Chapter Eleven

A NEW START IN ENGLAND

 

Using the last of my allocation of employee travel I headed to London for a new life, and hopefully employment. As I relaxed in business class I felt a little out of place; on this flight I had no connection with Qantas or crewing. I was invited to the flight deck, but I still felt very uncomfortable in the presence of those 'start levers'. I didn't know how I was going to fare if I did secure a position flying a Boeing 747, or for that matter a Boeing 707, as the controls were similar.

 

Because my grandfather was born in Liverpool I was able to obtain a working permit for four years in England, so after being cleared by customs and immigration I made a hotel booking and headed for the city. I was very familiar with London, so to save money I caught a bus rather than a taxi. The weight of my suitcase must have changed the coefficient of friction on my leather soles, for no sooner had I alighted from the bus than I found myself flat on my back on the footpath. From the January heat of Sydney I had stepped into a patch of ice in the January winter of London. Embarrassed, I picked up my suitcases and with delicate caution edged my way to the warmth of the hotel. I had made a decision in Sydney to forgo a tax payment to enable me to have some cash to live on in London, and this hotel was the first taste I had of the poor exchange rate for the Australian dollar. I had never had to pay for a hotel room here before as my upmarket rooms were always provided.

 

I was so excited I couldn't sleep like I normally did to help me get over the jet lag and, wanting to get my new career off to a flying start, I headed to the Civil Aviation office to arrange the transfer of my Australian airline pilot's licence. The rules had now suddenly changed from those I had been quoted when telephoning from Sydney. The most I could expect to get was a commercial pilot's licence and that would only be after sitting an exam on British aviation law. At great expense I had to purchase the manuals on this subject, which, incidentally, were provided free of charge in Australia and New Zealand.

 

I moved to a bed and breakfast hotel in Earls Court and began the hours of reading and remembering. It was very different in Britain, as I had to contend with hot air balloons and airships in the rules. I had also brought the necessary 747 manuals with me, just in case someone might have been game enough to employ me. Although Qantas had not disputed the last medicals that had cleared me to fly before my forced retirement, their certificate of employment stated that I had left due to ill health. This detail was going to make finding employment difficult, as on one hand the Australian Civil Aviation Safety Authority (C.A.S.A.) had indicated that I was medically fit by renewing my licence, but on the other hand Qantas stated that I had resigned because of ill health. Qantas were in possession of all my medical reports and knew the full details of my illness, so in actual fact if Qantas had given me this certificate on my resignation I would have been in a position to claim on my loss of licence insurances. My voluntary insurance was with GIO Insurance and the premium had been taken from my salary, while the other was Qantas's own policy for their pilots.

 

I had a medical in London, and even though I still felt obsessed no one had recently said that I was, and I duly passed the British aviation medical without declaring my suicidal tendencies. While in London I also renewed my Australian pilot's licence, as by the stroke of my pen I mythically had the required number of flying hours in a similar mythical aircraft, and the best thing of all was that I had no panic attacks! When discussing my case in the Australian Senate, C.A.S.A. indicated that their standards were high, but I wonder how many desperate pilots have been able to sidestep the rules to suit themselves.

 

I studied daily the English aviation laws and regulations, mostly serenaded by the radio's continuous playing of the music from the current Phantom of the Opera. Coincidently, a year later my partner and I were fortunate, after standing in a queue for several hours, to be the last people to obtain cancelled seats. They were in the middle of the front row, and the closeness of the performers will stay forever in my mind, together with the antics of the musicians in the orchestra pit in full view below us.

 

While trying to promote my Santa Claus book in Sydney I had sent a copy to Rolf Harris, who was at the time visiting Australia, and he agreed to endorse it in a promotion that was about to be run with the Rotary Club and Westpac. Trying to gain his support once again, I sent some copies to him at the London Theatre where he was performing in a pantomime.

A fellow lodger came rushing to my room a few days later, gasping as he tried to get out, 'Rolf Harris is on the phone for you. Do you know him?'

Once again the star performer assisted me, and arranged for me to have an interview with his publishers, Hodder & Stoughton. They liked the book and were interested in publishing it, but considered that it was too long as it was. They arranged for it to be condensed, and from then on I waited in great anticipation for the daily mail delivery.

