The Would-Be Sailor.

Sailor.

Many-many years ago, my wife and I -with another couple, went on vacation in former
Yugolslavia now known as Croatia. The vacation resort was near the small coastal
town of Porec and lay on a pebbled beach with trees coming really close to the
shoreline.

We did the things that most couples did on holiday and visited some nearby
caverns and a vast stretch of water called Lim Fjord, an inland lake where the movie
'The Vikings' was made with Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis.
I must state that the two movie stars weren't there, although I had hair back-then
and maybe, just maybe, I could have been mistaken for Jamie-Lee's father!
(Come on guys, I need the confidence-boost!)

My wife and the other couple would occasionally sunbathe on the uncomfortable
stones that doubled as a beach and at those times, I was allowed to do what I like.
I know this sounds like I'm some-sort half-wit or nieve fool, but in reality, I'm not
one for laying under the sun and so politely, I would ask my companions if it was
okay if I go and do 'my special thing'
(Oh Gosh, Boy In A Dress, don't say anything that you'll get banned for!!)

I don't get money... I don't. I hate the stuff because it changes people and turns
the best of us into hand-wringing haters and distrusting teeth-grinders.
Without coming off as a smart-ass, I've been told by my better-half that we're 'okay'
for money and it's not something that at our age that we should concern ourselves
about.

I've worked all my life and worked all the hours the big-fella sent. I regularly put
in a eighty-to-ninety hour shift and with my savvy-wife pulling down a grand salary,
we worked and saved, saved and worked.
Well. I worked and she saved, but considering she's ten-times smarter than me,
that makes it okay.

But I'm no dummy. Luckily, my wife knows how this crazy world works and so, I have
a good life and can continue to exist in my 'Disneyland'-like perception of who I am.
(No meds needed, huh?!!)

(Get back to the tale, yer' eyeless idiot!)
So with the few sheaves of Dinar (and I really mean that when we were there, we
took £300 in spending money and it was the equivalent of being a quarter-millionaire!)
... I went down to where a dilapidated shed waited near the shoreline and well away
from the bikini-clad sun-worshippers and paddling public.
That's where I went to hire a canoe.
The 'soft' currency as long-gone sadly because of the county's violent-past, but I
still have a few notes stashed in my attic, just in case.

The money I'd acquired was from the change that I received when I'd gone to the
bar in the evenings with one of the large notes. A large note that my wife gave me.
I told you I never understood money!
So with the change clutched in my sun-tan lotion-smelling hand and the same stuff
wiped on my nose (by her of course!)... I would sneak off to see my new-found friend
in the shack.

The old guy was always glad to see me and after we'd clumsily agreed which fibre
-glass vessel I was going to use, I set forth on my expedition.
Boy In A Dress, the last of the sea-faring voyagers.

Now to the south, there was a nudist beach and to the north, more holiday resorts
waited to see this intrepid explorer sail by and wave with a confident look on his
face.
Do I go and oggle the bare-assed holiday-makers with their beer-bellies and
stretchmarks? Or do I push my paddle towards where ski-jets roared across the
mill-pond surface of the sea and crowds of pallid-skinned tourists screaming at
passing jellyfish?
Neither.

Far out across the smooth water, two islands waited. The nearest one was around
a mile out and was probably a hundred feet in diameter. It was circular and was sparse.
Some long grass and hillocks, but no trees.

Behind the this 'baby' island, my goal awaited, the large atoll that others were going
to via motorboats and ski-jets. Two mile out and unreachable to those of another time.
Motorboats and ski-jets... machines for the frivolous and the weak!

The 'daddy island' called to me, it mocked my small craft and my fawn knee-length
shorts. I imagined the island-visitors laughing and pointing at the strange-young man
on the faraway beach with his hands on his hips and a determined look on his face.
"See how the silly Englander thinks he can navigate his way here in that paltry bucket...!
Look at his thin legs and the chipped-paddle!"

But we knew. Me, the old guy and the canoe.

