Back Home Again

On my way out of the bank, I was asked if I had wanted the option of being 'redeployed' elsewhere within the bank, as opposed to taking garden leave and huge pile of tax-free cash.

"From: Steven Miranda [...]
Sent: 12 November 2011 16:50
To: ~ HR Programme Office
Subject: Steven Miranda - Redeployment Opt Out

Hello Emily,  I spoke to Rob briefly on Friday. I gather that all I need to do ahead of the 21st is confirm my redeployment option. As the old boys in the shop would crudely, but aptly put it, I'd rather stick my nb in a beehive. But, thank you for the offer. Form attached. I'm out on "annual leave" from next monday, for 11 days. I'll take care of the compromise agreement on my return in early december. For the next two weeks, I'll be galavanting about the seven seas, so will have infrequent access to this email address. Many thanks Steven Employee ID: 7849665"

Now, I'm back in The Beehive - the Wetherpoons pub at Gatwick airport - which I'm pleasantly surprised to find is now Cask Marque'd, whereas previously only The Flying Horse pub inside of duty free was so honoured.

Unfortunatley, I suspect I'm going to have to resign to the idea of sticking my nob back in the old beehive.

Run to the Hills

Yesterday, I'd been told that Jean-Pierre decided that this was Valentina's last stop. Certainly in present condition. The remainder of the journey to Gran Canaria is another fourty-eight hours, but with the engine as it is and distrurbing noises from the steering cables, he didn't believed we could go any further. Thomas, on the other hand, is still hell bent on finishing his delivery.

With the exception of those few moments of excruciating recklessness, and the brutally irresponsible lack of safety gear, I've absolutely enjoyed this adventure. After five years in front a computer for eleven hours a day, I've found all the hands-dirty adventure and sexy danger that I could possibly have hoped for. But, logic is prevailing. I'd promised myself after Asilah that if we crash landed into Casablanca to refuel, as anticipated, I would cut and run. I didn't get the chance then, but at least it's over now.

But apparently, it's not over. Apparently, Thomas has convinced our French skipper to finish the job, leaving today.

I'm walking into the central marina with David. I'm insisting that I'm not going any further, and desperately hunting for another boat to sail with. He's trying to convince me otherwise. I want him to convince me. It's only forty-eight hours, it's true, in theory, but just two days ago we were only four hours away from here. As much as I want to stay with my beloved crew, the reality is a titanic, colossal affront to logic. There's only so long that I can fly in the face of glaring common sense.

I've explained to Thomas and the gang that I'm leaving  for the need to get back to London sooner than later to get a job before end of year budgets slam shut. That's true, but the more pertinent actuality is that I don't want lose a finger and have to learn to play guitar left-handed. Granted, Tony Iommi manages just fine, but I don't fancy it.

I wander up from the marina and quietly watch Valentina sail out of sight. I'm still scared and seriously concerned for their safety.

Hoping to feel better about my decision, I start scrawling a list on my arm of all of the broken and missing parts on Valentina.

(Broken:)

main sheet (replaced)
main sail (torn, replaced, torn, abandoned)
fuel tank (rusted & contaminated)
engine
-fresh water pump (repaired)
-salt water pump (repaired)
-fuel pump (repaired)
-oil leak (largely repaired)
-various (repaired, broken, repaired)
alternator (live wire)  (repaired)
left gas hob
mast winch
port quarter winch
jib sheet (repaired)
draws
floors
door latches
ceiling (leaking)
fridge
nav lights
windvane light
spinnaker boom
bilge pump
heads
front head seacock
starboard quarter fairlead
swim ladder & rear frame (crushed)
port-side cockpit frame
top deck-window seals

(Tenuously functional:)

steering cables
wheel (helm)
rudder
GPS
radio (tried once, no answer)

(Missing:)

lifejackets
jackstays + teathers
EPIRB
dan buoy
hinged cooker or holders
Autohelm
cockpit light
cockpit electronics - wind, speed, course

Brilliant. A brilliant fucking death trap, but brilliant.

Live Wire

It's Four or Five in the morning. Jean-Pierre and I are on shift. There's still not a sniff of wind. We're in swimming distance of land, but we've no engine, so no steering. We're each laid out flat on either side of cockpit staring at the stars as Valentina listlessly twirls through slow circles.

Come Nine-Thirty, given just a little wind, we've finally made way close to a workable marina, Puerto Del Carmen. Jean-Pierre kick starts the engine. We don't know how long she'll hold, but we don't need her for long.

I make the leap onto a sturdy floating pontoon and we're finally tied to dry land. I should be very pleased, but I'm more concerned with making a quick walk-come-canter down the long concrete pier to find the toilets. I can't speak for the continentals, but I'm English, and I don't shit in a bucket.

Having tested our time limit, I've got messages both from Dug and Vidal who are considering sending for the coastguard or Liam Neeson, but I'm pleased to confirm it's not necessary.

By evening, Manu, David and I are settled in a bar. Manu tells me that I missed one the conversations of the engine's state a day or two ago. He's reluctant to even pass it on, but I assure him I want to know. He tells me that whilst in the engine cave, Jean-Pierre had found a detached and loose wire resting on a pipe near the floor. He goes on to explain that it was a live wire from the alternator that recharged the battery from the natural motion of the turning the prop. He says that had the wire touched the floor of the engine room, it would, most likely, have ignited the various flammables that have been constantly leaking from various crooked engine parts. For lack of the automatic fire extinguisher fitted to most new boats, unabated, that fire might soon have burned hot enough to ignite both the feeder diesel tank and the contents of the rusty three-hundred litre main tank. Then the boat would have exploded quite magnificently and we'd all have died.

You can only laugh.

Don't Stop Me Now

Land ho! We've finally got the islands in sight. Even with the binoculars, it's hard to find the distant lump of slightly different tone from the sky, but it's there. It's a relief because for the past few days, Jean-Pierre has been calling "Two-forty, Two-forty" in his thick French, thick smokers accent each time he's felt Valentina waiver slightly from that course. Moreover, the thirty-five year old steel compass never quite matches the reading from the handheld GPS.

The fishing line turns up a fine afternoon snack, and the boys and I finally seem to have the feeling that we'll survive this trip. It's just a case of laying about the boat and soaking up the sun now.

Every so often, a turtle drifts by us. A tiny bird lands at the stern and hops between the fuels tanks and assorted crap to evade a pair of significantly larger birds. He's lucked out to find us way out here. His chest is visibly pounding and there's fear in his eyes. He wouldn't have lasted much longer and the hunters are continuing to circle. He's with us for a good twenty minutes before they get bored and he makes an escape.

As more islands appear and grow large, the ocean is all but perfectly still. As the sun starts making it's way down to set behind the islands, the water reflects like a mirror of liquid mercury. It's incredible to see in comparison to the horrors of previous nights. With no wind, we've fired up the engine and are noisily chugging across the otherwise serene setting.

Photo: David Lustenberger

We're doing well, about four hours from coming alongside Lanzarote, and enjoying it. Then, without warning, the constant whirring of the old Renault cuts out. It's not the first time, so no great surprise. Usually Jean-Pierre will disappear into the engine cave for twenty minutes and kick start her somehow. Not this time though. Apparently, she's finally given up the ghost. We're now estimating something closer to twelve windless hours to Lanzarote.

Black Velvet

Photo: David Lustenberger

For the past two-hundred-and-forty-odd miles we're been trailing a fifty metre fishing line with varying plastic or metal lures. Today, in the afternoon, I've woken up from my afternoon nap to find we've finally caught something. I don't know what exactly she is, but she's a shiny pretty thing of worthwhile size.

She tastes fantastic. Thomas gutted her and Jean-Pierre left her best bits in little more than lemon for an hour or two.

Photo: David Lustenberger

It's a clear night and Thomas and I are on deck for the midnight shift. We're just two or three of miles from what looks like a big coastal town. So much so, Thomas is getting a little tetchy each time I let Valentina slip ever so slightly off course.

The sea is jet black and seems to be trying to move in all directions at once, which makes for a rich and thick texture in the surface of the swells. Along the streaming line of moonlight across the sea directly behind us, the accentuated detail of the texture looks almost like we're sailing on a fluid layer of velvet.