 

Gradually, I developed a fear of the London Underground and, as well as the claustrophobic feeling, I had a terrifying urge to simply step off the platform into the path of an arriving train. From then on I travelled in the red double-decker buses, where I could see all that was going on around me. Should I so desire, I could get off the bus whenever and wherever I wanted, as if there was ever going to be a panic situation at least I could talk to the driver. Even so, each time I caught a bus I kept asking myself, 'How can you ever expect to sit in a 747 again without panic?'

 

Several nights a week I would go to a bingo hall to try to win my fortune. This entertainment came to a sudden halt when out of the blue one evening another compulsion took over my body. For no reason at all I wanted to call out 'bingo', indicating that I had marked off all the required numbers, but that wasn't possible as the game had only just started. I had witnessed the embarrassment of a player who had genuinely made a mistake and called out 'bingo', so before anyone had a chance to point the finger at me I left my cards on the table and quietly walked out.

 

Deep down I was annoyed with myself for letting these compulsions get the better of me, and my relief came with the arrival of my girlfriend from Sydney. Now having someone to see the sights with, my study was put aside, with the obvious outcome that I failed the exam. It wasn't a great worry to me, though, as we had decided to buy a Volkswagen campervan and go travelling through France.

 

We found an orange beast, but after our first day out in it, finding it a little noisy on the open road, we decided to have it tuned. We were staying with my partner's mother seventy miles from London and chose to use a local garage 'Carcraft' to tickle it in the right places. After a couple of frustrating hours the perfectionist had to give up on getting all the right indications on his tuning machine, and we drove off with the engine still noisy.

 

The following day we were off to London, but after travelling for an hour down the motorway we were leaving a wartime smoke trail behind us, as well as hearing strange noises coming from the rear-mounted engine. To be on the safe side I pulled over to investigate the cause of the commotion, and on lifting the small door to the engine I was confronted by a hot and seething oily load of junk. It was obvious we weren't going to go very far now, and this terminally-ill engine, even though in pain, was forced to start to enable us to get off the motorway and onto a side road.

 

With a combination of hitchhiking and train travel we made it back to our departure point, having on the way devised our plan of action. We went straight to the Automobile Association (A.A.) and joined, our membership including the provision for roadside assistance and towing. The following day, with our mode of transport in reverse, we made it back to our parked Kombi, which even thieves didn't think was worth stealing.

 

While standing around contemplating my next move I was fascinated by all the neat little mounds of earth in the adjacent paddock.

'What are they growing?' I inquired of my English friend.

'They are mole holes,' I was informed with a tone of disgust.

I had only heard of moles in children's books and television programs, but now I could see another side of the pesky little creature.

 

What shall we do to make our call for help to the A.A. sound genuine, I pondered? It had to look as though we had just broken down, so I eventually started the engine, which sounded like something wanting to die as it banged and smoked. It just wanted to rest, so when it had heated enough I turned the life support off and let that poor engine shut down for what I thought was the last time. We had to walk to a farmhouse to ring the A.A. and after half an hour an officer on a motorcycle arrived to make a diagnosis. He needed to listen for only a few seconds to make his decision that the engine had practically perished and that our van would need to be transported to a garage. We only knew of one, and that was Carcraft back in Ipswich where we'd had it tuned.

 

An hour later we were sitting in the luxury of an A.A. retrieval truck with our orange baby on the back. It was decided that the only option was to fit an overhauled engine, and as we couldn't afford to have it done for us we pleaded with the owner of Carcraft to allow me to fit the engine in his car park. He must have felt pity for this Aussie, and as he was a learner pilot himself and had enjoyed listening to my Qantas stories while he was doing the original tune, he agreed to let me repair the Kombi.

 

My partner borrowed her mother's car and we headed for a VW engine reconditioner in London, where we purchased what looked like a brand new engine - or part of one anyway. It didn't have any extras on it such as the starter motor, generator or carburettor, as we were going to remove those from our old engine and install them on this one. I bought a manual on the Kombi, some basic spanners, and away I went, or tried to. As if to place this job even more out of my comfort zone, it started to snow.

