EXTRACT/
I gazed out on a geckoless sea, as the French boat, "Karak" left this morning. Sunday 16th February, 2003. The couple were my favourite people in Peniche even though we only talked in passing. As I made my way to a pastelaria for breakfast, George was on his way back from the covered market clutching a plastic bag full of rolls. He shook my hand firmly and then held up his rolls. I exclaimed, "Ah, du pain" ("Aha bread"), George, eyes smiling, replied, "Mais oui" ("But yes"), Feeling really competent in speaking French I plunged into the shallow pool of my knowledge. I said, "Pour mange' avec du buerre et la confiture" ("To eat with butter and jam"), George, his beard looking like a tide rip over the shoal of his chin, said, "Certainement ... est le miel"
("Certainly ... and honey"), I began to wonder if I was delaying George and his freshly baked rolls were going cold, so I said, a conclusive, "Bien" ("Good"), But George added, "Ou avec des oranges" ("Or with oranges."), I was confused by this development in our brief chat and by the idea of eating bread with oranges. So I tried to resolve it by saying, "Ah oui? ... Du pain ... avec des oranges?" (What? ... Bread ... with oranges?), A grey moustache poured around his mouth in two curling eddies, as George said, "Mais oui biensure" (But yes certainly), Failing to mix together the taste of oranges and bread in my imagination, I fell back on table manners, saying, "Bon appetit" (Enjoy your food). George held up his bag of rolls, and twinkled his eyes at me, "A beintot" (Seeya). I walked on trying to imagine eating bread with oranges and slowly my mind found the concept which I needed. It was marmalade, I realised, marmalade is eaten with bread.
I had been away from the UK for six months and somehow the idea of marmalade had been forgotten. George dressed in well worn pullovers and plain slacks whether at sea or in port. He moved energetically and lightly, with a stance I have noted in other long distance cruising folk. He looked balanced on his feet with arms slightly apart and large open hands. The fingers were permanently swollen into extra strength and his stance was one of readiness to catch hold of a swinging boom or a person in the midst of a fall.
Helene was feminine with thick, well kept hair andshe wore glasses. She was a little smarter than George. There was colour in her clothing - sunset reds, storm cloud mauves and sea greens. On cold windy days they wore matching red bobble hats. The majority of the time they remained inside the boat with the main hatch slid closed. They also took trips to places where they could walk along the seafront or in woods. Helene invariably returned with posies of local flowers.
They were headed for Brittany in France, where they were going to sell "Karak", the boat they had had built over thirty years ago.There they planned to retire from long distance cruising. George had expressed interest in a small wooden sailing dinghy which was out in the harbour and told me they would continue to sail small boats locally in France. So, with a whole new sailing career ahead of them they left Peniche this morning. There were no "goodbyes" or hooters hooting, they simply set out again as they often did. Such quiet ways have taken them around the world with several Atlantic crossings. They had sailed to Japan, which is a rare cruising destination due to the year round occurrence of heavy storms. When people set out on a big journey it is always slightly alarming if the voyagers, or travellers throw a conspicuous leaving do. Such confident declarations of future intention seem to be an omen of themselves. The most successful voyagers are certainly the ones who slip away with no ceremony. Last summer in Bristol, Peace Four had a public leaving date, but, Ann and Nev told me they were going to sail a couple of days prior to this. At an intense moment of separation there is no pleasure in watching the suffering of waving or worse, crying friends on the quayside. All that must be discharged at least a week before leaving. Otherwise, any strong emotions, real or imagined, distract, or worse, confuse, the alertness and concentration needed in setting off.
17th February, 2003. There are two types of gallao, the coffee which comes in a long glass with a spoon with an equally long handle resting in it. The "direto" is made from a shot of espresso, filled up with milk and heated using a steam nozzle. The "normal", which seems to come from an insulated jug, is weaker than the direto and makes a pleasant drink for people who feel unhappy after drinking strong coffee. It closely resembles the "milky coffee's" I was plyed with by my Mum, as a child, I suppose to strengthen my bones as I grew.
The fishing port is separated from the leisure marina and public slipway by security fences and a gatehouse with a security guard. The fence has innumerable holes which have evolved, like animal paths, as a result of the flow of people into and out of the commercial harbour area. The fishing industry is labour intensive, with twenty five or thirty men aboard a medium sized trawler of ten metres length. There are auxiliary tenders with Volvo diesel engines, which ride piggyback on the boats. Often the tender will be hauled up behind at a steep angle even as the main vessel accelerates away from the quay, with on or two crew aboard. The tenders have flat bottoms, known as "chata", with substantial bilge runners to protect the hull from these abuses. When I last visited Penimar, one of the main engineering works for the Peniche fishing, I noticed one of these auxiliary tenders being fitted with massive bilge runners made solely from stainless steel.The tenders have two functions. First they carry crew members between the quay and the boat, always in compliance with the lunch time siren from the fire station. Secondly, the tender is part of the actual fishing. The net is a large bag, big enough to surround a of double decker buses, with floats along one edge.
