A True Nightmare!

I looked out over Portsmouth, or that of it I could see through the murky grey mist, the torrent of rain diffused all shapes into an out of focus photo. I stood steadying my camera against the movement of the boat, which even secured in port, was active.

Maria was posed in front of the Porthole with a bottle of Champers in one hand, a glass in the other and the cork firmly wedged in her mouth.

We were leaving! Finally leaving!

It seemed that we'd been planning it for ages at the time, but really we'd planned very little.

The previous night had been horrid.

We had arrived early at the port and found ourselves parked in pole position in the waiting lines.

The heavens had opened upon us and we had spent the night staring at the cascade of rain on the windscreen. The wind would intermittently jolt the car preventing sleep, so we dozed to the sound of the radio.

That, in retrospect, had been a very bad mistake!

We were signalled to get ready to board, I turned the key in the ignition and the engine responded with a low groan and died! All life having been drained out the battery.

Our pride and joy had become a motionless lump of metal. Demoralised and humiliated we sat and watched as one by one the other vehicles were waved past us and entered the bowels of the ship. It was not until the car park was cleared that the attendant came across to us and with a circular motion of his arm, bade us to open the window. "Battery" he stated in a very matter of fact way, I nodded, somewhat embarrassed. 'Non starter' was how he had described us over his radio, very ironic I thought. was this how our great adventure was to end? Left on the starting line.

He however informed us that someone would be over to try to get us started, in due course a monster of a truck roared across to us and a chirpy chap jumped out and hooked up the battery, thankfully the old girl growled into life and we drove on, happy to be the last to enter.

At last the adventure was starting.

Our future beckoned!

We were off to forge a new life in a strange new land. Refugees from Thatcher's Britain, that's what we were. We'd copped out of the mainstream that we'd only just started to flirt with.

We had bought a ruin in the Southville area of Bristol, which, was in need of complete renovation, we stripped it back to a shell and replaced everything. We had given the modest little terraced house a complete face lift and in the end she stood proudly regal, quite the best looking house in the street.

She never even went on the open market, as before we had completed all of the works, a friend from our local skittles team had made us an offer, and a deal was struck in the local pub. The work only took six months. A Job well done, or so we thought.

In those days the future only stretched until next year, the profit from the sale would do everything. Wouldn't it?

We decided we needed a Camper, so I bought this VW LT camper van, Spain was our destination, southwards to sun, sea and sand. More importantly we were towing four Jet Skis, a Zodiac Inflatable and a Johnston 40hp outboard, This was to be our new life; Beach bums, renting out the Jet Skis, lying around and getting tanned beside the Mediterranean Sea.

That initial day dream was now becoming a reality as the ships horn sounded and we were on our way.

We sailed out of port and instantly noted the force of the sea away from the safe haven of the harbour, "it's gonna be a rough one," I said shooting a knowing grin at Maria, she smiled back like an excited child at the entrance to a theme park.

That evening was very amusing as we all staggered uncontrollably like drunks, exploring the ship. The swaying and bobbing of the vessel made the mood on board as buoyant as the ship itself.

Everybody seemed to be enjoying wobbling about.

Raucous laughter could be heard all around as groups of people collided together.

We settled down in the show bar and chuckled as a band tried to retain a semblance of professionalism on their swaying scenario. Then, when the drummer fell off the stage taking his whole drum kit with him, they resigned themselves to laugh with the rest of us.

The next day was not quite so funny!

As we cruised past the west coast of France, it started to hit. The boat lurched violently

sideways throwing us across the cabin. "What the hell was that?" I spluttered.

The public address system crackled into life. The captain informed us that we were heading into 'some bad weather' and we should 'make ourselves comfortable'.

He was not lying!

The bow then pointed itself upwards, as if climbing a hill, and stayed like that for a unbelievably long time. I, sat on what use to be the wall, silenced in disbelief. The boat reversed its trajectory and headed downhill, my stomach reached my brain. There then came a bone wrenching crash as we hit the bottom of the wave, and the whole fibre of the boat reverberated like a metal crunching gong.
This carried on for twelve hours more as we clung to the bunk trying to hold on to our digestive systems.

We were informed that we were entering the Bay of Biscay, where the storm was raging at gale force twelve, Twelve!! Is there any stronger?

 

The brutal movement of the boat was incessant, our porthole would disappear under the water as we lolled sideways, then spring back up like a weeble clown that wobbles but wont fall down. This buoyancy self-correcting stuff was probably keeping us on top of this mountainous fervent, but was also responsible for cracking my rib. As we violently sprang back upright I was flung from my bunk and landed squarely on the door handle of the loo, which was where the floor use to be and with a nauseous crunch it parted in two.

The angry seas continued to batter us incessantly for hour after hour and at one point my better half, very innocently, asked

"is this normal?" I pondered this question momentarily, grimacing with the agony of the fracture. This was a girl who, as an adult, had never left the safety of the bosom of Somerset, and, in this world we found ourselves in, nothing was very normal.

My lack of reply drained the blood from her face, and the fear tingled between us. We both realized that there was a chance we might not get out of this alive. We clung onto each other in a breathlessly tight embrace that seem to last forever, eventually I whispered gently; “I am so privileged to know you babe.”

Our eyes widened with dread as we simultaneously had the irresistible yearning to contact our loved ones, but alas, there was no way of communicating in the prevailing conditions.