Over little more than five minutes, the wind has kicked up from a casual ten or fifteen knots or so, to something closer to thirty - we're not equipped with electronic nor mechanical measure of wind speed. All of a sudden, Valentina is being thrown all about the sea like a rag doll. I'm fighting as hard as I can to hold our course with the compass and the moon behind us. By both measures, we're being heaved and spun through thirty degrees either side with each motion of the water and wind. This isn't good.

With each gust, our genoa sounds a discomforting and disconcerting clap. The sea is looking deeply menacing. I'm vividly imagining Neptune's hand rising up out of the waves to take me. Thomas hasn't said anything. When I look at him hopefully for some reassurance, he doesn't so much as look back at me. By my amatuerish expectation, if this wind gets much more fierce, then either something will break, or we'll capsize.

We both know the genoa has to come down. We also both know, that crawling out onto bow to bring it down is terrifying. We've got no jackstays, no tethers, nor lifejackets. If someone goes over, they'll die. In my mind, I want to go out there and pull that bastard sail down, because I know I have to. But, I'm not brave enough to volunteer.

I'm still doing my best to hold the course and waiting quietly for instruction. Thomas and I still haven't made eye contact, much less said a word to each other. There's only the quiet exclamation of "shit" as we stare at the suffering genoa.

Before we're forced to make the horrible decision, we granted mercy by both the wind and sea. It settles as quickly as it started and neither of us mention that twenty minutes again.

Black Night

There's no moon this evening, no stars, and no coastline in sight. The only light is from the saloon hatch and the red light of my head torch, which we've Scotch-taped to the cockpit roof so we can see the compass.

David has dinner in motion, but the wind has finally come around from behind us, so our goosewing construction has to come down before we can eat. There's a little turbulence in the water. It's certainly more than enough for me to be holding on damn tight as David and I edge out to the bow without any safety gear whatsoever.

We've gotten the genoa off from the end of the twelve foot spinnaker pole - a pole pivoted on the mast and rigged to hold the farthest tip of the genoa out in the widest position. I'm out front-centre, crouched down, so as to minimise the chances of being thrown off the boat by a rogue wave. I'm waiting for the pole to be eased down so I can catch it and help pin it in place, up against the mast.

I must have lost concentration for a second, because there's a shout, and I look up to catch sight of the twelve foot steel pole swinging wildly across the bow, around the mast, making a beeline for my head. With about a foot between my face and the spinnaker's business end, I duck my head to narrowly avoid the swipe. It passes back over me to port and comes back under control. As we steady ourselves and move to catch the pole, it's had enough, breaks clean off at the mount and comes crashing down.

When David and I return to the cockpit, Jean-Pierre is at the helm and jokes something in French. Manu translates: "He says, you risked your life for the manouevure."

Terrific.

Rhinestone Cowboy

With a northerly breeze along the coast, coming up to Casablanca, the whole gang is in the midst of a manoeuvre to setup a goosewing.  Valentina's vast non-furling genoa is out, and the jib sheet from it is fed through the twelve foot spinnaker pole, suspended off (from the mast) over to port - which serves to hold the sail out and in place, as opposed to the main sail, which is held out and in place by the boom. The jib sheet - the rope that controls the genoa - continues from the tip of the spinnaker pole back toward the cockpit with a few turns around the port quarter winch. Of course, this winch is broken, so rather than the sheet being steadfastly and safely held, the sheet continues into the cockpit and into my hands.

That would all be very well, but, as best I can tell, we're doing the manoeuvre in the wind. Each time a gust hits the enormous genoa, the sheet in my hands it's jerked forwards into the winch. On the Dayskipper practical course, when working with a sheet feeding into a winch, you're taught to position your hand a distance from the winch, with your pinky finger closest to the winch. It's explained, in no uncertain terms, that winches eat fingers, and that thumbs outrank pinkies. The depth of appreciation I had for that lesson is rapidly elevating.

My former skipper, Chris Harris, who had previously served with the Falkland Islands Defence Force, ran Pelagic like a military operation. Everything was controlled, precise and thorough. There was zero fucking around. This operation is starting to feel more like some kind of cowboy circus.

I've put as much distance between my hands and what I've recently been referring to as "the death winch." I don't what the fuck I'm still doing on this death boat. I don't know why I didn't go with Roland. And I don't know what the fuck is happening at the front of that boat, but I'm irate back here, performing a overtly, dangerously retarded action.

Soon enough, David comes to the rescue and puts the sheet through the opposite winch whilst I hold the strain. I cool down and hold back remarking at how bad that manoeuvre was, but I've quietly come to the conclusion that this whole trip is exorbitantly reckless. I should have gotten off back in Asilah.

In spite of all that, the rest of our day is more good sailing and great weather, even though half of our goosewing is a napkin.

Photo: David Lustenberger

Should I Stay or Should I Go

The town is called Asilah, but we're anchored in the middle of the marina, so there's not much chance of getting onto dry land.

The main sail is dead - hopelessly beyond repair. But there's still a solution, apparently. There has to be a solution, because Asilah is an even worse place to be stuck than Tangier. Jean-Pierre & Thomas have pulled out the storm jib - a small sail designed to be used in place of the genoa in extreme winds - and are trying to fashion some way to connect it to the sliders on the mast so that it can replace the main sail.

In the early afternoon, I emerge on deck and am told that Roland, the big Austrian is leaving us. I'm told he only had flights booked from Gran Canaria back to Spain, then back to Austria, and if he continues with us he'll miss both flights. Although Roland speaks as much English as I speak German, over the past week we've both exchanged several knowing glances and wry smiles, as parts of the boat have fallen off and we've each sensed the obvious, immediate and progressively swelling danger.I choose to believe that the scheduling issue is the only reason he's leaving. As he's rowing away in a comically unfit for purpose children's inflatable dinghy, just barely able to contain he and his luggage, I'm on the cusp of throwing in the towel myself.

If I were to leave, I'd really feel like I'm letting my new friends down. On the other hand, I'm recalling the vivid and realistic scenarios where I, or any one of us, looses a finger, or just as likely, is entirely lost at sea. Drowning at sea is a pretty miserable worst-case to be working with. But, back on the first hand, if I leave, that leaves the remainder at even greater risk. We're already in a bad way, having a lost one of the three guys who really knows what he's doing.

My decision falls just narrowly on the side of persisting. Besides, I've already kicked in my food contribution. I might abandon my friends, but I could never abandon all those biscuits, eggs and sausages.

By late afternoon, we've discovered that both heads - toilets - are blocked, badly. It's not pretty. It's really, really bad. It's abhorrent.  Jean-Pierre and I attempt to sanitise and dismantle one of them, hoping to fix it. The hour so I spend plumbing is... unbecoming. Neither head is repairable. A bucket is designated to replace them. I should have gone with Roland.

Jean-Pierre and Thomas have managed to adapt the storm job to serve as a main sail. The storm jib is a fifth of the size of the main sail, and is an isosceles shape that points away from the mast, rather than a right angle that runs along both the mast and boom. It looks truly ridiculous. It's looks like we're sailing with a napkin.

And we're off, again.

So Many Tears

A full day of plain sailing. There's a faint shadow of the Moroccan coast off to Port. Defying it's appearance, the main sail is up and serving well. The sun is out and on full beam, and there's scarcely any traffic. It's all extremely pleasant. The only one problem is that the port quarter winch has ceased to function. It won't hold any weight. It's no more than a bollard now. But, who cares, because the steady land breeze has us set on a nice port tack, with our jib sheet through starboard quarter winch.

It's two in the morning and I'm on shift with Thomas at the helm. Aside from keeping the boat in a straight line, there's sod all to during a four hour shift in the dark. As I did on Pelagic, I've gotten through my share of cereal bars and biscuits - almost exclusively eating for entertainment, rather than hunger.

I take a look up to see how the wind is filling the sail - maybe we could entertain a couple of minutes making an little adjustment and go negligibly faster. There's a small hole half way up the leech - the hypotenuse edge. I'm sure that wasn't there a minute ago. I point it out to Thomas, who takes a peak. Maybe we can ride it out, and just keep an eye on it. I think there might be a couple of other little holes up there.