In the fishing area, no more than three or four miles from the harbour, the tender is launched attached to one end of the net. The main boat feeds out the net in a wide circle, bringing the ends together trapping the prey within. As the net is drawn up into the fishing boat, closing the purse, a cone shaped net of around two metres in length and with a circular hooped opening, a "chalavar", is used.The prey is sardines and the sardine like "traineira". The catch is loaded into the hold and kept alive in boxes containing sea water. Within three or four hours of leaving the harbour these boats return, kicking up a horrendous wash, to offload the catch. The noise of air cooled single cylinder diesel engines crackles across the harbour as the cargo is disembarked.
During wintertime the boats go out once per day, leaving at six or seven p.m. and returning at around 9.30pm. During summertime, when the weather is calmer, they do two trips per day, adding a shift which starts at 4am. which returns at around 8am.
The boats were traditionally made in wood, some are still being produced on the North beach. For a while they were produced in steel, but now they are built in glass reinforced plastic. Old fishermen would be familiar with the rich taste of gull eggs, which could be gathered from the cliffs. In modern Portugal, Herring Gulls are protected and egg gathering is prohibited. Nonetheless, there was an attempt by the Portuguese government, to reduce the population of Herring Gulls. The choice of control was bread and butter sandwiches, containing poison. It was fairly successful on the nature reserve of Ilhas de Berlenga, where the uncommon species of birds, reptiles and animals were being over run by shrieking gulls. The method of destroying gulls was questionable on environmental grounds, as the poison was bound to enter the food chain, pollute the beaches with dead poison ridden gulls. There was the added waste of plastic bags used to collect carcasses some of which inevitably ended up blowing free. They are then swallowed by dolphins who mistake them for jellyfish and suffocate. I was told gulls eggs are delicious. It would seem to be natural and logical way to control the population by allowing people to gather eggs and eat them. There would always be inaccessible cliffs and hidden rooftops where the gulls could nest successfully. It would seem a better solution than adding poison to the equation.
"The canary sings because she is happy - the canary is happy because she sings." -- One of the keys to happiness is simple-mindedness. -- A man sat watching the centre of Peniche, his bicycle stood on its stand in front of him. The cycle was a shiny new reproduction classic bike with bright chromed fittings, a chain guard, dynamo set, and mudguards. On the back mudguard was a number plate, 1-PNI 77-99. I knew a similar man in Bristol who would always greet me with an enthusiastic smile and chat. If it was raining he would shelter until it stopped, wishing never to get his bike dirty. He would often cycle long distances, sometimes before midday he would be returning from a ride of some thirty miles. He knew people on several of the boats along the harbour and I would most often see him aboard a converted trawler or in the "Buttery", a tea, burgers and chips outlet along by the Industrial Museum. The Peniche cyclist is similar in the way he joins in with the social milieu, but he keeps himself from slumping into the scene as many of the retired men tend to do. The Bristolian cyclist seemed as happy as anyone I had ever met. I think as long as he had his bike, his health and the friends spread about the routes he took every day, he would remain so.
There is much to be said for being a little single minded as a way to achieve contentment. It seems those people who are able to gain a small niche based upon simple requirements, such as an immaculately kept bicycle and a social network which is constantly refreshed, are closest to real happiness. Another Bristol man, also a cyclist, seemed to possess a similar simplicity in his contentment. I would often see "Barry" sitting by the harbour with a flask of coffee, just enjoying the day. He was a "whistler" and quite proud of his particular ability in it. Once he told me how he whistles himself into a state of melodic happiness, adding he really considered himself to be a good whistler. Apparently his neighbours were driven mad by whistling and Barry had been threatened violently by youths. His face was interesting with the look of a pale skinned native American, he wore his silver hair long and when he spoke about "life" it was very intense and drawn out. A typical "Barry" thing to do was appear one day with a small pair of binoculars which he had bought from a charity shop. He wanted to discuss them and peer at the harbour through them, for what seemed like an uncomfortably extended period of time. I placed him at arms length after he asked me to sleep with him. I confess to being a "whistler" too and the thought of two whistlers spending any period of time in the same space, or even street, is too much to bear. In the Clube Naval de Peniche was another "whistler", called Manuel, he was often busy around the workshop. As a hobby he made artistic and stylised boat pictures out of sawn woods of contrasting tones and textures.
When I am engaged in a project I often have a tune on my mind which surfaces in bouts of whistling. Manuel was the same and one day he entered the workshop with a whistle at the same moment as I let fly a lilting refrain of my own. We looked at each other with a strange recognition, two canaries being placed in the same cage. I was sure he was thinking something like, "Gosh, the English whistle just like us Portuguese do".
The nonchalant, happy melody of a whistler at work is an international language. It can drive some people wild with annoyance. Furthermore, the whistler secretly enjoys being heard so therefore it is a projected form of contentment.
