Nine Summers Page 17

  At 7, the large yellow crane appeared, and we made straight for it. An hour and a half later we were at the entrance to Roccella. All the yachts were at anchor in crystal water, and everyone was on deck in a riotous mood, nursing drinks.

  ‘Let’s hope our anchor grips,’ Felix looked worn out. ‘Without an engine, it’ll be heavy work to pick it up and try again.’ But we were in luck. It gripped first go.

  ‘We tried to call when we lost sight of you, but you didn’t answer. What happened to you?’ André asked.

  ‘We tried to call you too, but didn’t get any response. We’ve got a major problem, I think it’s the gearbox. We’ll have to try and get a mechanic.’

  As suggestions started to fly, a speedboat of the coastal patrol, the Guardia di Finanza, approached. ‘Via! Prohibited to stay here, this is not a port! Nobody is permitted to stay here!’

  ‘But why not?’ everyone pleaded. ‘The next place is Crotone. Why can’t we stay, just till tomorrow morning?’

  Felix and I didn’t move. We said nothing. As the others reluctantly pulled up anchors and we didn’t, the Guardia came alongside.

  ‘We have a major breakdown...no motore, motore non funziona...’ But they were not convinced. The three officers went into a huddle, then one climbed on board.

  Felix turned on the ignition and tried to put her into gear. CLONCK! ‘We’ll need a mechanic, un meccanico?’ They looked at each other.

  ‘Non so, don’t know.’ Il capitano shook his head. ‘OK, you can stay for one night only, soltanto una notte.’ My heart sank.

  We watched the yachts motor past the yellow crane and head east towards Crotone. The Guardia di Finanza also left. It was after 9, and soon it would be dark. Scattered stars and a pencil outline of the moon appeared over the range. On the peak of a distant hill stood the ruin of an ancient castle. We were alone, and the silence was uncanny.

  ‘What do we do now?’ The monotonous lapping of water rolling on shore made me nervous. Felix sensed my apprehension. ‘It’s morning in Sydney, a good time to radio Ken. I won’t waste time trying a station here, I’ll go through Berne Radio.’

  Ken Evans, our Sydney mechanic with the magic touch who could fix anything, find the most elusive of spare parts and remember the structure and idiosyncrasies of every boat engine he touched, answered the phone.

  ‘Hi Ken, Felix here.’

  ‘G’day Felix, where the hell are ya?’

  ‘In Calabria, middle of nowhere, bottom of Italy. Listen, Ken, I’ve got a broken drive plate, I think. What do’ya reckon, any good ideas?’

  ‘Jeesus, Felix, you’re in deep shit mate.’

  ‘Thought so, Ken. What d’ya reckon?’

  ‘You’ll have to get a new one. As I recall, you’ve got a Nissan truck engine, so you’ll have to lift out the whole bloody engine to get to it. Are ya close to a decent diesel mechanic?’

  ‘Ya kidding? I’m in the middle of the wilderness...and they don’t use Nissan engines here. God knows how I’d get a spare...’

  ‘If ya get a decent mechanic he should be able to adapt one...if ya can’t, I might even cannibalise an old engine I’ve got here in me backyard. You’re sure in a mess, mate...don’t know what else I can suggest...Let me know how ya get on. Yeah, deep shit all right!’

  ‘Thanks Ken...I’ll let ya know...’

  ‘OK, good luck, mate.’

  We continued to sit in the cockpit. The moon was high now, hanging like a lantern in a translucent sky. The shore was an opaque black, the water around us rippled diamonds and Galatea rocked gently. I was homesick and frightened.

  ‘I guess we’d better hit the bunk, try to sleep and wait till morning. Don’t worry, honey, it’ll be OK.’ Felix put his arm around me.

  In the morning two fishermen’s boats were tied up to a small wooden pontoon. Felix rowed across and asked them about a mechanic. They didn’t know one. But he did find out that the word for a drive plate in Italian is parastrappe.