Five minutes later, the hole is noticeably bigger. Shit. As we bring Valentina into the steady fifteen-or-so knot wind to bring the sail down, the sail begins it's natural motion, violently rolling and shaking left and right. By the time it's down the hole-come-tear is a gash that runs the best part of the length to the mast.

We're fucked, again.

A couple of hours later, we've arrive at the nearest marina. Noone looks surprised as they each surface on deck. We kick the anchor down into the poky little marina of what looks to be a poky little town. There are a handful of small fishing boats, but this place wasn't built for the likes of us.

Heavy Fuel

At midday, the sail returns, and to my great surprise, it appears to have been repaired. As it's refitted and half hoisted, I can see where strips of material from a spare sail have been stitched over several tears, one of which is particularly long. It looked like a dirty great rag before. Now, well... Now it has some strips of material from a spare sail stitched over several tears. I want to be confident and happy that we're going to get back out there, but my better judgement won't allow me to believe it. That being the case, I set about mustering facial expressions and intermittent comments to simulate the desirable and appropriate confidence. I'm not sure how good I am at faking it, but it feels passable.

In the late afternoon, Jean-Pierre emerges from his engine cave with some news. He says the main three-hundred litre fuel tank is severely rusted and all the diesel in it is contaminated. Whilst I might have had thoughts to insure and scupper, Thomas is all about solutions.

We have one thirty-five litre jerry can and another twenty litre container. We estimate we need six more to carry enough diesel to negate the lost main tank. At 2000h, Thomas, Manuel and I set out into town looking for more containers. A local is only too pleased to help and attaches himself to us, whether we want his help or not. After he's guided us to several of the various shop-slash-stalls selling plastic bric-à-brac and assorted crap, we've sourced only one container, purchased out of the car boot of a passing taxi driver.

By some incredible coincidence, we've crash landed into the one African port where Manuel has a friend - working here for a few months. We'd had dinner with this guy, Ben, last night. By an additional coincidence, I spot Ben passing us out on the street. He's with a Moroccan friend, and within twenty minutes, we've sourced five twenty-five litre plastic containers.

By 2200h, they're all filled, hauled across a raft of fishing boats, and secured to the Valentina's aft deck. And we're off again.

I did not see that coming. I checked the price of FastCat back to Spain earlier.

Photo: David Lustenburger, Tangier

Schubert's No. 8, Unfinished Symphony

In the morning, we're boarded by a Moroccan gentleman who permits us to stay, but relieves all of us of our passports. Dug, Vidal and Rich each receive a follow up text. Something to the effect of "Crashed in Tangier. Sail shredded. Passport confiscated. Should be OK".

We collectively reassess our situation. The main sail is completely shredded and with little confidence in the thirty-five year old Renault, we can't go on without it. We're stuck here, but I still reckon that this is the best thing that could have happened, in so far as that the previously high risk of being lost at sea is almost wholly removed.

By some fortuitous chance, the fisherman who helped us last night knows where we can get the the sail repaired, so off it comes and off it goes, into town, with Thomas, Jean-Pierre, and our fisherman friend.

Given our insecure alongside-mooring, someone has to be aboard all day, so it's not until the afternoon that David and I get onto dry land. After a long walk through the intensely pungent fishing harbour-come-port, we make our way into Tangier town centre. Overall, I'd say it's a truly miserable little recess of the world. It's dirty and there isn't a lick of alcohol to be had.

To be honest, I'll be surprised if the sail can be repaired here. In fact, given all the repairs that I suspect are necessary, I'm reckoning that this is 'game over' for us. I can't imagine how we could continue as we are, on the other hand, we can't leave Valentina here. If the engine holds, maybe we could get back up to Spain or Gibraltar - if.

That said, whilst in town, anticipating my death, I manage to work around the French keyboard to email a pre-emptive Mayday to Dug, Vidal and Rich:

"...The boat - yacht valentina - is a death trap. we left barbate, but have crash landed in tanger, morroco after wind shredded the main sail. the engine, like the boat, is 35 years old and both water pumps and the fuel pump have been repaired with scotch tape. theres very little safety equipment - no jackstays, no flares, unsure about quality of life jackets. so far, mostly the water stays on the outside of the boat, mostly.

We are currently rafted up to a fishing vessel. if the sail is repaired today we will leave and hope to reach gran canaria in 6-11 days.

So if i dont return communication after that, i have probably died. I can only tell my family as much the timeline-  mother would be too horrified by the reality. i am horrified by the reality.

boat owner is a german, Thomas EXXXXXX <t.exxxxxx@gmx.net>, and is with us - french skipper/1 swiss/1 austrian/2 german/me

yacht Valentina, registered in Hamburg, Germany 

if Im in trouble and you cant get hold of liam neeson, the germans might arrange a search. "

Shot Down in Flames

I'm in the top bunk of the cabin on the starboard side with a inward window that looks out onto the floor of cockpit. For the heat, the window is always open, despite it bringing in the noise of the two on shift.

My shift is third and final shift of the night, starting 0500h, but I'm woken by some noise from the deck at 2300h or so. I can't make out exactly what's happening, but I sense that something isn't quite right. I'm listening to try and work out if it's a fatal problem, but I don't hear any overt panic or terror, so I guess it's just a standard manouvere - tacking or jibing; a sail going up or a sail going down.

I'm woken again, this time Manu is at the door of the cabin. He tells me something's broken and we're making an emergency stop. Everyone is called up on deck.

It's a little after One in the morning and apparently the main sail has ripped in half. Skipper, Jean-Pierre, has decided we're coming into Tangier, Morocco. The sail is already down, concertinaed and tied onto the boom, but I can see a frayed tear on one part of it. I'm not entirely surprised by the sail tearing. Both the main and the jib sail must be at least five years old. Both are stained brown, more so in patches, and their age is most apparent along the creases, where they've been folded up and carelessly left to rot. Our crippling leaves me more relieved than anything. Back on land, we'll have time to sort out our increasing number of noticeably broken and missing parts.

As we come into the large harbour at Tangier, we soon find that this isn't a marina like those we came from. Back at Rota and Barbate, we'd been parked up in a pontoon mooring alongside tens of other leisure yachts. Looking for a space amongst our potential neighbours here, the crowd is commerical fishing vessels, a pair of military cruisers and a FastCat ferry. We're really not meant to be here.

For lack of choice, the skipper picks the dockside space behind two vessels of the Moroccan naval fleet. My crewing speciality is the leap from boat to dock or pier as the skipper brings her in, so delicately as possible. The challenge is usually in the distance - the earlier you can make the jump, the faster you can get a rope and secure the tub to the dock, without the skipper having to plow in and bounce off the fenders. In this case, it's all the more fun because the water line is low against solid concrete dock. Thankfully, Jean-Pierre is perfectly competent at the helm. I'm able to make a small hop, then a scramble up onto the dock to run up and down securing the Valentina's bow and stern. Before I can get my knot tied, I'm pointed to a young Moroccan serviceman who's emerged from one of the cruisers. At a glance, I'm pretty sure we're not welcome here, but French speaking Manu is soon alongside having the conversation. My distant hopes of tying a knot, eating some leftovers and getting back to bed quickly go up in smoke.

After being politely dispatched from the naval dock, we're coming into the opposite dock behind a raft of steel fishing vessels, all of which are three-, four- or five- times our size. The air is thick with the smell of fish and an increasing drizzle. Whilst one lone fisherman is keen to help us, several more appear in a nearby doorway with expressions mixed between disgruntled and menacing. We're assured that another fishing vessel will arrive at any time and will be looking for this spot. We're out.

The rain moves up through the gears, upto torrential - African torrential. A short circuited light fitting on one building is periodically shooting blue sparks. Our friendly fisherman guides Jean-Pierre and I through the network of aging dockyard buildings to find a space to park up for the night. There's no way over nor around the fresh, wide, and ankle deep puddles and pools. Shoes and socks are soon entirely saturated.

As Skipper gently brings us in alongside another fishing vessel, I'm calculating how far I can jump, what I can grab on the opposite boat, and likelihood that I'll slip and fall down into the dirty brown brine between the closing gap of two steel boats. I'm very pleased with my distance as I land and climb over to secure us. I feel my arm grabbed and turn to find a big fat hairy old Moroccan, who proceeds to oust us once again.

