large saloon. In the French style, she had spare bunks absolutely everywhere†… the backs of settees swung up and hung from straps, whilst coffin-like affairs could be created out of short seats by the use of ‘trotter-boxes’, recesses which extended leg room into wardrobes and adjoining cabins. There were so many permutations, with seats which slid-out to make double beds, hanging contraptions and extra pipe-cots in the bunk cabins that I never did manage to come to a final conclusion about how many bunks she possessed. The designers of slave-ships, however, could have taken useful notes.
Iraklis was definitely a well-used vessel. The whiteness of her hull had lost its lustre; her sails were as soft as linen with use and goose-grey with age; her interior, faintly musty and distressed with prickly, slightly threadbare upholstery, had that shabbiness one finds in the carriages of preserved steam-trains; and years of replacing losses and breakages had left her with barely one fork or glass which matched another.
Despite Iraklis’ world-weary appearance, I rather liked her. The skipper’s bunk was a pilot-berth, a cosy little glorified shelf in a niche by the chart table, which also boasted a splendidly comfortable curved wooden seat, and I took great delight in my personal ‘space.’ My approval radiated outwards from there. Despite wear and age the boat had pleasing lines, and the class had an excellent reputation. I tried not to be smug about having the largest sailing boat in the harbour and failed complacently; I felt rather grand surveying the world from the unusually imperious height of her helmsman’s seat.
Finally overcoming my smugness, I began to prepare Iraklis for sea. I loaded her up with bedding from the laundry, filled the fuel tank, ran-up the engine and did an oil-change, washed her down and got contentedly to work finding out about her water-tanks, fuel system, and rig. All appeared very orthodox, except that, buried deep in the depths of the forward locker, I found a rather wonderful thing. She had a spinnaker! Oh, how I longed to try that spinnaker... but forget it for this trip. One only flies a spinnaker with experienced crews, especially a kite this size. It looked gargantuan. With grieving heart, I re-interred it in the locker.
* * *
At lunchtime, we all went to George’s Cafe where Spiros performed any necessary introductions and made his dispositions for the charter. The flotilla, we were informed, was to be comprised of eight boats.
Spiros would skipper a Gin-Fizz, an attractive, beamy, thirty-six foot centre-cockpit boat with a reputation for decent sailing qualities but rather ‘wet’ going to windward. Spiros himself, and anyone who wished to study extreme trichology at close hand, could share the aft cabin. The forward end included the galley, heads, and another capacious, ingenious French accommodation.
A blonde-haired Athenian of Apollon good looks called Xanthos had brought a very odd looking box-shaped thing made of flat steel plates with two masts of equal height, lots of wires, and a centre-cockpit. It looked rather more like an amateur radio enthusiast’s shed than a yacht, but obviously had a capacious interior.
Yeorgaki was new to me, a stout, black haired chap with wonderfully soft eyes, an infectious grin and a little Gib-Sea 106, a pretty boat with a sweet sheer and (you guessed it) lots of beds!
A curly-haired bean-pole called Karrottos was the proud seneschal of a bright blue ‘double-ender’ which was obviously built of ferro-concrete, a boat with a stern as sharp as its bow. This was also roomy, and a most attractive boat in a very solid, deep-in-the-water way. It looked like he’d need half a hurricane to move it and the platoon of people it could accommodate.
O Geros and Megali were local men and both were older gents of great experience with very attractive vessels. O Geros had a traditional keel-boat, and Megali, who had a famous name as a racing man, had a sleek, lean, hungry-looking one-design of about forty feet. Both had racing interiors, which means very little trim, thin upholstery, toilet curtains rather than doors and lots of beds arranged like supermarket shelving.
That left me, with Iraklis, and the final boat was Molto Allegro. I had no idea who was going to skipper her, but I didn’t envy him! On her insurance papers she was called a sailing yacht, but not since Titanic was dubbed ‘unsinkable’6 has a boat been so inaccurately described.
Molto Allegro was generally acknowledged to be one of the strongest hulls afloat, and one of the least aqua-dynamic. Almost as wide as she was long, she was very strongly constructed, fitted out inside like the seraglio of Suleiman the Promiscuous and equipped with an enormous six-cylinder engine. As a result of this lavish outfitting, she was far too heavy. To
move her stocky, hefty, overloaded hull she had been given a small ketch rig, with tiny sails which could not move her in anything much short of a typhoon. She had no such reticence under motor, however. Her enormous engine could drive her along at a very respectable eight knots through almost any weather; but, being as deep in the water as a post-prandial crocodile, she was also a tsunami-generator... the wake she left behind her was out of all proportion to her size. In harbours she had to be handled very slowly to prevent damaging other boats with her wash, and at sea, since moving water takes a lot of energy, she could empty her fuel tank in half the time of most boats.
Despite her unattractive qualities, however, Spiros had a use for Molto on the Grave-Robber. He could hire her in very cheap, and her sumptuous interior made her attractive for accommodating the group of lecturers who were accompanying the flotilla. But who could skipper her? I could immediately see that no-one wanted the job... she was such a difficult boat. Spiros evidently didn’t have a solution to this problem, because even his confidence wavered as he named Shergar for the job. I couldn’t believe it, and by the look on his face, neither did Spiros. Shergar certainly didn’t.
* * *
Since Shergar is to become a regular visitor to these pages, I will beg the reader to forgive another digression at this point as I sketch his character.
Shergar came originally from Wiltshire, almost as far from the sea as you can get in England, and his curriculum vitae prior to his debut in the Mediterranean yachting industry had included motorbike racing, go-karting, scrap-metal recovery and herding helicopters. He also did periodical work in the film industry, making cars do unusual things, and in the winter he sometimes betook himself to the French Alps, where he repaired skis and provided sympathy and support for ladies who had fallen off them. Tall, chunky, bespectacled and never seen in anything other than a T-shirt, he entirely failed to comprehend the purpose of barbers or combs. He had the freest, most infectious laughter I think I have ever heard, a bubbling, chuckling anthem of joy which rose in his throat like the cry of a hungry chick in a nest, and he could find humour in almost any situation. He wallowed luxuriously in irony and was a master raconteur with a rich fund of wonderful stories which regularly creased his audience up with laughter... in fact, shortly after I first met him, I described him in a letter as a man who could come to break the news to you that your own mother had been fatally mauled by a leopard, and have you in fits of mirth at how funny she had looked trying to hit it with her handbag.