 

Very soon the pages on how to remove the engine became smeared from my oily hands. Eventually, after some last minute consultations with the manual, the engine gave up the struggle and, with a thud, it was on the ground. It wasn't too heavy and with some ingenious lever devices I perched it in the back of the Kombi. It was still snowing and I had to remove the parts that were to be transplanted. The only cover I could get was in the cramped back of the Kombi. A bit like a heart surgeon doing a heart transplant from the confines of the patient's stomach!

 

After I had removed all the important parts, I was left with the sorry looking carcass and the engine then had to be returned to London as the trade-in on the reconditioned one. You know the feeling when you disassemble something and are sure that you'll remember where everything goes? That is, until the moment of truth arrives. Now more pages of the manual were getting soiled, as I had completely lost any idea of what went where and, for that matter, why. I was craving to go into Carcraft to ask some simple questions that would have saved me hours of frustration, but I didn't want to take the risk and outdo my welcome.

 

Eventually, I triumphed, and had the engine in position ready to be bolted up - except that one particular mounting hole in the engine had no thread. With no mobile phone to make a quick call, I had to wait for my next delivery of refreshments before I could be taken home to ring the reconditioner. Yes, they had missed putting a thread replacement in the hole and they had left it to me to find a firm to do it locally, at their cost of course.

 

After my brilliant exercise in positioning the engine ready for bolting I now had to remove it, find transport, and take it to have the thread installed. It cost only twelve pounds, but the outlay was half a day of my time and my frustration in trying to find the fault. I must have read that manual from cover to cover when trying to find a hint on why the engine wouldn't bolt in. I might have saved some money by carrying out this enormous feat myself, but no one in my circle of friends knew what I had gone through mentally. Our test journey was to be the original drive to London, but this time the troubled engine was in the back, a cold corpse. I was nervous as we drove past the area where we had broken down a week ago, wondering - will history repeat itself?

 

I had put aside any thoughts of flying aircraft again, and after a period of time we had the Kombi the way we wanted, ready for a great adventure in France. My partner was learning French from language books she had bought, but I was happy just to go along with the basics. As long as I could ask for bread and a camping site, that would get me through. In our thoughts were beautiful scenes of us picking grapes on some postcard vineyard, but unfortunately we never found the opportunity. Later though, to our relief, we found out that grape picking was very strenuous work, with the pay not being in keeping with the effort required. It seemed that the main source of pickers came from Portugal, where there was a local unemployment problem.

 

We had planned our travels to be in Pamplona in Spain for the traditional running of the bulls on the sixth day of the sixth month. Our Kombi was not keen on its first major mountain climb into Spain, but we treated it with respect and never pushed it, not like some of the stories we were about to hear. There was only one camping ground in Pamplona, but for this world famous event a separate camping area was made available, being referred to as the free camp. I think the young Australians and New Zealanders caused more of a stampede than the bulls! Between the two camps I counted over three hundred Kombi campervans in various tired and run down conditions.

 

There was a furious market for these in London at the beginning of summer, with the reverse situation at the end of it. Many Kombis were practically given away so that the owners could pay for their airfare home, with prospective buyers relying on the great VW name and adventure stories of those who had travelled before them. But, other than spending the purchase price, spending cash on general servicing wasn't part of any planned expenses. Only when something actually broke did these workhorses feel the hand of a mechanic.

 

It was a before dawn wakeup to find a safe viewing platform to watch the spectacle of the bulls running, but my heart was in my mouth as I watched the runners leading and taunting them. For the Spanish, any injury was taken in the victim's stride, but many foreigners were left licking their wounds after this impromptu hiccup in their travels. How much of their planned trip would they now have to cancel to accommodate the hospital bill?

 

I had seen a few excerpts of bullfights on television, and I was excited by the hype of the crowd and the crescendo as the bull came into the arena. I had never liked graphic blood scenes in television hospital programs, and would, at the crucial time, put my hands in front of my eyes, squinting through my fingers to see when it was safe to come out. The bullfight was for me a similar scene, except that there was never a time to come out of hiding. One fight was enough for us to watch, and I felt sick for days after as I remembered the torment that the bull had suffered.