Another Peniche person always greeted me with a wide smile and a wave. He looked to be aged around seventy and would always gesture at the sky. If it was going to rain he would say, "Chuva" (rain) pointing to clouds approaching from far off in the west. If it was not going to rain he would simply wave a hand at the sky and beam at me. He lived in a pastel yellow villa which was entirely shuttered. There were smart concrete steps leading up to a balcony, from where he often called out to me in greeting. The small exchange was a daily vitamin pill which gave me an extra smile most mornings. I always walked away from this encounter with a feeling of wonder at how some people seem to have the ability to be just happy. There are plenty of other men in Peniche who are tired and worn out by life, many of them who sit on public benches are retired fishermen. The difference is a real lesson. I ask myself whether I shall be diminished in my spirit at a greater age, or whether I will be someone who sparkles warmly into the daily life of others, young and old. As a particularly scruffy Peniche man ambled by on one of my walks in search of contraplacado. A string as a belt and a grubby old beret over a stubbly chin on a grumbling old face. I said, "Bem dia!" and his whole face mobilised into a big smile as he replied "Bem dia!". I was pleased to have said "good day" to him because it brought out a most friendly expression on a growl of a face.
Monday 2nd March, 2003. On the first of three days of Carnival I walked into the town centre to have a look at Peniche in high spirits. A blond wigged, mini skirted man sauntered by, the first of many transvestite revellers. Next a black man wearing a leather mini skirt and glossy make-up strolled by elegantly. I thought he looked very sexy. I chose a seat with a view of the street in the enclosed terrace of the pastelaria "Oceano" and relaxed with a gallao coffee and an errorfada. A small girl came in with perhaps her mother, she wore a long red checked skirt with a lace head scarf and looked very sweet as the archetypal country maiden. A crowd of lads went by dressed as fishermen, with crab pots swinging from lines around their necks, flat caps and old yellow or green oilskin sallopettes. They swigged out of beer bottles and were somewhat rowdy, for 11am. They pushed each other about playfully and left beer bottles in inappropriate places. A small girl in a white tressled dress draping around her to the floor, with silver conical fairy tale princess hat which has a swathe of pink material trailing from the point. A boy in a batman suit sat driving a red fun ride jeep, which is not moving. A little girl dressed in milk maids outfit with a long dress in a rural check, beckons him and they run away together. A small, olive skinned boy offers me a tired looking box of Elastoplast, I understand he wants me to buy it. I say no thank you into his sad little victims eyes. He skims around the rest of the Cafe Oceano terrace and sells nothing. A guy in blond wig and short skirt wandered about looking for his mates who had left the Pastelaria Presidente. Beer bottled men stumbled by stuffing bolos into their lipstick smeared mouths, making drunken sounds. The blond wigged transvestite retired to the park across the road, still looking around for his crowd. He now looked furtively about, like a nervous hooker, under the palm trees.
What is it about parks which seems slightly sordid? The presence of public toilets, The cover afforded by thick bushes. The thinning out of people. A float drives by pulled by a flat bed Nissan. A central palm tree, an umbrellad terrace with several people sitting on chairs taking refreshments. A oom-pah band paying on the rear, with silver plated brass instruments rather similar to my own Ramponi silver plate C-melody soprano saxophone.
The sun has broken through a four day cloud bank and I feel excited about the month of March having begun. A sky blue luxury coach piled high with people, has rear view mirrors which are set like the feelers of ants. It is Wednesday, the final Carnival procession was yesterday afternoon. The sun shone strongly and the procession was really fun. There were about thirty floats accompanied by costumed dancers in themes ranging such as a protest against the Prestige oil hazard. The troupe wore yellow oilskins painted with black oil marks, like black and yellow cows. The float itself was a van made up as an oil tanker. On the whole, men were in drag, with hairy and muscular legs a clear reminder of their status underneath the costume. The oom-pah band with the silver plate instruments mimed to a Latin style music. They looked very much like a real band as individuals took sparkling solos. They wore a band uniform although half of them were in drag.
The cafe terrace connected to the double trailer of this band was populated by serene male transvestites sipping cocktails. One of the persons was of a great age. This float has been going for thirty years.
The day after I expected everything to have died down, but in the centre of Peniche was a crowd who were still drunk from the day before, obviously having stayed up all night. One of them was banging beer bottles together in an aggressive mood and he made me feel a little threatened, but they were good mannered after all. The beer bottle banger was called Miguel and two friends, Antonio and a name I could hardly pronounce came over to me and introduced themselves. They were friendly enough, even polite, as are most Peniche people. The leader of the oom-pah band float appeared in the cafe doorway blowing a party squeaker. His eyes are puffy and he looks wrecked. I remembered his face clearly from the parade yesterday. He walked in front of the band float as if it was a fairground show, with mock ceremony and importance.
The crowd of friends who had said hello to me gestured over to me telling the band leader to say hello to me. He chose to wobble away down the street blowing his party squeaker, obviously heading for his bed. It was 11am.
/END OF EXTRACT ©2011 Clarissa Vincent
The Voyage of Storm Petrel. Book One. Britain to Senegal Alone in a Boat. Published by girl in a gale, February 2011, available April 2011 at www.amazon.com
If you would like to order your book signed by the author, please email me at clarissa.vincentREMOVE@gmail.com (Please remove the word REMOVE, this is to prevent spam collectors reading my email. address).
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