Closing on Four AM, we make our fourth parking manoeuvre. Manu makes the first leap from the stern. He catches the rope to secure us, but  Valentina is pulling away. For a moment, I'm admiring the heroic scene of Manu holding a twenty-five ton wayward steel yacht on a twelve millimetre rope, then rush to jump over at our bow to join him. The cabin lights switch on in the boat we're parking alongside and I see a face appear at the window. The face disappears and the light goes out. This time we're finally given mercy.

Under African Skies

Although we landed successfully and safely with good use of wind, I'm slightly conscious that the boat still is not quite 'shipshape.' My greatest concern is the obvious absence of life jackets and safety gear. I asked Thomas before we left, and he assured me we had a few life jackets and jackstays - lines that run front-to-back on both the port and starboard lengths of the boat, onto which you can tether yourself for deck work in rough water. I'd followed up on the assurance and found two or three foam life jackets - though, you can't sail with large foam blocks strapped to you. My old pal, Captain Chris on Pelagic, was safety conscious, to what I thought was the extreme. That was a valuable lesson to me. He'd never have considered leaving the harbour without a full compliment of fully functioning, fully tested safety equipment - the kind of safety equipment that you entrust your life to. Here and now, the life jackets are highly questionable and our emergency raft is in a bag with a written confirmation that it was last tested in 2004. But, noone else is making a fuss and I don't make fuss.

Aside from those missing parts, I'm told that we weren't able to repair the navigation nor anchor lights before leaving. And since leaving, we've also discovered that the light on the mast-top windvane doesn't work, and the lack of a cockpit light for even the compass might make helming a given course at night - 'steering' to landlubbers -  somewhat difficult. In the kitchen, we've failed to repair both the fridge the left-hand cooking hob, which is quite a limitation on the culinary feats I might like to attempt. Most comically, the moment the boat heeled over yesterday, all the drawers began edging open or shot across the saloon. There's still a melon rolling around somewhere down there. Apparently, Valentina was last in the water about five years ago.

I'm quietly hoping someone else will realise the more obvious deficiencies and we'll spend some more time in harbour here until everything is fixed and sourced.

Despite what, in my eyes, are reasons not to sail, Thomas is still keen to push on. And so, after fencing-off all the draws with wood screws and rope. We're bound for Morrocan waters. As we start off towards the distant shadow of Africa, I fire some insurance text messages at Dug, Vidal and Captain Rich.

"Sailing out from Barbate, Spain to Lanzarote, direct. The boat is called 'Valentina'. ETA within 10 days. If I don't confirm my arrival in 12 days, please send the Spanish or Moroccan Navy. Thanks"

I know they'll take it seriously because it will be the first message they've ever received from me with more than two words - most often "OK", "Yes" or "Beer?". My mother receives a shorter less perilous version.

We setup three four hour night shifts, with the three seasoned sailors partnering we three young boys. David is appointed the principle cook, having worked in a kitchen. I might have wanted to muscle in on the job, but given the state of the kitchen, it's not going to be super-great fun. Worse though, David doesn't eat pork and Manuel isn't a big meat eater. On the other hand, I sense that Thomas, Jean-Pierre, Roland would readily kill and butcher a pig for it's delicious fleshy insides.

Smoke on the Water

"Aus! Aus!" shouts Manuel as he's scrambling out from the engine room and through the narrow kitchen towards me. I don't need to call on my tenuous grasp of German to know we're in trouble. I turn and run.

The engine room is a cave in the very centre of the boat, just barely larger than the Renault diesel that it's home to. It's just big enough for someone to squeeze in for the necessary tinkering and maintenance. For much of yesterday and this morning, Jean-Pierre has been squirrelled away in there. I'm not sure what he's been doing in there, but he was pleased to get the thing running, then left it chugging whilst he, Thomas and Roland made a trip into town.

Some half an hour after they'd left, Manuel noticed a thin veil of smoke in the saloon. We went down toward the belly of the beast to have a look. It was at this point, that shouting and scrambling became necessary. Once again, I'm making a dash for the top deck, ready to dive into the water followed by a explosion of fire and shrapnel. This dash is made worse given the consciousness that Manuel and David are immediately behind me, relying on the same narrow escape route. As I get into the cockpit, I turn to look for my friends. They're not following. It seems I've jumped the gun a little, again. Manuel went for the engine switch, after which we quickly decided to let the smoke clear from positions a little way away from the most explosive parts of the boat.

That potential explosion of earlier was exciting, but my high point comes when a volunteer is needed to climb the mast to replace the main sheet - the rope that hoists the main sail from the top of the mast. I very much enjoy climbing up things, given the belief that I am safe. In the harbour, the rocking of the boat is very gentle, but is somewhat amplified by the forty or fifty foot pole I'm atop of. Nonetheless, my fear isn't of heights, so much as it is of falling to my death, so this is pretty cool.

Thomas is still keen to get underway today, and despite Manuel's reports of smoke and sparks, Jean-Pierre thinks the engine should be OK now.

The final task is twelve days of food and at least fifteen days of water for six hungry boys. It's a big task. The water is thirty or so five-litre bottles. Their transport down the pier to the boat requires a classic Strong Man style event - the Farmer's Walk. The bottles have plastic carrying loops, so I start with two bottles in each hand - one on my fingers, one on my thumb. After a couple of trips, the big Austrian joins me. He goes straight for a six bottle carry. Obviously, I have to match the impressive feat. It takes all my physical strength, and the spirit of the six-time champion, Mariusz "The Dominator" Pudzianowski to fend of the pain of the loops cutting into my fingers.

Photo: realdutchpower.nl, "The Dominator"

By Ten o'clock, we've successfully and happily completed our first leg, down to Barbate. This will be the last stop before Gran Canaria.

Burn

Walking into the marina complex, there must be one or two hundred white masts in the foreground of the seaview. I spot a group of guys having lunch and feign sending a text nearby them, until I've narrowed the language down to German. I'm in time to join the boys for lunch. Thomas, Valentina's new owner, is a Berliner, somewhere in his early forties. Jean-Pierre, our French captain, hailing from Paris (obviously, if not implicitly,) is somewhere in his fifties. A strongman-built Austrian, Roland, is perhaps in his late thirties. Finally, there are two young boys, Manuel and David, Austrian and Swiss, respectively. Around the table, everyone has a beer and all but one is smoking. I'm a big fan of these continental types. The whole thing absolutely exudes the special brand of continental eurotrash nonchalance that I so fondly remember from the bank. I think that this will work.

Photo: Channel 4. Antoine, the original continental European

Valentina is a twenty-five tonne, fifty-odd foot sloop, made of steel. She looks solid. The deck is a intensely masculine mess, covered in tools, rope and wire. I'm guided down into the saloon and am pleased to find myself enveloped by dark red woods, reminiscent of any of my favourite lovely pubs. However, on a narrowly closer inspection, everything slightly crappy. The floors, and walls, and ceiling, and everything else looks to be only very loosely cobbled together. It looks like the work of a carpentry hobbyist whose enthusiasm doesn't compensate for his total absence of ability and skill. It's no matter though. The aesthetic is irrelevant, she looks solid.

Post dinner, the boys and I are sitting on deck, still with beers in hand. Our conversation twists and turns through languages as much as topics - English, German, Spanish and a touch of French. All of a sudden, we plummet into darkness. The light coming up from the saloon has switched off. In fact, all of the lights are gone. After a few seconds we each seem to notice an ever so slight and almost organic orange glow. After a few more seconds, we trace the glow to the seams of the lid on the battery house at the back of the cockpit. It's on fire. My less than heroic reaction, is to back out of the cockpit, onto the deck from which point I could leap off the exploding boat. This may be a sign that I've seen too many movies. In retrospect, I suppose it was unlikely that even three twenty-four volt could create a fiery-enough explosion for me to mimic Stallone, Willis or even early-Gibson. Roland is the quickest of us, and is able to subdue the flaming batteries with a very sharply acquired fire extinguisher.

It's unusual to have a fire on a boat, but it wasn't a big deal really. She looks solid.