I had in the past inflicted pain on animals that I was hunting, and at the time thought that it was okay. After being on the animal end of a rifle when I was shot in Hokitika, I would cringe at the sight of blood and the suffering of any animal from then on. Once, when what I thought was a great shot after one of my bullets went into a deer's leg, I still remember going up to it and seeing that the bullet had ricocheted through two other legs. This poor animal must have suffered a pain it couldn't understand as it fell to the ground, similar to the way I had done. The bulls were facing a comparable fate in an arena. Why do we perform these horrible acts on animals?

 

Our journey took us to other mass gatherings of people and, in contrast to the killings in Pamplona, the twice-daily marches and prayers in Lourdes for the ill and dying really brought a large lump to my throat. I estimated that there were at least 10,000 people at these marches, and at night-time the illumination and movement of the many candles being raised during hymns far out-performed any other spectacle I had witnessed. The faith and desperation of terminally-ill patients and their families had led to specially modified buses being built to bring these people from far and wide for the daily divine healing sessions.

 

My partner had a great interest in the inside of churches and would never pass one without taking a quick look inside. Every time she walked up the steps I would hedge when answering her normal question of why I wouldn't come in with her and, in fear of chastisement for being stupid, I kept my secret to myself. Although I'm not greatly religious, there was no way on this earth that I would be so blasphemous as to carry out my church obsession. I have since learnt that others have the same urge as I had, which was to shout out a particular pornographic word. If I had carried out this particular obsession I think the embarrassment and guilt would have haunted me forever; however, it was kept at bay because I could always walk away from the situation - unlike the 747 cockpit.

 

The small country of Andorra was next on our list of must-see places and a memorable week was spent in the clear mountain air of the deserted ski fields. It was going to be my good fortune to return here in the winter, when I would view it as a completely different and fascinating area.

 

Time was moving on, so it was back to France, with more great food, wine and some interesting pieces of history around each corner. Castles, forts, and the magnificent structure of Pont du Gard, an ancient Roman aqueduct. Since my drawing projects at school I had been fascinated with stone buildings, especially the 'keystone' in arches, and travelling through France I was certainly being spoilt. When I looked at the stonework on the terraces up the sides of the hill I marvelled at the work of those in the distant past.

 

We were travelling on a tight budget and 'free camped' wherever we could. One evening as we and some other Kombi travellers prepared to spend the night next to a beach, our routine was interrupted by two policemen trying to tell us that there was no camping allowed. It was a confusing conversation, as their standard of English was as good as our standard of French. A duty-free purchase of alcohol from Andorra saved the day. When they bid us a good night a couple of hours later, having consumed well over any country's legal alcohol limit, they drove off with their blue light flashing. The language barrier had not stopped everyone from having a pleasant evening, and the alcohol was still cheaper than the camping fees that we had been quoted earlier in the evening.

 

While passing through Chamonix we took an excursion up Mont Blanc in a cable car. At the summit of the ride we boarded a gondola that travelled seven kilometres across glaciers to the border of Italy. It would have to have been one of the world's most spectacular rides! I remember the voyage vividly, especially the fact that I felt no fear whatsoever. Sitting comfortably in the gondola was in far contrast to the mountaineers below us traversing across the glacier.

 

After three months on the road our holiday came to an end, but I was excited that soon I would be reading the new manuscript of the Santa story. We took up residence in London, and while I was on the dole waiting for a 747 job my partner carried on her profession as a nurse. I received the shortened manuscript of the Santa story from Hodder & Stoughton, but thought that in such a shortened form the original story had lost its charm. I hired a typewriter and, to my partner's annoyance, I spent the days working on my shortened version. A psychiatrist later told me that he thought my compulsion for the book was because I had associated my life with being similar to Nicholas, and the obsession with the book was my way of release.

 

After using reels and reels of correction tape, I finished condensing the story and with great pride took it hopefully to the publishers. They seemed happy with my results, suggesting that now they would look for an illustrator to complete the book. Several tense weeks passed as I waited for the news that an artist had been found. I was impatient, and on a visit to Hodder's office it was indicated to me that the royalties to the author and illustrator were 10%, but in my case the illustrator would get 9% and I would receive a measly 1%.

 

My heart sank, as I had put all my hopes into the book. Not to be beaten, I tried to find my own illustrator, and although I submitted some draft pictures these were not to the publisher's liking. Needing some cash, I asked the publisher for an advance on the book, which prompted them to tell me where to go.

