Yacht handover was scheduled for 12.30pm today.
We might have surged out of harbour, powered by the white heat of indignation at 5.30pm, cursing everyone we could think of to the seventh generation. Instead, as the heat of the day had passed, we sipped on sun-downers and eased past the super-yachts, out of harbour and into the freedom of the Argolic Gulf.
Between 12.30pm and 5.30pm, Jason, our friendly handover manager took us through the yacht's inventory and showed us the ropes....literally. Cups and spoons all accounted for, there was the small matter of the anchor that wouldn't release (and presumably wouldn't raise if it did release). Not relishing the prospect of spending the week forcibly at anchor in the mouth of the harbour, we flagged it as an issue.
'If it no work, heet wiv hammer' he said in an accent honed in the fires of the Marmaris Kebab Shop.
'But there is no hammer on the inventory list' we relied limply.
'You no worry. Heet wiv GPS instead' he responded with a rogueish glint, but not, apparently, any practical suggestion for how to explain the shattered GPS casing to Stubbled Greek Boss Man on our return.
'Where is the auto-pilot?' we enquired.
'Eez in the port locker but you no need it' he explained with a shrug. 'Theez boat, she sell like a mer-med'.
Ignoring the unflattering comparisons between our home for the next seven days and some scaley sub-acquatic fish-women who didn't even have a Competent Crew certificate, we accepted that the AP was broken without exposing the poor man to the embarrassment of actually having to say so.
When you discover that you have chartered a lemon, there is very little you can do. The barriers to normal pre-departure negotiations presented by language, distance and the absence of anyone with access to the receipted credit card payment slip, are usually enough to frustrate your best efforts. Add to this the actual bars on the charter company door and the deal was probably sealed, and not in our favour. The best we could hope was that the lemon was juicy and would go six ways in our departure Gin and Tonic.
Before embarkation, Stubbled Greek Boss Man appeared on the quayside enthusiastically waving a silver lapel badge for the skipper. Reluctantly I pinned it to my chest and instantly regretted not having put my shirt on first. He pulled me to one side as I dabbed my bleeding decolletage with a tissue.
'You no careece ma spray-hood. Eet cost alot of many' he whispered menacingly.
As the breeze blew the bow around, we cast off. We narrowly avoided sinking both the security deposit and the neighbouring boat, unhelpfully parked at 90 degrees to us, all the time feeling the laser beam stare of Stubbled Greek Boss Man boring into the back of our necks. It was nine months since our last sailing excursion and it was all a bit rusty. Add to this, the heightened performance anxiety that flows from nearly trashing not one but two, hundred thousand pound play-things, whilst maneouvering like an excited labrador on ice, and drinks were well deserved.
As the badge glinted in the early evening sunlight, a sense of gin-fuelled doom descended on me like a cloud. What did they teach me in Classics and Mythology? Ah, I remember.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
We might have surged out of harbour, powered by the white heat of indignation at 5.30pm, cursing everyone we could think of to the seventh generation. Instead, as the heat of the day had passed, we sipped on sun-downers and eased past the super-yachts, out of harbour and into the freedom of the Argolic Gulf.
Between 12.30pm and 5.30pm, Jason, our friendly handover manager took us through the yacht's inventory and showed us the ropes....literally. Cups and spoons all accounted for, there was the small matter of the anchor that wouldn't release (and presumably wouldn't raise if it did release). Not relishing the prospect of spending the week forcibly at anchor in the mouth of the harbour, we flagged it as an issue.
'If it no work, heet wiv hammer' he said in an accent honed in the fires of the Marmaris Kebab Shop.
'But there is no hammer on the inventory list' we relied limply.
'You no worry. Heet wiv GPS instead' he responded with a rogueish glint, but not, apparently, any practical suggestion for how to explain the shattered GPS casing to Stubbled Greek Boss Man on our return.
'Where is the auto-pilot?' we enquired.
'Eez in the port locker but you no need it' he explained with a shrug. 'Theez boat, she sell like a mer-med'.
Ignoring the unflattering comparisons between our home for the next seven days and some scaley sub-acquatic fish-women who didn't even have a Competent Crew certificate, we accepted that the AP was broken without exposing the poor man to the embarrassment of actually having to say so.
When you discover that you have chartered a lemon, there is very little you can do. The barriers to normal pre-departure negotiations presented by language, distance and the absence of anyone with access to the receipted credit card payment slip, are usually enough to frustrate your best efforts. Add to this the actual bars on the charter company door and the deal was probably sealed, and not in our favour. The best we could hope was that the lemon was juicy and would go six ways in our departure Gin and Tonic.
Before embarkation, Stubbled Greek Boss Man appeared on the quayside enthusiastically waving a silver lapel badge for the skipper. Reluctantly I pinned it to my chest and instantly regretted not having put my shirt on first. He pulled me to one side as I dabbed my bleeding decolletage with a tissue.
'You no careece ma spray-hood. Eet cost alot of many' he whispered menacingly.
As the breeze blew the bow around, we cast off. We narrowly avoided sinking both the security deposit and the neighbouring boat, unhelpfully parked at 90 degrees to us, all the time feeling the laser beam stare of Stubbled Greek Boss Man boring into the back of our necks. It was nine months since our last sailing excursion and it was all a bit rusty. Add to this, the heightened performance anxiety that flows from nearly trashing not one but two, hundred thousand pound play-things, whilst maneouvering like an excited labrador on ice, and drinks were well deserved.
As the badge glinted in the early evening sunlight, a sense of gin-fuelled doom descended on me like a cloud. What did they teach me in Classics and Mythology? Ah, I remember.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
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