Restocking and an Encounter with the Police

Restocking and an encounter with the police. The last land. Little Rimatara, one of the Austral Islands lying on the 22nd parallel, was just over a hundred miles away. By evening we had to slow down to 2 knots so that we did not accidentally park by ear. Nastya and I stood the night watches, while the captain recovered his strength until dawn. The first glimmers of daybreak revealed a long greyish shadow about ten miles ahead. The island rose from the sea exactly as Jules Verne described it, resembling an enormous whale. Despite its modest size, Rimatara has no fewer than three villages; we anchored off the middle one. There is no bay, no lagoon—just reefs and a ve-e-ery narrow little passage between them. Outrigger fishing canoes circle by the entrance, waiting for the right wave, then dive into the shallow pass, scraping their bottoms over the rocks. Covered in greenery—absolutely all of it—the island promises plenty of local fruit. The roar of the waves leaves no illusions about an easy entry through the pass. The boat is rolling almost as much as in the open ocean. The captain and sailor crossed themselves and made a dash for shore while it was still morning and there was a chance of buying something. The junior crew member and I remained aboard on anchor watch. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., .., ,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,, .. In the village. “Where’s the shop around here?” the captain asked in impeccable French. The fishermen waved towards a crossroads reached by a sleepy concrete road. They did not spot the shop straight away. There stood a closed grey concrete house. Beside it was a bus stop and a veranda, where a market was evidently held from time to time. “And the shop, hmm?” the captain asked a colourful, plump woman with black stubble on her chin and a black eye. “It’s open, love,” and the woman opened up the concrete bunker. Inside was the simple stock of a country store, from toilet paper to sauces. The owners’ little house stood nearby; a man was cutting grass beneath a tree, and people began drifting towards the shop. Well, would you believe it—yachtsmen had come ashore! With half-French gestures, the captain kept pressing his point: “Do you have any fruit and vegetables?” “We-ell, I do,” a younger woman answered in English. “Oh, you speak our language?” “Yes, I used to work as a teacher. Now I’m farming. Do you need a lot of fruit?” “A lot! We’ll be at sea for a long time.” “How long?” “About two months.” “Two months?!” Half the shop fainted dead away, but the shopkeeper and former teacher quickly recovered. “All right, we’ll put a little bundle together for you tomorrow.” “No, we’re leaving today.” “Okay, shall we say five?” In the end they settled on three, and the captain and sailor returned to the yacht. Around noon, a police siren began wailing from the shore. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., .., ,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,, .. We hurriedly switched the radio to Channel 16 (we had our own channel on, 72). “Yacht, yacht, respond to the police! Captain, bring your papers and come ashore!” The captain took the papers and Nastya, so there would be someone to squeal in the dinghy while Andryukha guided it over the reef, waist-deep in water himself. The junior crew member and I watched the situation through binoculars from the wheelhouse window. Our lot and their lot talked for about fifteen minutes, shook hands, and went their separate ways—one pair to the car, the other to the dinghy. Two fine lads in pressed uniforms, familiar to us from the French film Taxi, had no problem allowing us to restock and finish the repairs, even if it took until tomorrow. So at three o’clock we calmly headed to the shop. The teacher-turned-farmer and the shopkeeper had completely filled the bed of a pickup truck with bags of baguettes and papayas, tomatoes and a banana palm, watermelons and pomelos.. .. Thirty of the latter; they can be stored for three months. . We were loaded into the pickup along with the provisions and driven to the beach. Half the village had already gathered there. The strongest carried the provisions to the dinghy while we said emotional goodbyes and thanked everyone, and just as we were setting off, a kind-hearted fisherman thrust a kilo of shelled snails into our hands. Merci beaucoup! And I rowed for all I was worth towards the exit through the reefs, while the captain pushed the dinghy from behind, almost chest-deep in the water.. .. He jumped into the boat, and we rowed stern-first with two oars and four hands. I was not used to manoeuvring like that, so I handed my oars to the captain; the startled dinghy promptly swung beam-on to the waves and flew straight back into the pass. Good Lord, I thought, and we positioned ourselves facing aft. And that was how we went—stern-first. Five minutes later, we finally made it out. We’re not going back there again, thank God. The swell kept building. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., .., ,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,,.. ..,, .. ,, ,, .., ..,, .. We hoisted the dinghy aboard, secured it for the passage, and rushed to sort out the vegetables. Three 5-centimetre cockroaches were living in the box of potatoes; squealing, we drowned them and stationed the junior crew member at the stern to watch for the return of the infiltrators, who turned out to be not only fliers but swimmers as well. The remaining half-tonne of fruit and vegetables went through a bucket of water to wash away any trace of insects and their offspring. It was a lengthy business, considering the vast quantity of our haul. And that was our strategic mistake: we did not weigh anchor immediately, but waited for the vegetables to dry so that we could pack them straight into crates and nets. Half an hour before we were due to weigh anchor, the police siren began howling from the shore. “When are you leaving?” “In half an hour,” we said. “Why don’t you all come ashore? There are a few more formalities.” “What for?” the captain asked. “We-ell, without them they won’t let you into.. .. wherever it is you’re sailing to?” And the evening ceased to be languid.. .. Completely ceased. To be continued.