She Goes Down

Beep-beep, beep-beep - the standard and classic Nokia message alert must be exactly the same as the intro of Save Your Love by KISS off of Dynasty, because that's where my mind always goes. (It is. I just checked. It's a D#.) The news has finally arrived. The boat, Valentina, has finally been picked up off sticks and set down in the water. This is actually going to happen. My time and I are justified.

Mortal Kombat

I don't consider this a holiday and don't feel a great need to 'tourist' the city. I'm rarely interested to be in any one place for more than two days, much less somewhere I've already been. I should only be passing through, but still there's no solid news from the boat.

The one thing I am interested in is seeing a bullfight - the ultimate battle of Man Vs. Food. Alas, my time here will, or at least should, narrowly miss the next one. I settle for the tour. I'm pleased to find I can understand the best part of Spanish spoken tour, but I'm drifting in and out.

Apparently, the matadors canter about the ring on horseback and jab the bull with pointy sticks for a little while before, in my mind at least, someone shouts "FINISH HIM!", the fatality is performed, then, presumably, the same chap yells "FLAWLESS VICTORY".

Keep the Faith

I'm still a little desperate to hear something concrete from my German and his boat. They're a relatively short hop on the bus, but I'm better of stuck here than there. I need a back up plan to negate the failure of being boatless. I'm in a corner or Spain that I've already seen, and I hate backtracking, so I'm in a lousy position to continue my round the world mission  The only option is to hop over to Africa and see what those guys are upto. It's not a bad plan, but I was only meant to be out here for a month.

Hot in the City

It's so damn hot outside. It's punching over thirty-five degrees out there. It's awful. I'm not inclined to being outside for any amount of time between about midday and six o'clock in the evening. The afternoon is a write off. I don't care. I can almost sympathise with the lazy, part-time work ethic around here.

I Can't Dance

Despite having sent several updates on my progress towards the boat, I've received very little. I'm materially nervous that the whole arrangement will fall apart, and I'll have to fly back. Having nailed down only a few days of sailing, that would be an intolerable failure.

Whilst sitting on my hands in front of the machine, I meet an English tourist. He's a Northern lad named Paul. He tells me he's in IT and that he's been learning salsa for five years. I've never met any dancing Northerners. For that matter, I've never met any dancing Englishmen. We don't go in for that sort of thing. Paul is quite enthusiastic about visiting a salsa club and tries to sell it to me on the basis that it will be full of chicks. That's all very well, but as a guy who can't dance, and can't speak conversational Spanish, the project would be a Stretch-Armstrong-stretch of all of my already tenuous abilities. It's a horrible idea. I like wooden pubs and ale. And Metallica. Contrary to sense or logic, I agree to going.

I have a dangerously strong predisposition to agree most things. Any old shit. Whatever's going. I also have an absolute disposition to follow through with everything I agree to. If I agree to something stupid in the heat of the moment, you can be damned sure I'll do that stupid thing in the cold light of the next day. More often than not, it shouldn't, and doesn't, end well, and I shouldn't expect this will be an exception.

On the walk to the salsa discotheque, I want, very much, to back out at great speed, but I can't think of any clever way to do it. I guess, If I can stick it out for forty-five minutes or so, I can run for the hills with integrity intact.

The spirit world has finally thrown something back my way. The club is closed. I feign some degree of disappointment and go so far to entertain a short walk around to try and find another club. Little does Paul know, I'd rather stick my nob in a beehive. Ha! Perfect.

Show Me the Way

My bus has landed in Seville. I've been here before, which fits nicely in with my connect-the-dots circumnavigation. Though, it only serves to connect Gijon with Barcelona, Faro and Porto, none of which is not especially useful.

I recognise and remember this bus terminal, but it's not the one I was expecting. There's no signs pointing to the centre of town. Ten minutes ago I was certain I knew the way to the centre of town from the terminal, but this isn't that terminal. For the apparent lack of accurate memory, I can only choose a random direction. I could ask, but I like all real men, I hate, hate, asking for directions, most especially when should know the way.

Twenty minutes later and a few degrees hotter, it crosses my mind to question whether I've actually been here before. Maybe, I've confused it with somewhere else. Valencia? No, I've definitley been here.

Eventually, I stumble across a square that I recognise vividly. Towards the cathedral, it all comes flooding back. I remember the river, the bull ring, Arianne 4, the sports bar, and Ben and Matt and Catalina. I should be able trust my own navigation to find the hostel.

Another forty minutes later and I realise I should never have trusted myself. This place is an impossible labyrinth of alleys. I can't remember the hostel. I remember everything else in near-perfect detail. I'm racking my brain as hard as I can to picture any part of it, but I've got absolute zero. Something truly awful and disturbing must have happened to in that place.

Naturally, Tourist Information is closed on Sundays. Presumably, the Spanish don't expect we're here on Sundays, or perhaps they're just not too bothered whether we are or not.

By luck rather than judgement, I come across a generic hostel two short streets later.

Space Oddity

A quick stop in Caceres has turned into an overnight. Not that there's all that much here.

It's another old town. A pretty small one, but a pretty pleasant one too. Near-ancient narrow alleyways wind this way and that. I'd not be too surprised if Harrison Ford, and to a lesser extent, Shia LaBeouf came racing around the corner on a pair of Honda Tornados, followed by the Russians, or Neo-Nazi's, or whoever the politically correct flavour-of-the-month evildoer is these days. And aliens, apparently. Why not. Actually, there's any number of rational and congruous answers to 'why not.' That was a stupid ending.

Sledgehammer

I´ve impressed myself, by completing  my comic book, El Poderoso Thor, front to back. I´m not certain that I understood the storyline, but I suspect I do and it simply is a stupid as I think it is. Why was Loki hanging out with the Silver Surfer? And why is The Mighty Thor, God of Thunder, a human doctor transformed by picking up Mjölnir the Hammer. I think the Swedes might beg to differ.

I´ve struggled to find a book about sailing. I don´t know how to use a book shop. Why are all the books stood upright so that I can´t read the spines? Outside one shop, there´s a small stack of old books on sale for a Euro each. I spot one, illustrated with a fine looking schooner-rigged galleon and a lady-vampire-werewolf - El Velero de Los Vampiros. This is certainly worth a Euro.

The book introduces the characters in the opening page and tells of tale involving no less than un borracho que ha hecho de todo and un invisible lobo de mar. Do all books features well-travelled drunks and invisible sea dogs? What have I been missing?

Southbound

I´ve arrived in Salamanca, without ever having heard of it before. The city centre is pretty incredible. I´ve see a lot of "old towns", but everythng before is pale in comparison. The sheer scale of near-ancient cathedrals, university buildings and palaces, then the sheer number of them makes an impression.

A number of the restaurants have Menu del Dia adverts promising starters, mains, dessert, bread and a drink for a paltry ten Euros. I´m sure there´s a catch, but it´s worth a look.

I´ve chosen a café-come-restaurant, La Luna, and take a seat outside. There´s a choice of eight starters, but I have fond Spanish memories of gazpacho soup. This memory will be equally fond. I don´t know who invented tomato soup, but full credit to the Spanish for serving it cold. The wine arrives in a simple decanter, but there´s at least three glasses in there. Maybe this is the catch. Nontheless, I finish the wine, more than I need or want, as well bread, the main, dessert, and coffee. They take ten Euros and a tip of all the change I can dig up.

I´d wanted to go for a run tonight, but after four glasses of red wine, a couple of cigarrettes is just as good. I wander off, drunk and merry, back into the city to the sounds of Guns n´ Roses on the Israeli iPod that I´ve now claimed as my own.

Around the World

No word back from the Rota-Gran Carania job. My next back up plan is to continue my stop-start land & sea circumnavigation of the world. I´ve got two weeks in 2009, from Budapest to London, then two weeks in 2010 from Cyprus to Budapest, but I need to connect my 2011 legs from Faro to Barcelona with Lyon. Of course, Gran Canaria would get me to an ideal position to go for the tranatlantic leg.

I´m comfortable enough here, but I don´t much care for being in an ale-less place more then a two days and this is getting itchy. In the mean time, having had my previous diccionario and Spanish comic stolen by an evil  spirit, I´ve replaced them both. For lack of selection, I´ve gone with El Poderoso Thor.