  Somewhere in our travels, we’d picked up an Italian handbook called Pagine Azzurre, a yearly publication with useful information and charts of every harbour in Italy, which included phone numbers for mechanics and repair shops. Although nothing was listed for Roccella Ionica, we did find the name of a diesel mechanic in Crotone, about 110 km away. Berne Radio connected us with him.

  Felix strung words together and explained our problem to Signor Tisso, who agreed to come at 9 the following morning to confirm the provisional diagnosis. For the rest of the day we sat in the cockpit, and watched the fishermen do odd jobs on their boats. Late in the evening, the Guardia di Finanza chased out all the yachts that had come in during the day, and then paid us a visit. We explained that a mechanic from Crotone was coming the following morning.

  ‘OK, you can stay, soltanto una notte! One night only!’

  Another silent, lonely night followed.

  At 9 o’clock the next morning, Signor Tisso and his two apprentices waved to us from the pontoon. He was a small stocky man, with dark eyes and an earnest face, immaculate in white trousers and shirt. His two young assistants, their hair groomed and glazed, wore ironed jeans and spotless white T-shirts. They held a pile of cardboard sheets under their arms, which they spread on the floor as soon as they stepped on board. They’d also brought a bundle of neatly folded, white laundered rags, the remains of torn sheets.

  Signor Tisso used words sparingly, and supervised his minions sotto voce as they followed his instructions. When enough had been dismantled, he bent down to inspect. He tested the starter motor, put the gear handle into forward and heard the CLONCK.

  ‘The parastrappa è rota, the drive plate is broken. We will need to take the gearbox off the engine, then I must find one that will be the right size. There are no Nissan diesel engines here. It is un grande problema...I shall come back domani, tomorrow.’

  As he was telling us about the grande problema, the Guardia di Finanza came on board. Tisso talked to them at length, confirmed that we couldn’t use our engine, and as the forecast was for another sirocco, added that it would be irresponsible for them to force us to move. They were clearly displeased.

  Each morning, Tisso and his assistants drove for three hours each way along the mountain roads and arrived between 8 and 9, spotlessly attired. On the third day I mentioned that I planned to walk to the nearest village to buy bread.

  ‘No, no, no, è impossibile to have a woman walk by herself.’ Tisso was aghast.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No, no...è impossibile,’ he repeated. ‘Then I will send mio marito, my husband.’

  ‘No, no, no, you cannot stay alone on a boat...I will bring you bread every day...’

  ‘But we’re also running out of fresh food.’

  ‘I will drive you to a shop at lunchtime.’

  At 1 o’clock we set off in his station wagon. The road, dusty and uneven, ran between the sea on one side and a rocky hillside on the other. The air was hot and dry and smelt of salt.

  I wondered why he was so emphatic about not letting me walk alone, but I hesitated to ask. He was a taciturn man who didn’t invite conversation. In any case, I concluded, ignoring his advice would be unwise. I was a woman, and this was the South. Tisso stopped in front of the first shop. A middle-aged, barrel-bellied man with a furrowed face stood perusing the street, his hands behind his back. Boxes of tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, stone fruit, grapes, artichokes, eggplant and onions lined the footpath, exuding a mixture of summer fragrance and the smell of over-ripe fruit and vegetables.

  Dressed in a checked shirt, worn trousers and dusty shoes, the man greeted us with a puzzled smile. ‘Prego?’

  Tisso introduced me as una inglese. ‘Ah, you are English?’ the man asked in English. ‘No, Australian,’ I replied. ‘Where in Australia?’

  ‘Sydney.’

  ‘Sydney?’ His face exploded into a network of smiles. ‘We lived in Sydney for many years!’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Leichhardt, Five Doc
k, Ashfield.’

  ‘When did you come back?’

  ‘Twelve years ago.’ Then, turning towards the shop, he shouted, ‘Maria, Maria, vieni! Come here, una signora di Sydney!’

  Maria, a plump woman with a large navy apron tied around her waist, rushed out.

  ‘Ah signora, di Sydney?’ she was incredulous.

