Portugal. Hmm... the world cup is on and everyone is talking soccer. I couldn'n care less. Being rather relieved about seeing land and proud about my voyage alone, I pull against the fuel wharf and complete the friendly check in with the authorities. I have arrived in Europe. I'm a little nervous about moving into the marina, as always, as I have no helping hands and Aliisa is a bit of a bitch.. or perhaps a cow to manouvre in tight spaces. I make it to a berth with a few helping hands on the jetty.
I make friends with three English gentlemen and with the addition of a Danish and another pommie yacht at the end of the jetty, my loneliness is long gone. I put notices around the place for crew but get no response. The joblist is not too bad. I change the oil and filters, again. The steering has become really stiff and the problem turns out to be some old sikaflex that had worked its way into the steering shaft.
After seeing the cost of a coin laundry in Horta, I had no option but to do it myself.
One day I make a huge two-tin lasagne that suprisingly turns out really good. (Thank you Paula for teaching me that trick..) I invite a few friends over and have a lasagna party. It includes a lot of wine and with the usual promise of "We'll make dinner for you tomorrow" we end up starting a dinner syndicate. A young lad, George knocks on the hull next day and asks for a job. "A job??". Hmm... It turns out that he's here to meet a Norweigian yacht but they are still in transit. Young George needs a place to stay. I take pity on him and offer him the saloon bunk. No pitty needed though, George is a pure 100 percent world traveller who will live, survive and have fun anywhere under the sun. He's so full of energy and positivism that he starts to annoy me. Perhaps he's too much like me, or like I was when I was young and not yet cynical, serious and worried about all that can go wrong in life...
My throat is still feeling a bit strange and I spend a day in the hospital. Monty Python comedy in real life. They speak no english and for four hours the receptionist mistakes me with another foreigner and refuses to take my details again.
The doctor looks into my mouth and says it looks normal. I say: "A doctor friend of mine suggested that it might be fungal and if that's the case, I should take Lamisil. (Remember Doctor Makinen, who prescribed me a carton of beer and Lamisil in Langkawi, Malaysia.)
"Yeah, that's a good idea" said the Portugese doctor. "Why don't you take two Lamisil each day". She writes me a prescription. I then say: "Why don't we take a swab and send it to the lab to find out what it really is?". "Hmm, not a bad idea" replied the doctor. She then took me for a walk.
We walk through the hospital corridors, wing A, wing B, wing C, laboratory. She takes a few swabs and then we walk, slowly, chatting along the way, back to her room. There are well over 30 people now waiting for their turn. I attractn a few frustrated looks as I follow the doctor into her room. I'm getting a bit suspicious. She is too friendly and spending more time with my meagre problem than with anyone else. "Come back in two days, I'm working then. Don't go to the reception, don't pay anyone anything, just come and knock on my door ok?" she instructs me. I go and buy the Lamisil and wonder back to the boat wondering if the doctor wanted a shag?
I work through my job-list and scratch my head about the crew-situation. No response from my advertising. Would I dare to attack the English Channel alone? Would it work out with George? I don't feel like teaching anything and wish for a crew that can sail Aliisa to Helsinki without me doing anything at all.
Young George was full of energy and always happy. He became the crew for the 24-hour trip from Horta to Ponta Delgada, where he continued his travels with a bunch of friends on another yacht.
I remember an e-mail that I got in South Africa from a Finnish man who appeared to have experience and who wanted to join as crew whenever it's possible. I pulled out the email and found out the phone number of Jarno Kajova. He too was a full-bloodied world traveller. With one single phone call, I had secured his services from Azores all the way to Helsinki. But who is this man?
New paint on top of the old. The harbour of Horta is covered in "appropriate graffiti". I settled for a rubber stamp, it will will fade away in a day, but hey, a day? a year? a decade? It will all fade away.