My somewhat desperate midnight email check finds success. It´s time to head south.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Back in Gijon, we´ve got the internet hooked up in the boat and I´m looking for a plan B to avoid going home prematurely. Right on queue, as one door closes, another opens - it´s probably something to do with air pressure in the room. An email has turned up from a German whom I wrote to a few weeks ago. He´s got a space on a delivery from Rota to Gran Canaria. That sounds like it would make a fine plan B.

In the meantime, I can hang out on the boat with Captain Andy. We get on well. We take turns playing chef. We swill tea in the afternoon and grog in the evenings. And we spin long nautical yarns about fearsome sailors and creatures of the deep sea.

Spindrift

Our final journey is a return to Gijon where Alibi III will sit out the winter. Today we´ve got just a little wind. It´s enough to sail, but it´s in the wrong direction. Just for some fleeting moments of real sailing and the sound of gentle spindrift, rather than the low chug of the big BMW downstairs, we enjoy a short joyride.

As I´m amateurishly and clumsily trying to hold a course close to the wind and we briefly touch as high as four knots.

Wind Below

My passage as skipper is uneventful, though for a second day, listless winds leave us motoring, with the main sail up only up for stability. As we English seafarers like to say: "If it were blowing any less, it would be sucking". And as we English seafarers like to do, we drink mug upon mug of builder´s tea.

Avilés´ centre of town is quite pleasant, despite plumes of thick white smoke regularly mushrooming up from its nearby industrial surroundings.

A banner indicates we´ve just missed the Eighteenth Annual Avile Beer Festival. What a shame.

Day Tripper

News has arrived from England and not all is well. Unfortunately for us, this unpleasantness will require Andy to return home, which effectively ends our trip.

Neither of us are best pleased, but we´ve no options. It will be a week before he´s able to return to England, and that means we can at least get a little sailing done in the interim.

We´ll head to Aviles tomorrow, and Andy offers the job of skipper for this leg of the journey to me. My Day Skipper theory was back in November and has since gone untouched. The method for calculating tide heights in a secondary port don´t exactly rush back to me. With a little help, I manage to scrap together a passage plan, identify window of opportunity and get idea of the pilotage into Avilés. I´m sure I could just wing it, if need be. 

Drive

I´m finally back on the sea, and I´m very much enjoying bobbing about, despite the wind being out of favour, leaving us to motor-sail the journey. The coast between Ribadeslla and Gijon is quite pleasant - reminiscent of north Wales, we think.

Cocaine Blues

I´m awake at five o´clock, though, I was barely asleep last night. I´m still half-cut. I met Dug for a few beers at The Magpie. Despite both of us knowing the risks involved, three of those beers were Thornbridge´s incredible and dangerous Jaipur, punching five-point-nine percent ABV. Despite only having had four beers, I might as well have been upside down. Even when I arrived home an hour later, I was completely unable to pack. Despite being in no fit state, and still half-cut, I´m up at Five, able to throw some things into a bag, and  out of the house by 0545h.

We do like that Jaipur.

After a plane and a bus and a walk, I´m back on normal operating mode. Captain Andy introduces me to the boat, Alibi III. She´s a thirty-six foot sloop, with a rich thirty-year history that includes a stint as a drug boat which ended abruptly with her being caught with ninety-odd kilos of Africa´s finest white gold. She was impounded, while her then-owners were detained at her majesty´s pleasure. As it stands, there´s nothing more illicit aboard than builder´s tea.

The Main Monkey Business

I arrived home a couple of weeks ago. Being a student in the artistry of surprise, I didn´t tell anyone I was coming until I was already in the Magpie, then some days later, turned up to casually bump into Nico and Winks at the Great British Beer Festival.

Since then, I´ve considered my options: brewing; sailing; and banking. I´ve made some efforts in the former two directions, and very little in the latter, but not a huge amount of effort in any.

I´ve also been told these writings might be worth something. I am not so sure. I used an hour or so to delve into the writing community that exists on the internet. I found a largely  amatuerish community of flowery, predictable and unimaginative persons writing about their girlish "feelings", most often relating the mundane and effeminate trials and tribulations of their lives to eachothers in superfluous, wet, derivative poetic notions. Thankfully, I can´t relate to any of this tripe.

Instead, I´ve amused myself with daytime drinking at various lovely wooden pubs and with Monkey Island 2: Le Chuck´s Revenge.

Inspired by fond memories of Pelagic, I set myself to an experiment around Rich Tea biscuits. I wanted to see how many I could eat and if there was a point at which they became undesirable. I concluded that twelve to fifteen was the right amount. Twenty was beginning to get uncomfortable. Shortly after finishing number thirty-five, and the best part of cup of tea number two, I felt a sharp pain around my right lung that made it difficult to breathe. It went away after half an hour, but the point of undesirability had indeed been reached.

London Calling

I´ve crossed just about everything off my New York tourist list. I´ve done it all and eaten most of it. It´s time to go home, where we mind our own business, and don´t expect tips for what we´re already paid to do, and where we don´t wear hats indoors.

Between that and my now expired travel card, I´m at a loose end for the day. As the credits begin to roll on the new Batman movie, the only half-packed "theatre" starts a rousing round of applause. Sure, it was good, but why are you people are clapping at a screen? Americans...

New York Groove

My old pal, Captain America, has shown me how to double down on a breakfast bagel and hash browns for less that three-bucks-fifty - truly a Breakfast of Champions.

Now I am off to the event I´ve been waiting for all week. The New York Historical Society presents "Beer Here!", an exhibition on the history of brewing in the city, including a meet-the-brewer and tasting session. New York has delivered again and I´m all, all over it - like a rash. Museums and beer - what a world!

A tasting session is all very well, but what will really make me happy is a drinking session. Where better than the very bar where Paul Hogan befriended a pair of lovely hookers and groped a sheila who wasn´t a sheila at all.

Just like I remembered

Yes, aside from the transvestites, I think I could work with this place. It´s not home, but I think I could work with it.

Under Pressure

New York´s, if not America´s spiritual center is the original Nathan´s Famous, Coney Island. It´s the site of Joey Chestnut´s recent Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest success - sixty-eight hot dogs in ten minutes. The event represents the spirit, of competition, bravery and consumption, that built a superpower. It is, though, unfortunate that the ever-present ugly side of American sports and culture has tarred the event with the unpleasantness that lead to the recent exclusions of Kobayashi-san.

Having stopped for sweet and sour chicken in China Town two hours ago, I'm in a rare phase of my game where there is food available, but I don´t want to eat it. But I do want a Nathan´s Famous t-shirt, so I can start to design my here-I-am-rock-you-like-a-hurricane-New-York-look. But, how could I possibly wear such an item without having eaten here. I´d either have to leave the t-shirt, or know, everytime I pulled it on, that it´s a lie - a lie and a deception. I ask myself, what would Kobayashi-san do in this situation? The answer is very obvious. I must eat.

The hot dog is light work, but I've also taken the french fries with cheese - because Joey would, and because Kobayashi-san would. As I watch the girl depress the plunger that projects a cheese - a cheese that could never be spawned by nature - from a metal nozzle, I know I'm in a spot of bother. I battle through the foul, bright yellow, viscous "cheese" and almost equally unpleasant french fries with my eyes on the prize - my t-shirt.

I very gingerly toddle back to the subway, remembering this sensation from the Uruguay incident. But, the unsettling pressure in and around my stomach is more than countered by the knowledge of my of heroism and triumph in the face of adversity - not to mention my beautiful t-shirt. Only now can I begin to understand what it takes to be a champion.

Photo: arthurkade.com

Under the Bridge

No trip to New York is complete without visiting the bridge where Macauly Culkin and the Pigeon Lady defeated The Wet Bandits. It´s everything I hoped it would be - magical, even.

No less impressive is the bar from the Highlander. Serving a range of lagers and ales, Peter McManus´ Cafe is right up my straße. Perhaps New York and I could have some longevity afterall. Perhaps I can design some sort of outfit that clearly conveys to the various overt pregant women, homosexuals, and black guys that I like ale very much.

Photo: nymag.com, right up my straße

And as per usual, KK has ordered with her eyes, and I get many more chicken nuggets than is wise.