  ‘Signora, what can I get you?’ the man beamed with excitement.

  ‘I’d like fruit and cheeses…I’ve run out of most things. We’re stuck in the harbour with engine trouble, and Signor Tisso here is helping us.’ I pointed to salamis and cheeses behind the counter, and fruit and vegetables out the front.

  ‘Maria, not these! Bring the fresh stuff from the back!’ He snapped in Italian. Tisso looked on in amazement as the couple rushed to the back of the shop and brought out fresh salamis, cheeses, eggs, fruit…

  The shopping took longer than he’d expected, and when Maria offered us coffee he declined, ‘…Mi dispiace, abbiamo fretta, so sorry, we’re in a hurry.’

  After I’d paid, Maria handed me a small parcel of biscuits. ‘I baked these this morning, please take them,’ and as she shook my hand, added, ‘I want to feel a little piece of Sydney, we miss Sydney so much!’

  We piled everything into the car. ‘Grazie, ciao!’ I waved. On the way back Signor Tisso didn’t utter a word. But each day he brought us fresh bread. From his workshop in Crotone, Tisso phoned Milan, Turin, Genoa, Naples, Bari and Taranto in search of a drive plate that he could modify. After five days, even he looked distressed. The Guardia di Finanza continued to come on board each day to check our progress.

  ****

  It was our sixth night. I couldn’t sleep. A sliver of moon peeped over the rugged Calabrian mountain range, a black silhouette against a navy sky. I was restless and frightened. Alone in the cockpit, I looked around this tiny unmarked harbour. Why did the police chase everyone out every evening? Why did they come on board to check on us every day? By 3 o’clock, the moon had set, and the only sound was the obsessive rhythm of waves rolling back and forth on the sandy shore. In Australia, this lonely bay would have seemed enchanted, but here it felt haunted.

  The quiet purring of an approaching engine broke the silence. Turning towards it, I saw the dark outline of a small fishing boat. Its shape looked familiar. As it neared the pier, a man jumped ashore to tie up the vessel. Must be the fishermen back, I thought. The ones we’d met on the first day who told us that parastrappe is the Italian word for drive plate. A truly useful bit of vocabulary. At least we won’t be alone now. I watched them come in, but I was too depressed to wave or call out ‘Ciao!’ I just sat and watched them tie up.

  Why were they so quiet? Why this strange silence? Suddenly fear gripped me. Something urged me to shift from the centre of the cockpit where they could see me silhouetted against the night sky. I moved and pressed my body against the side of the coach house.

  Then, through the darkness, car headlights, like two reversed sword blades, pierced the windows of the fishermen’s coach house onto the water. They pulled up next to the fishing boat, the lights were switched off, and I saw the outline of a limousine.

  A soundless transaction took place. My heart raced, I wanted to slip into the saloon but was riveted to the seat. I heard a car door close, saw headlights turned on, the car drive off. As soon as it was out of sight, all was silent again. Seconds later, another set of headlights approached. The car pulled up. A transaction. Silence.

  Terror unlocked me from my seat. I dived downstairs, rushed to the aft cabin and shook Felix.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Wake up! Quickly! Do you know where we are?’

  ‘We’re in Calabria. For God’s sake, go to sleep!’

  ‘No, no, this isn’t me being disoriented. Quick, have a look out of the porthole. I know now why they’re chasing people out...something’s going on here...we mustn’t be seen...’

  He shot out of bed just as the second car left. Minutes later the fishermen turned on their engine and pulled away, making for the exit, out to sea.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘Drugs.’

  ‘That’s why they chase all the boats out. We’re in Mafia territory.’

  We sat up the rest of the night. Tisso had said there was some hope of finding a drive plate in Taranto. He would send one of the boys there. He’d let us know in the morning. But the following morning he didn’t turn up.

  We were the only boat in the harbour and all around us there was frantic commotion. The Guardia di Finanza had closed the entrance to stop anyone entering the port. Police cars and armoured cars with loudspeakers patrolled on shore. A helicopter hovered low over us. A naval patrol boat with guns entered the harbour. We ducked downstairs for cover and didn’t dare look out of the portholes.

