THIS is no shallow draught, flat bottomed, glass fibre launch like those in the background of the picture.
It doesn’t look it but it is a 65-ton steel hull filled with concrete and balanced with lead – a 75 foot long elegant sailboat, 3.5 metre draught requiring deep water anchoring, a million quid to buy and a hundred thousand a year to maintain – at a glance redolent of a smaller Cutty Stark less the rigging, its captain, Thanassis, as kissable as Admiral Nelson.
Master of the Valial, Mr Alan Hays of London and sometime resident of Ayia Napa, fortuitously a friend, invited my wife, the boy and I aboard for lunch, a sail out into the Deep Blue and some deep water swimming and fishing.
Moses, the Filipino engineer, first officer, mate and general cook and bottle washer, is despatched in the motorised inflatable to fetch us from the jetty situated many stony steps down the cliff from the Cavo Greco chapel, which was initially built to bless or mourn seafarers, yet now employed for al fresco wedding ceremonies.
We are piped aboard at 10am, asked to remove our shoes and walk barefoot to the canopied topside lounge; hopping across a pristine scorching deck of untreated yet smooth 1.8cm thick teak lath separated by 3mm rubber strips.
We are then offered a seasickness pill and told to treat the ship as one might a 21 year old lady by not puking up all over her, Alan’s greatest fear since red wine and food are to be consumed at the oval dining table in the steering well and nowhere else. I decline the pill and admire the young lady.
Cape Greco Bay, albeit that mankind is in evidence, is outrageously beautiful – a curvature of rocky cliffs wallowing waist deep in crystal clear water, a small exotic beach tucked away in a far off inlet, a large hotel set high and beyond noticeable intrusion…are we in Cyprus?
We take breakfast, coffee, and croissants brought that morning from a Nicosia boulangerie, as speedboats pull water skiers to shatter crystal, Ayia Napa pleasure cruisers offload cargo to bathe and cool in the lagoon, paragliders balloon the sky and jet skis foment the waters about a dozing Valial, causing her to heave in sympathy with my wife’s sensitive tummy.
I dive off the stern into water 12 metres deep, swim underwater to forget that man has forgotten how to enjoy nature’s wonders peacefully, and become engaged in a battle of wits with a cunning undercurrent.
Poseidon decides that I should survive (or I wouldn’t be writing this) and Alan chooses to distance his lady from the fun loving locals, commanding Thanassis to ignite her 250 hp single diesel engine…out to sea she foams to forget at 8.5 knots an hour, wind and salt spray blasting through our hair.
The boy straps himself to the bow and castes a line. I become the great Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea, advising him (you cannot fish from the bow of a fast moving vessel).
Thanassis takes a tuna from the freezer and surreptitiously attaches it to the line, which has been swept aft on the bow wave.
“You’ve caught something!” he shouts.
Frozen tuna do not fight, plead, argue or desist. They are easy to wind in, but should not be lifted from the water with a five kilo breaking strain line. I forewarn the boy, but adolescents are notorious for knowing better than their elders. His initial rapture is soon displaced by disappointment as the seven kilo tuna sinks to the bottom.
A billowing Eos hails for the lady’s sails and I am seconded as mate to Moses – wind this, winch that, tie this and knot that, heave ho yer land lubber and Santiago!
We make our way back through unruffled seas at 4 knots under mainsail, mizzen and spinnaker, the boy, at first fascinated by the boat’s GPS navigation system then taking the wheel until he discovers the Internet on the steering house computer. He tunes to football transfer fees and Thanassis switches the lady to autopilot…hardly sailing a la Cutty Sark.
Alan and I sit imbibing in the well, reminiscing to Frank and his daughter (them boots) or a mix of Tony Bennett and Tina Turner, 60’s and 70’s greats that we both know off by heart. He recounts seafaring yarns, and then…
Not overly concerned by the lead shot that missed its target and thwackt a few metres behind my rump when I was walking near the Ayia Napa reservoir, it dismays me to think that small birds are used as target practice. Most of these little fellas are capable of consuming many thousands of flies and mosquitoes daily!
Malta was overrun by insects due to indiscriminate hunting. We call it Fly Island nowadays – so many of them you can’t sit or eat outside in safety.
Possibly a combination of the billowing sails and the steady intake of locally processed grapes lead the old curmudgeon on to another of his popular whinges. ‘Litter!’.
The island should be enjoyed, not smothered by rubbish discarded by those too lazy to dispose of it in the proper manner. The answer lies in an EU law that fixes a redeemable levy on all bottles and cans. How long would any lie in the road if there was a ten cent bounty on each? Maybe the intrepid hunters of small birds would become litter hunters instead…
Besides that, the price of a meal for two here now exceeds anywhere in London – not yer top class joints of course, but yer normal fayre. And can you tell me why Cyprus fruit and veg cost so much more than imported stuff?
“Have you been adversely affected by the recession Alan?”
“Made a mint on foreign exchange this past 8 months…”
“So why are you complaining about prices here?”
“Cos this is Cyprus!”
“No Alan, you’re wrong. This is Europe, and the cost of living will equate across the board eventually.”
“I’m thinking of making it my tax point. Do you realise how much the UK Revenue take off me?”
“Things are changing fast in Cyprus Alan – faster than you would like.”
“Can’t they hold off for a few more years?”
“Time and tide wait for no man…”
“I’m contemplating sailing to Antalya in southern Turkey. Would you like to join me?”
Moses drops us off at the jetty at sunset. The car is blocked in by a wedding ceremony at the chapel. We waste half an hour getting free then another after meeting an accident on the Larnaca/Nicosia stretch of the motorway, crawling at snail’s pace.
The day out on the Valial, like a day spent in the company of any desirable lady, becomes a dream delightfully dreamt.