 

When travelling in Europe I found that keeping my family notified of an up-to-date address for forwarding mail was troublesome, and while reflecting on the mail that I had missed I came up with a brainwave. I had thought of a business idea that I called 'Keep in Touch'. The idea was that travellers to Europe would have their mail sent care of 'Keep in Touch', and on receiving a phone call or any other advices, I would courier their mail to the address they intended to be at. If for some reason they didn't collect their mail, then it would be returned to me for delivery to their next destination. A campervan rental company allowed me the use of one of their spare offices as my business would work well for their customers.

 

One of the Australian and New Zealand magazines in London gave me a great write-up, and on the first day of operation I sat down in my office next to the phone, ready to start my new enterprise. Several days went by; then weeks - without one phone call. What I had thought of as a great service to travellers was not to be, so, disappointed, I abandoned the idea. Nowadays travellers enjoy the benefits of email and internet cafes, so perhaps my idea was a little ahead of its time.

 

After a cold and bleak Christmas my partner came home one day and said that she had booked a week-long ski holiday in Andorra, for which the last bookings were on special. I was forty-nine years old and had never skied, but as the venue was Andorra I decided to take the plunge and go with her. When I was flying for Qantas I had never considered skiing, as I didn't think that my leg would stand up to the strain and I didn't want to jeopardise my career for a few days of fun.

 

A tiring day and a half later our long bus ride came to a conclusion and on stepping out into the fresh cold mountain air we attempted to limber up our stiff bodies. How different Andorra looked under a blanket of snow. The ski hire shops that had been boarded up on our last visit were displaying a Paris-like fashion show, with an array of colourful ski attire being paraded.

 

I was bewildered by all the questions asked of me by the Spanish-speaking ski technicians, but went along with this new terminology and was fitted with strange- feeling boots, not really sure if they were too tight, too loose, or just right. Shortly after, we were back on the bus and heading to the ski slopes. The activity looked amazing to me, and I wondered how I was ever going to be part of this scene.

 

Our busload of skiers and intending skiers were herded together like a flock of sheep ready to be drafted. Like choosing those with the best fleece, the experienced skiers were partnered with guides, while the small bunch of us were left like little lambs falling over each other just trying to stand up. I found it all too frustrating as the ski instructor showed us a quick manoeuvre and then urged us to try it one by one. How could I perform any manoeuvre when I couldn't stand up for more that a couple of minutes? The one-hour lesson finished without my having achieved a thing, which was disappointing as I thought I would soon master this new sport. It must be easy - just look at the kids.

 

With a few hours to spare until my next lesson I ventured to the nursery slope and got used to the long planks of wood at my own pace. I watched the children and other novices being shown what to do and, copying their movements and with my hands on my knees, I was soon able to steer, which allowed me to cope with the afternoon lesson a little easier.

 

When it was back to my own devices again I was standing, not sure which run was which and what catastrophe might be hiding around the bend, when a fellow passenger from the bus told me to try the green run a short distance away.

'What is a green run?' I asked.

'Very easy for you,' he replied, and pointed his ski pole to entice me to try it.

 

I had only gone down the slope a short distance when I decided that I should have abseiled down, it seemed so steep to me. Each time I traversed across the slope I couldn't stop, and relied instead on the might of the trees at the side to do the job for me. This sport was certainly not for me, and I removed my skies and stumbled my way down to the bottom, only to be horrified by the method of returning to the top. It was a Poma lift, which I had never tried before in my life. Where was the chair lift that I was expecting when I made the decision to walk down, rather than climb the short distance by comparison back to the top? I watched for several minutes how skiers mounted the seat at the end of the long pole hanging from the moving cable. I decided that it wouldn't be that hard and I took my place in the queue.

 

When the moment of truth came, I went splat, and also at every attempt after that! There was no other way for me to get to the top so, ungainly in the strange boots, I set off on what felt like a climb up Mt Everest. As I struggled my way up I didn't feel so bad about my failure, as several skiers fell off the tow on some of the rough patches. At least they could ski down and get on that stupid thing again to have another go at getting to the top.

