How We Got Fresh Water. Illegally

How We Got Fresh Water After spending five days at anchor near the town of Mogán in the south of Gran Canaria, in the Canary Islands, we decided to top up our water in the marina. Well, we simply came alongside the pontoon in the dinghy with our own hose and jerry cans. There was no time to go looking for the office and all that. It was a complete circus, of course. They have this one short, fat, and extremely loud marina attendant here—clearly the harbourmaster’s handyman. He zealously guards the peace of the marina. During our first few days, every time we landed ashore, the fat man performed his duties with flying colours, loudly demanding, for the whole waterfront to hear, why the hell we had moored there and for how long. Once he had no more questions, he would shout “Ho-la!!!” at Laduska, while she pressed herself against the wall. Pleased with himself, the guardian would leave until next time. But this time... what a scene. We came straight up to the pontoon in the dinghy, walked around a bit, and connected our hose to the water pedestal. We had nearly filled all the jerry cans when thunder struck. Either someone had been vigilant, or our sworn friend had sensed with his third eye that something was amiss, but while the children and I were hiding on the pontoon in the shade of someone’s boat, the marina attendant charged at the captain like a wild boar, catching him red-handed. Eyes rolling, the guardian of order began bellowing something like this across the entire waterfront: Caramba! Why the hell are you stealing water here!? You do realise you have to pay for it! Well, yes, we were embarrassed. Not that we had any objection to paying—we just didn’t know whom to pay ☺. The children and I sat some distance away, pretending nothing was happening, while Andrey widened his eyes: “Wha-at, we can’t? Really?! Oh, we had no idea. ...Go to the office? No problem, of course we’ll pay!” The marina attendant sprayed spittle everywhere. On the way to the office, it became clear that there was no way whatsoever to make the transaction official. The zealous guardian’s ardour faded with every step and died away completely once he realised there would be no bribe. Drawn by the commotion, a woman emerged from the nearest yacht—the owner of the water—and grumbled unhappily: “Don’t take the water; we pay for it,” and began miming washing clothes angrily. Andrey once again put on his good-natured simpleton act and said: “No problem. How much?” “I don’t know,” the lady replied. “I think 2 euros should be enough?” And he gave her a coin. We played dumb too, apologised to the woman, and finally withdrew beneath the crossfire of glances from the patrons of the harbour restaurants. We decided not to come back for any more water. Meanwhile, Puerto de Mogán itself, where we obtained fresh water in such an ingenious fashion, is beautiful. The waterfront lanes were probably designed especially for tourists and for those who rent or buy holiday apartments here. That is why they resemble a sweet little whitewashed Venice in miniature.