Then it got worse!
The pitching and rolling intensified unbelievably, the only respite was the long slow upward climb to the top of the twelve meter waves, and that second of stillness before we hurtled down the ravine beyond, awaiting to see if this valley would be the one that smashed the bows into oblivion.

The public address crackled into life again, "will you all please return to your cabins and lie down" was the request of the captain. I did not like the sound in his voice. That was fear! That was unquestionably fear I heard! Oh my God I thought, if our captain was nervous things must be bad.
"That’s it" I said, "we're not staying here, if we’re to die then its not in this box, and certainly not sober."

With that we crawled out the cabin and made our way up the stairs, clinging on to the rail during our furious descents, and scuttling on during the crests. With all the strange movements of the boat, the stairways became very confusing. We were not sure if we were going down the upstairs or up the downstairs. At one point we lost grip of the handrail, and tumbled back up the downstairs.
We eventually reached the main restaurant area. It was like a bomb site.

The upturned tables and chairs were clumped together and were ferociously sliding from one side to the other with the movement of the boat. It was definitely not safe in there.

We carried along the corridor, which was generously spattered with projectile curry. A sudden jerk of the boat thrust my true love into the arms of a passing stranger, both keeled over and rolled down the corridor in an ecstatic clinch, like some kind of porn film. They politely apologized and parted company.

We then came upon what was left of the piano bar. And it was full of people.

Groups were sat on the floor, with one arm around the bolted down bistro tables, plastic beer glasses in the other, desperately trying to hold on to the contents.

Amazed we slid through the door like dogs with worms, that scrape their bums along the floor in an attempt to stem the itch, and glanced at the bar.

Incredibly to our wondering eyes did appear a Spanish barman, strapped, with his belt, to the San Miguel pump, serving beer!

An Adonis of the beer pump, like a phoenix rising from the angry sea to serve cold beer to those in peril. What a result!!! We wormed our way across and ordered two beers. Now that god like chap attempted to get as much beer into the glass as was humanly possible, given he was strapped to a pump that had an ever shifting centre of gravity, the direction of the flow would change with the pitching of the boat. He tried to deliver them to us, still sat down, without drenching us too much.

I have met a few brave heroic people in my time but this chap ranked amongst the best!
"Cop hold 'ere mate" came a distinctly cockney voice from behind me. I swivelled round as saw a couple of right royal diamond geezers clung to a table, like pole dancers, " room for a couple 'ere" said one, so we slid in and clung on.

Now our new pole mates were on there way to "Fingeroler, Costa del Crime" they informed us. Apparently they had "a few good scams on!" we chatted for a while with with the bon homme that exists between people who share perilous danger.

The captain, sounding no less nervous, announced that we would not be allowed to enter Bilbao port as boats had broken from the moorings, it was to dangerous to pass, we were to 'heave too'-point into the wind and ride out the storm.

He also announced that the bistro, next to the piano bar, would serve chicken and chips! Apparently the chefs, with the same fortitude as our barman, had strapped themselves around the rail on their stainless steel counters, and had made food for all the ships company.

I found this quite odd as we had all been ordered back to our cabins and quickly suppressing the last supper Idea, set off for more beer.

A queue quickly formed outside the piano bar, all sat down, worm shuffling along to get some sustenance.

Now one thing our two cockneys friends had was an insolent, sharp and acid humour.

"You 'erd bout the lorry mate" started one of the cockneys, to a chap in the queue, "No?" was the reply.

"Well apparently a lorry has broke loose in the hold and is rolling back an forth all over the cars."

"Oh my god" said the chap and immediately related the story to all in his group.

Like throwing a stone in water, this rippled up and down the queue, but as in Chinese whispers there came back embellished stories of total carnage and squashed BMW’s. The lorry, apparently, was in danger of smashing the bow doors open and sending us to the bottom of the ocean. We were frequently asked what we knew of it! This entertained the cockneys no end and with the frequent charging of our glasses helped us through the long night.

At this point the cockneys noticed that the crew members who passed were wearing life jackets, sparking an indignant hail of east end abuse from them.

We were all trying, in our own ways, to suppress our fears! One of my last coherent memories, before slipping into alcohol assisted tranquillity, was my partner in crime singing the pleasant strains of the theme tune of "Titanic" to the tail of the queue.

Always the forever optimist!

As consciousness returned I awoke with a dull throbbing in my head. I slowly realized that the boat was extremely still and the throbbing was actually the engines steaming us in to port.

I jumped up with a colossal sense of liberation, relieved that the nightmare was at last over and we were to live to tell the tale.

I rushed up the stairs and out onto the deck.
I made my way to the bow, and stood squinting, trying to catch my first glimpse on our new land. My mood like the day was bright and fresh. I could tell by the quality of light that I was approaching foreign shores. Not even on the brightest summer day did a Somerset sky hold this quality.

This, mixed with the salty smell in my nostrils raised my anticipation to a fever pitch.

A few of the people from the queue last night were milling around excitedly. I caught a few commenting on the lorry that had apparently rolled around the hold, and stifled a little chuckle.

The sun struck my face and illuminated the shoreline in the distance.
Land, that was to be my new home.

The sharp contrast of the twinkling sea with the green countryside was strikingly beautiful.

My land!

Before too long we were pulling alongside the berth, greeted by a myriad of TV cameras and photographers! The whole of Spain had known of the ordeal we’d survived!