 

Completely exhausted, I made it to the summit to find all the bus passengers waiting for me. When I confronted the skier who had sent me on this excursion he admitted that he hadn't known my skiing ability was so basic. The social evening made up for any of the day's disappointments and, with perseverance over the next week, I made it to a light green standard, which was somewhere between the nursery slope and a normal beginner's green run.

 

On returning to London I had to find a job, as all my ventures had been a flop. I saw a driving position advertised in a newspaper that took my interest. The job was to deliver sandwiches in the evening, a bonus being the personal use of the small van. The procedure was to arrive at a small restaurant in London at 3.00 pm, collect several trays of packaged sandwiches, and deliver them to service stations. The orders were listed on a printed sheet and it was just a matter of making a simple delivery and removing the out-of-date sandwiches. When the run was finished I could go home.

 

For the first few days a person from management would travel with me to show me the ropes, but this was not for me. I took a tape recorder on my first and only instructional trip and the guide described all the navigation key points, dictating onto a tape. On the following nights while learning the route it was just a matter of playing the tape. The hardest part of the job was sorting out the sandwiches in the darkness of the van so, to make things easier, after collecting my supply I called in at our flat, which was on the beginning of the run. Here I sorted out the deliveries, and from then on it was just a matter of driving and delivering the pre-sorted sandwiches. The unfortunate incentive of being able to knock off when I had delivered my load gave me the inducement to speed, and I had to make a concerted effort to reduce my motorway speed to well below the one hundred miles per hour I had crept up to when I became familiar with the roads. It was like an adrenalin rush, especially when it was wet and the windscreen wipers were going so fast it sounded as though they were panicking.

 

On my induction run I had been fascinated when we passed a floodlit hill donned with skiers. It was an artificial ski slope and it gave people a chance to refresh their skills before hitting the ski slopes of Europe. A few days later my partner and I paid the slope a nosy visit, and our eyes caught a sign offering free skiing in return for working a similar number of hours in the ski and boot-fitting room. I couldn't sign up quickly enough as I now had a taste of skiing, and life would be pretty good with a free car and free skiing!

 

My Australian ingenuity soon became apparent and I was asked to do some repairs to the matting on the slope. The matting was several zigzag lengths of stainless steel 'U' sections laced together. Inside the 'U' section, brush-type bristles were fastened and they protruded up about two centimetres, which was the skiing surface. A bit like skiing on a bed of scrubbing brushes! The problem was that the bristles at either end of the metre-long strips gradually became loose and fell out, leaving the sharp corners exposed. These corners bent down slightly as skis passed over them and the perfect honing effect from the sole of the ski transformed them into scalpel blades, ready to operate on anyone or anything that fell on them. Several skiers had serious cuts to their clothing, but the horrible part was when their bodies ended up with unnecessary gashes.

 

I experimented with different ideas to prevent the problem and the best idea that seemed successful was to cut the last ten centimetres off the strips and use that shorter section of matting in another section of the slope. I was now becoming experienced at repairing the matting, and was offered a fulltime job in charge of maintenance. It was an end to the sandwich deliveries as now I had a position with some status, and I gladly returned the van.

 

One of the perks in the mornings was to inspect the slope for damage, while at the same time keeping my eyes peeled for one pound coins that a tumbled skier had inadvertently lost. As I worked on repairing the slope it was obvious that there was a design fault in the matting, but the managers who had actually purchased and installed the matting for the owner would not listen to my warnings of impending serious injuries, or my cautionary advices of the expected litigation. The owner was a similar age to me and was also a boating enthusiast, so I enjoyed our long chats, especially as the managers couldn't say that I was shirking my job. When I told the owner of my concerns about the dangerous condition of the slope he asked me to film it. Puzzled skiers would manoeuvre past me as I placed a small piece of red insulation tape on each lethal corner. When I had finished the task the white matting looked like a red poppy field.

 

Early the following morning I scrambled to the top of the slope and, like an uninvited intruder, began videotaping the hundreds of 'poppies'. The managers must have sensed that I was up to no good, as no sooner had I started my filming than they arrived from out of nowhere yelling and demanding that I stop filming. I pointed the camera at the ground and we walked down the slope with abuse flying back and forward. When I told them that the owner had asked me to make the report their detrimental comments about him were being recorded on what they thought was a silenced video.