New York, New York

Once again, I have to spend several hours trying to finding tonight´s bed. Once again I´m presented butter where no butter is necessary, this time, with waffles. And once again, I use as much of that butter as I can stomach.

Photo: trialx.com, More Butter! More Syrup!

I could stomach a good amount of the butter, but my early afternoon pretzel is proving more difficult. The salt to bread ratio is as incredible as it is disgusting. I have to brush off most of the salt to force the thick, dry, tasteless bread down. Pretzels are disgusting. Worst bread ever.

Stumbling across the New York branch of the Porter House - the London branch is home of the best St. Patrick´s Day party in town - I decide that for that awful salt-ridden mess, I deserve an ale. Three ales later -  ales need not be deserved nor earnt - I wander off to the boat bound for the ultimate landmark, the Statue of Liberty.

The audio guide for the statue is extremely boring and contains no detail whatsoever on the filming of Ghostbusters II, nor Jungle 2 Jungle. More disappointing, the inside of the statue is closed until November. I will have to come back to climb out of the eye and onto the crown.

Photo:  onthesetofnewyork.com

I think I've found the sign that Mick Dundee climbs in Crocodile Dundee. Of course, I have to climb it, but the horse mounted policeman does not arrive. Nonetheless, another New York box is ticked.

Appetite for Destruction

The New York Public Library is hosting a exhibition entitled Lunch Hour NYC. It's simply, and brilliantly, an homage to Lunch. The history of lunch; pictures of people eating lunch; lunch menus, lunch venues; and films in which lunch was featured, are just a few amongst its many exhibits. The casual lunch, the working lunch and the origins of the "power lunch" are all featured.

For my four-and-a-half years in the bank, lunch was the most important affair of the day. The better part of the morning was spent contemplating and deciding which of Liverpool Street's lunchtime restauraters would earn our money. So much so that we - by which I mean "I" - kept and maintained an XLS-format - a favourite format for banking work - gentleman's list of over fifty venues within a ten minute walk, rated in order of their quality and value for money. I'd refer to it as "gentlemen's list" on account of my insistence to exclude vegetarian only options. I entrusted that list and my folder full of menu's to JJ shortly before my exit. I ought to check that he has diligently performed the appropriate maintenance. As I recall, Mama Thai was more or less untouchable, Kung Food was perfect, if you didn´t have-slash-want to do anything in the afternoon, and Happy Days´ Fish & Chips was ideal for punishing dieting girls.

I´m simply an active patron of lunch and lunching, but I will claim the coining of the "professional´s half." The half is perfect for quickly alleviating the visceral urge to place one´s telephone handset through one´s computer screen. When a coffee just won´t cut it, a professional´s half can have you back at your desk without any ill-effect, inside of fifteen minutes, and without your being a danger to yourself and those around you. It´s a winner. And you can pick up the other half later.

Photo: goodforlunch.com, The best

Into my final few months, I´d increasingly often hassle select colleagues with instant messages of '0.5' and "Magpie?" - referring to my beloved local, "The Magpie", which featured as a location in the admittedly questionable Basic Instinct 2. More often than not, my desperate requests were rejected, but just occasionally, I'd hit someone on my aggressively bitter wavelength. And always, faithful and reliable fine English ale acts as the perfect destructive interference to that bitterness.

Fig 1.  phys.uconn.edu, Destructive interference
Maddening arseholing around the office plus Ale equals Reduced urge to kill

Making Movies

My breakfast stack of pancakes comes with butter as well as maple syrup. I'm not entirely sure what I'm meant to do with the butter, but I soon conclude that there´s no point being shy about it, and lather up the stack with everything I've got.

Photo: helendining.blogspot.co.uk, More butter! More syrup!

Walking around New York feels like walking around a movie. Everything seems familiar and much of it is actively familiar. Not least, the very toy store that Tom Hanks worked in. They still have the piano, though I am highly upset to know the original was donated to orphans or something stupid like that. The new piano is awash with children and clumsy, graceless time-wasters. It is a sad reality.

Also familiar, is ale. New York has a plentiful supply of it. At a Time Square bar I use some spare time between eating one thing, and eating another thing to sample five or six halves of the local brews.

Come the afternoon, I´m finding that I can´t just stroll into a hostel and setup shop, South America-style. Everything is booked and I´m thinking that I´ll be following Tom Hanks footsteps once again, this time by sleeping in La Guardia. So long as you have a bag and look like a tourist, no one asks any questions.

With the help of a delightful pair of gays on the concierge desk at last night´s hotel, I find myself at a bargain fifty dollar hotel in China Town. As I pull open the door of my room, the comedy value of the scene could only be bettered by replacing me with the late and great John Candy. The room is a windowless cupboard, no bigger than the space under the stairs, where a vacuum cleaner and various unwanted goods and odd bags might live. The walls are little more than plasterboard and door opens outwards because the width of bed, which is also the full length of the room, would prevent it opening inwards. But, it´s more comfortable than La Guardia, and boasts location central to China Town and adjacent to Little Italy.

Waking up at 2300h, after one of my classic three hour power naps, there´s just enough time to visit Doyer St., possibly the only NY street that Schwarzenegger filmed on, and to score a healthy plate of Chinese BBQ pork, washed down with a Yoohoo.

Shout It Out Loud

I´ve woken up in La Guardia airport. Having gotten out of the airport at 2300h, I decided it wouldn´t be much fun to spend two hours searching for a hostel, to then spend sixty dollars on seven or eight hours of sleep. La Guardia was comfortable enough, and that´s sixty more dollars of eating money.

The game begins with a nice, heavy turkey bagel. By midday, a muffin, a slice of pizza and a big apple have been added. There doesn´t appear to be an end to either what is available nor what I want to eat. If "Flymo" Hodges were here now, there would be carnage. It would be disgusting. It would be fantastic.

Hodges isn´t here, but KK is, and KK likes ales, and I like ales. I´d expected New Yorkers to be relatable to Londoners, especially after coming out of South America. On our tour of the West Village, Chelsea and the Meat Packing District, the latter of which, KK assures me is not gay innuendo, I find that the locals bear no resemblence to Londoners. Everyone here seems absolutley, unnecessarily, and overtly proud of themselves. Everyone can be quickly and neatly catagorised by their appearance. The pregnant women are in stomach hugging dresses, the black guys are dressed like black guys, and the gay guys are the gayest gay guys I´ve ever seen.

KK leads the tour on to Pop Burger. It´s surely the most African American burger chain since McDowell´s. For eight bucks, the burger is as good as anything I´ve ever had before, but I could comfortably eat it in three bites. I could push myself to do it in one.

Onwards to the Italian. And when KK can´t finish hers, I´m on hand to clean up.

Glory Days

Landing in Orlando, Florida, I've left Que Tipo de Carne behind me. In America, land of the free and home of the International Federation for Competitive Eating, there's a different game. Inspired by that Paraguayan advert for generic shopping, I like to call this game Let's Eat Everything.

Some people passionately believe food is about flavour. Others believe that food provides nutrition and resolves hunger. Those people are morons. Food is about glory. The kind of glory that can only come by crushing your enemies, seeing them driven before you and hearing the lamentations of their women.

In this two hour layover, I have only the airport at my disposal, but he choice is clear. It's Nathan's Chili Cheese Dog. Nathan's, host of the annual fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Competition at the Long Island home, embodies all of my intentions for the next week.

Photo: damnthatlooksgood.com

Rock & Roll All Nite

The jig is up. If I had more time I'd head for the coast, but I've got a flight tomorrow. KK said, Come to New York. Ok, I said.

The boys in the hostel have plans to hit the town hard. In the early evening I suggest I'll probably not go, on account of my morning flight. Come late evening, I know what I should do, and what I have to do. This whole trip is part of a wonderful mid/third-life crisis that I'm entertaining. The day I can't hit the town like the hammer of Thor, at the drop of a hat will be deeply sad one. I'd have to look at ending the then wasteful tatters of what used to be life.

Funnily enough, on the way to the discotheque, I'm reminded that even if I wanted to walk back early, as common sense might demand, it's not necessarily the sensible and wise choice. The reminder comes in the form of a bloody five-on-one knife fight. Apparently, when it comes to Columbian street fighting, no one can hear you scream. Not funny "ha-ha", per se.