So we began. We cruised through the water like a shark and as the paddle-blade steered
me past the floating carrier-bags and forgotten beer bottles that bobbed like sea-mines,
I dared a glance back at the canoe's owner.

The old man watched from his perch on the saw-horses that kept his four or five boats
from the ground, the faded shirt and the rolled-up jeans told of an easy life in a sun-kissed
country. Both of us had no idea what the future would hold for his homeland as he waved his
approval.
Onwards.

The calm water indicated that I was in the shallows and had nothing to fear, my muscles felt
good as I ignored the imagined jeers of the onlookers. I pressed on.
The small island was just a few yards away when I spotted the jutting rocks near to my decided
landing position was to be and so, with a grunt, I began to navigate my way around the chunk
of scrubland.

It was a toilet. After pulling my canoe far enough out of the water to make sure I wouldn't become
marooned, I discovered why this island had nobody laying in the sun on it or swimming it's quiet
waters.
The people who visited the larger island used this one to... well, to do their 'business' on.
It was everywhere.

Offering a tight-lipped grimace at the horrible scene, I picked up my paddle and peered
towards the jumbo island where people cavorted on it's rocky shore that faced the mainland.
"You're next" I muttered and stepped to my trusty boat.

The waves came after about five minutes and setting my jaw and shoulders to imply to nature
that I would not be deterred from my mission, the little canoe picked up speed in the choppy
waters.
On and one, I rowed and as the faint sounds of the rock-lounging tourists came to my ears,
I wondered what I would do when I reached the large piece of land far out at sea.

Then it occurred to me, why go to where they are? Why not go around the island and find a
quieter place?
So with a plan in-mind, I steered slightly to the left and began the second part of my journey,
to plot the 'Daddy Island' and find a haven.

It was hard-going, the waves became larger and my little canoe rocked alarmingly. On the
horizon, I could see larger tankers just beyond the sun's haze and I wondered if I would
accidently wander into shipping lanes. Focus BIAD, focus.

As I ploughed a wake through the rough sea, it became apparent that the island wasn't
round... it was tadpole-shaped.
The 'tail' stretched out to where green water waited, deep serious water that a little craft
like mine would struggle and maybe even capsize. What should I do?
It would be prudent to turn the canoe around and go back, it would be sensible to return
to the safety of the shallows and the beach.
What would Captain Cook do? What would Magellan decide?

Head-down and plunging my paddle deep, I pushed forward and dared Davy Jones to
throw his dice. My sun-burnt shoulders ached and sweat mixed with the drying salt on my
brow as I forged on.

The sea became rougher and the canoe began to ship water, we're not going to make
it are we, my little-friend? There was no beach to turn to and as I looked round for help,
I knew that my options were thin. Ten fathoms deep and only hull-knocking ghosts for
company, oh Gosh.
Will I smell of storm lanterns and sea-kelp? Will I ring the midnight bell on some rotting
galleon far below and peer towards the twinkling surface with envious eyes?
Steer my hand, big-fella.

I struggled on and just as I spied where the pointed-land came to an end and where the
domain of octopi and nurse sharks began... I saw him.

It was a male, a man sitting on a metal chair at a small table with a parasol shading him
and the botte of wine resting beneath it. He wore a light-coloured jacket and slacks, he
leaned easily on the chair and gazed out at the silent comings-and-goings of the big ships
on the Adriatic.

The headland seemed to make an ideal place for somebody to rest awhile and take in
the sea air, and even though I rocked and rolled on the view he was enjoying, I could see
the sense in it. And the small beach beneath where he sat.

We never spoke as I emptied the water from the boat, I was only a few yards away from
where he sat and drank his dark claret and yet, I felt it impolite to disturb his time.

With my backside of my shorts soaked and my flip-flops squeaking as I clambered back
into my canoe, the smile came again as I realised he'd done what I only hoped to do.
And with style -to boot!

Over a beer in the evening, I related the above tale to my fellow-holidaymakers and I
received a dubious look for my telling. Sea-madness? Sun-stroke...? or just a flight of
fancy?

But I know I saw him and he saw me, I know and so does that little canoe.
Where ever it is.