 

It was now 7.00 am and I went to the owner's house to show him the film, but was refused admission by his two German shepherd dogs. As he also owned the adjacent sports club I assumed that he was still in bed after socialising late into the night, and I headed back to my Kombi to decide what to do. When approaching the van I saw one of the managers climbing out, clutching my video machine with a look of delight, not knowing that the incriminating film was in my hot little hand.

 

I thought it best to leave the area and as I drove out of the gate the two irate managers were in hot pursuit; they must have discovered that the video machine was empty of film. We went round and round several roundabouts as I called out to intrigued pedestrians asking them directions to the nearest police station. The pursuers must have realised the futility of the chase and returned to the ski slope, while I waited a safe distance away for a reasonable time to wake the owner. After viewing my film and listening to the managers' abusive comments about him, the owner immediately transferred me to his sports club to work on the maintenance. There was far too much friction for me to stay working on the ski slope.

 

I now was in daily contact with the owner, and when he bought a new cruiser I was given the exciting job of delivering it. Not just a short delivery, but from Cannes in France all the way down the French Riviera to Benidorm in Spain. The owner's son came with me for the experience, and after our tiring non-stop drive to Cannes we unfortunately arrived on a Sunday and had to search for the marine broker who had organised the sale. Eventually he was found and, begrudgingly, he came to the marina to show us the basics of the vessel. A ten-minute run around the bay was the limit of his instruction, and after buying a few provisions we were ready to set sail.

 

'Charts. Where are the charts?' I enquired from my young deckhand as we were about to head out to sea. It was back to the marina and our first attempt at berthing this beauty before we had got any feel for her at all. Charts were not a regular sales item at the chandlery shop and we virtually had to start the first few hours of our journey with road maps, until we proudly called St-Tropez marina some seventy kilometres away for a berth for the night. Most of that day's outing was spent experimenting with the trim to obtain the best performance, as the brief tuition by the broker had disappeared from our memories in the excitement of setting off!

 

I was on a budget and volunteered to stay on board that evening and keep watch, while my young single assistant went out to paint the town. Well, he could, as he had the bankroll of cash for buying the tanker load of fuel that we must have used on the voyage.

 

The glamour soon abated and the days became monotonous as we bounced over the wind-induced choppy seas. The boat had a navigational system, but after studying the manual I couldn't get the system to indicate that we were even in the Mediterranean Sea, so we had to rely on our newly-purchased charts, being careful to note the refuelling stops. No longer were we saying to each other, 'It's my turn now,' as it became a chore to steer - although it was good when for a time you could obtain a higher cruising speed than your co-driver by fiddling with the trim!

 

The ownership papers for the boat had not arrived in London before our departure and every day we made phone calls to try and locate them. I had a limited entry visa into Spain and wouldn't take any chances of crossing the border from France in a vessel I had no papers for, even though the owner's son was on board.

 

Meanwhile, the owner, expecting his new pride and joy to be in Benidorm for his impending holiday, must have been tearing his hair out trying to locate these papers. His frustrations eventually rubbed off onto one of his office staff, who admitted she had filed them, unaware that they were needed immediately. Now not willing to allow them out of his sight, the owner and some of his friends drove to the small port where we were marooned, and immediately we were on the way again. His son, who had now had enough of boating for a while, drove the owner's van to Benidorm and as none of the new crew had an interest in the running of the boat it was now my sole charge.

 

After one night's stopover in Spain, the owner, who had no fear of the dangers of boating, insisted that we carry on during the night to reach our destination. I had visions of all the fishing line buoys I had seen and was very dubious about travelling through them at night. I had experienced rope around a propeller on my own boats, and without any diving equipment it's a hard task unravelling fishing line underwater. No sooner than you start to find an end to the tangle than your body commands you to resurface for air. We compromised, and the owner agreed with my wish to keep our speed down, giving us some chance to see and avoid any impending disaster.

 

When the lights of Benidorm rose above the horizon the passengers livened up in anticipation of their night out on the town, even though our arrival was well after midnight. It was obvious that I had not experienced the nightlife in Spain before, as once again I kept watch while the others stayed out until dawn.