Smoke on the Water

There´s not a great deal to do in Bogota - much like most every other big city. It's so baron that five of us have been persuaded to take an hour long tour of the Police Museum. It's a museum that promises and delivers few, if any exciting revelations. A fellow tourist tells us, there's a military museum nearby that's also good, "but not as good as this."

As always, plan B is to drink lots of beers. That usually bulletproof plan is somewhat undermined by a beer supply that seems to use urine as a base ingredient, but I guess I'm going to try to stomach it

My friend, Chris the Canadian, tells me that the Columbian's drink of choice isn't beer at all. It's an anise-flavoured spirit, called Aquardientes - which roughly translates to fiery water. He tells me that what the kids here do, is hit a bar, where they'll put a carton of the stuff on the table and leisurely take it in shot-form over the course of the evening. Once they're all hopped up, it's time to hit the discotheque. And that's what we'll do, he says. When in Rome, he says.

I have a bad feeling about this. My first clue is the anise flavour. Yuck. My second clue is that it comes in a carton. Nonetheless, the slightest peer pressure from two Germans and a Canadian folds me like a napkin. I was right. I hate it. It's essentially Sambuca, less the syrupy-consistency and only half ABV strength.

My Germans friends don't seem to relate to the traditional drinking pace of the Columbians. Rather than casual shot, say, every five or ten minutes, the boys are more keen on a Germanic forty-five-second cycle. I'm not afraid of the alcoholic content of the drink, but it's familiar scent and taste repeatidily and vividly remind me of wet vomit. But, I can't very well show weakness in front of the Germans, so Chris and I take the pain whilst I try to explain to Germans that they disgust me.

Big Bottom

The signature on the sign of a museum to my right has caught my eye - 'Botero'. Where do I recognise that signature from? I know where I know that signature from. He's the fat Venus guy. Botero's Venus, or "The Fat Lady", as she's so fondly known in my old office, sits in Exchange Square, my old summer drinking and smoking haunt. Some light nostalgia is enough to motivate me.

After an hour of touring the museum where Botero's various works are proudly centre stage, I've come to the very certain conclusion that Botero was a talentless, overrated artist, but maybe a mediocre cartoonist. Taking the piece as a collection, I'd go so far as to call it shit. Every picture is in exactly the same style, depicting a fat chick, or fat guy or fat guy on a fat horse. It's funny for a minute, but the initial novelty of fat stuff quickly wears thin. Even the most convoluted circles of art-twats couldn't mount a defense for this arrant crap.

The museum includes some of Picasso's dross, presumably to improve Botero's work by comparison, but I'm pretty sure Picasso was often just taking the piss.

Come the afternoon, I'm back on the street with the address of my pal who lives somewhere on this street, Calle 23. Bogota's road system seems to have been designed with a perfect respect for logic, then handed over to some mad bastard to put up. I know I'm lost when the surroundings of the street subtly transform into a weed scented slum. When a tranvestite dominatrix passes and doesn't much stick out from a mid-afternoon crowd, rife with aggressively dressed prostitutes and the types of deviants who enjoy the company of disease-riddled streetwalkers, the feeling of being lost is quickly replaced by one of fear. Eyes forward. Fist clenched. Walk fast.

Poison

The day is burned with a directionless wander around downtown Bogotá. There's nothing revolutionary here. It's alright.

What isn't alright, is the beer. The hostel is a sausage-fest, but come early evening, we boys have set to the task of drinking. I've been out here in South America for five months. With just a handful of exceptions, South American beer all can be broadly and thickly tarred with the same brush. A toilet brush would suffice.

The hostel sells two pilsner beers, Poker and Aguila. In these, the Columbian's have managed to set themselves apart from the rest of their continent. They've, possibly literally, mastered the bottling and sale of fizzy piss. Who knew beer could be too wet?

After the third bottle of charmless, bitter-ended punishment, I give up the ghost.

Learning to See

I think my vision is back. How good was I before at looking? Once again, dragging my finger to and from my face, I'm not certain, but this all looks about right. I can read the details on the label of a bottle of beer. It'll do.

I've landed in Bogotá. I've found ale. Not bad. I can work with this. Perhaps we can put that whole unpleasantness at the border behind us.

Goin' Blind

I'm on the first bus of what promises to be a thirty-plus hour passage to Bogotá, Columbia. I've got to get to an Ecuadorian frontier town, take a taxi to the border, walk across the border, take a taxi to the nearest Columbian frontier town, then take another bus upto Bogotá.

Suffice it to say, I'm not in a happy-go-lucky mood as I'm passing through Columbian customs. And now it's raining.

My days of overseeing some of the largest and some of the most process-driven foreign exchange transactions in the world might be far behind me, but I'm still not ready to be reduced to selling USD/COP in a wet car park, with man in jeans and leather jacket, casually leaning up against a lamp post as he thumbs through a wad of cash. This isn't OK. I don't do business this way. But, some ten minutes later, I discover resistance is futile and I am that far reduced. I'm assured that's how things are done here. Welcome to Columbia.

I guess a plate of rice and chicken will subdue the rage. When I eventually find a street vendor, it does serve to distract me. It looks good on the plate, but as the fork closes in on my mouth, a blur of food reminds me that I'm still far-sighted. This is a little worrying, but it's not enough to slow me down. Forkfuls of this blur taste just as good. I'm sure it'll be fine.

Run Through the Jungle

In the chalet, I wake at first light, having briefly woken a few times during the night. I don't recall having had any dreams whatsoever. I'm keen to get out before anyone catches me. I can't unlock the door. After a few panicky, trapped moments, I make my escape through the window.

I feel normal. There's no hangover, but I have the vivid memories of last night. For the first time, I'm thinking straight enough to put the Ayahuasca and the things I saw together. I'm curious to see if any of the people out here really are deformed. I'd guess this is could be prime spot for inbreeding. In any case, I've got to go back to try and find my backpack.

I find that the orbs of light that guided me were real, and that escaping the chalet area is almost as difficult now as it seemed last night. The village, Shiripuno, is only a short walk. 

I fail to find my bag. On the way out, I run into my shaman. He seems perfectly happy with his handiwork and asks how my experience was. I couldn't explain it if I wanted to, so I leave it at little more than a thumbs up and 'thank you'. I don't know why I'm thanking him for leaving me to die.

Last night's urge to 'get the fucking hell out of this jungle as quickly as bloody possible' hasn't diminished all that much. Given the light of day, I get myself back to Tena, then on the bus back to Quito. I'm wholly ignoring advice from both the internet and a local that I should rest for a day or two after taking Ayahuasca.

On the bus, I'm left to recall the night as best I can. My recollections are in the same way as they'd be if I had been drunk with alcohol. I remember all the events and incidents well, but it's too patchy to easily string them together and fill the gaps. I'm not even certain if I was thinking lucidly, or as if I was drunk. Aside from believing the reality of everything single I saw, if I was thinking lucidly, would I have tried to walk back to Tena? Why did I believe I was in Puerto Williams, Chile? In Shiripuno, the actual road structure and even the features of the land don't even exist as I saw them last night, but in Misahualli, I did see the surroundings as they really were. Were any of the people I saw real people? Was I actually on the Otherside - in the spirit world? The big cat wasn't consistent with any of the hallucinations. I think that thing was a god damned puma.

When I was opening the door of the car, I think I had some feeling or a thought that someone was with me - a friend - but when my pack disappeared, I definitely didn't immediately suspect anyone. I can't believe an evil spirit stole my pack, but, actually, I think I do. I regret not kicking that bastards head off. Thankfully, I learned my lesson from the lost wallet and hadn't packed anything immediately consequential.

The experience wasn't a barrel of laughs, obviously, but it was completely, entirely incredible. I don't regret it, but I don't know if I'd recommend it. I certainly wouldn't do it the same way I just did - alone, and homeless, in a puma-infested jungle.

Something is still a little wrong. I'm far-sighted. I wasn't far-sighted yesterday. Most of everything looks fine, but as I draw my finger to and from my nose, I can't focus on it at all. This is definitely wrong. Other than rinsing my eyes, there's nothing I can do. I guess I'll just wait a few days. It'll probably come back.