 

I had finished working at the sports club the day we set out to deliver the cruiser, and while I was enjoying the 'pleasures' of the Mediterranean coastline my partner was preparing our Kombi for another discovery trip. Oh, to have had the convenience of email to arrange our rendezvous instead of through a third person via a Spanish callbox telephone. I was catching a bus for the twenty-six-hour journey to Paris, while my partner was trying to board a cross channel ferry from Dover in England to Dieppe in France. It was lucky for her that she was allowed to board the ferry, as the Kombi, knowing what was in store for it, refused to start. It was only through the kindness of the loaders pushing her on board that she managed to make the sailing.

 

In the meantime, I was trying to ask directions for the train that would take me from Paris to Dieppe, but the response I received wasn't very helpful, as the only French I knew was 'two bagels please', or 'what is the price for one camping car for one night?'

 

On the cross channel voyage the Kombi must have had second thoughts about the impending trip and decided to disembark the ferry under its own power. The timing was perfect as I arrived at the harbour just as my breakfast was being cooked, and for the next hour or so my partner and I were both excitedly exchanging stories of our achievements over the past two weeks.

 

Our travels this time took us through Portugal and Spain until we reached Gibraltar. We were now at the bottom of Europe and we journeyed up the east coast of Spain with no particular destination in mind. My partner was then a little bit pregnant, and our daily distance travelled was reduced somewhat.

 

Eventually we made it to Benidorm, and with great pride I took her to the marina to show off the cruiser I had delivered. It was no longer the pristine beauty that I had delivered, and the hull was covered in seaweed and other marine life, so much so that it had become a feeding ground for hundreds of fish. I rang the owner and, after telling him the state his boat was in, with fingers crossed, I offered to clean it for him in exchange for our being able to stay on board. How could he refuse such an offer, and now I played the part of a proud boat owner, rubbing and scrubbing until the boat was restored to the condition it had been in when I had first stepped on board in Cannes.

 

After a couple of weeks we were shattered to learn that the owner and some friends were flying down for a nautical holiday and we were given our eviction notice. When they arrived we offered our services as general deckhands, sleeping in the Kombi. I did most of the cooking for them when they weren't out on the town, and I also became sailing master, engineer and waiter. It was all great fun until the owner suggested that we have a 'quick' run to Majorca. He had done the trip in his previous boat, which was a lot larger and more equipped for navigation.

 

Knowing the perils of being lost at sea, I managed to borrow some charts and at 5.00 am on the morning of the voyage my partner and I quietly slipped the cruiser out of her berth. The throb of the two diesel engines must have lulled the passengers into a deeper sleep, as we were well out to sea when, one by one, they staggered bleary-eyed on deck.

 

On my flights with Qantas I had noticed that there always seemed to be white caps on the Mediterranean Sea, and today was no exception. It had been like a millpond when we set sail, and I mistakenly thought the day's outing to Majorca was going to be a breeze. The ocean had a different idea and it must have taken pleasure in watching what had now become a tiny cork in the vast area encased by a landless horizon. The practice I'd had playing around with the trim was to no advantage now, as our speed dropped to zero each time we climbed up one of the steep white capped waves.

 

To me, it was a similar scenario as flying into bad weather in an unprepared aircraft. Forgoing the disappointment of your passengers, it takes courage to convince those without fear that there is danger ahead. The squirminess of some of the passengers who had overindulged the night before induced them to give me their loud support for my decision to return to port.

 

Now was going to come the crucial manoeuvre of turning around in this boiling sea. Hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of vessels have foundered when they have been forced to execute this delicate turn, as so much depends on the timing and selection of the waves. The great horsepower of the two diesels seemed to have gone to pasture when the turn was initiated, and for those few vulnerable seconds my heart was in my mouth, for if disaster struck then maybe I had misjudged the vital time to turn. Perhaps with fifty per cent good luck and fifty per cent skill we were soon riding the crests of the waves, making record speed home.

 

It doesn't take long for the fear to disappear when you think you're back in a safe environment and, with our boating adventures behind us, we travelled back through France, stopping at our favourite haunts until it was time for the homeward ferry. It was again all over, yet we still had so much to see of the buildings and cultures of Europe.

 

Summer was at an end, and as the days shortened we wondered about bringing up our baby in the cold and dampness of London. I was still concerned about that tax I hadn't paid in Australia, and so we chose to return to my home country of New Zealand.