  ‘This is a mad movie.’

  ‘Not a movie. It’s for real!’

  It was over in less than an hour.

  ‘Must have been a raid the authorities have been preparing for.’

  At 3 o’clock, Signor Tisso turned up. He’d left home as usual at 5.30 in the morning to cover the 110 km over winding roads to get to us, but all the roads had been blocked off. He must have known what the commotion was about. Everyone in the area must have known. One couldn’t live in Calabria and not know. We were the only ones who didn’t suspect what was going on here.

  But Tisso brought us good news. He’d located two drive plates — one in Taranto, another in Genoa. He’d sent one of the boys to Taranto to pick up the one that he could modify to fit. He would also get the second one, modify it and give it to us as a spare when we got to Crotone. It would take another two or three days of work.

  ‘We’d better get hold of all the people we’d arranged to meet, tell them we won’t be able to make it…maybe Susie and Simon can meet us in Crotone instead of Otranto. Then there’s Diana and Sol we’re supposed to meet in Dubrovnik.’

  Tisso continued to supervise the boys, and they followed his instructions. They worked for two long tense days to ensure we left as soon as possible. When they had finished, we took Galatea on a trial run. Tisso and Felix looked pleased. But the tension had exhausted me. Susie and Simon arrived by taxi from Reggio Calabria on the afternoon of our last day and marvelled at the idyllic location. They suggested we stay. But I couldn’t get away fast enough.

  The following morning we set sail for Crotone where we met Tisso and paid him. For eight days, he had travelled three hours each way. As Ken Evans had forecast, and as Felix knew, it was a big job, and an expensive one. And yet Tisso’s bill was exactly what Felix had calculated it would have cost in Australia. He could have charged anything he wanted, and we would have paid without a murmur, but he didn’t.

  In parting, he told us that had we arrived in Crotone with that same problem, it would have taken at least four weeks before he would have started on the job. The reason he gave for travelling the 110 km each way for eight days was that he’d been so worried about us, alone in that spot. At no stage did the words ‘Mafia’ or ‘N’dragheta’ or ‘Camorra’ cross his lips.

  ****

  Hi Kids,

  What a relief to talk to you from Otranto. I sometimes wondered whether we’d ever get away from Roccella. I think the place will always be our most memorable port, let alone experience.

  The Adriatic behaved impeccably during our crossing to Yugoslavia. We stopped midway, had a swim, drank to ‘THIS IS US CROSSING THE ADRIATIC!’ and watched a golden sunset.

  Dubrovnik is beautiful, the quintessential Mediterranean picture postcard. Port formalities required three people to come on board. One to ensure we had no guns, one to stamp passports and another to write a list of people on board. That’s one way to solve unemployment. The mail here is erratic, so a yachtie returning home tomorrow has volunteered to post this in Austria. Shall write a long letter soon.

  Love, from Us Two

  At the end of that summer, Italian friends told us they’d read that
one couple had been shot on the beach at Roccella Ionica because ‘they’d seen what they shouldn’t have’. Also, a young boy had been killed there because he’d ‘talked’.

  chapter seven

  For centuries the Adriatic had been a Venetian lake, a long corridor that connected seaboard towns and villages to Venice, the heart of the Venetian Empire. It is close to 650 km as the crow flies from Albania to Istria at the northern tip of the Adriatic, 3220 km if one follows the islands, bays and inlets.

  Harbours, lighthouses, churches, bell towers, piazzas and the ubiquitous winged lion of St Mark all allude to the reach of Venetian power and influence, which attained its apogee in the fifteenth century. It was a time when navigators hugged the shoreline, and trading posts were rarely more than one day’s sailing apart.

  The beauty and proximity of coastal towns, villages and islands attract today’s yachtsmen to the Dalmatian coast. And we, like the sailors and merchants of old, planned to move from place to place, stroll ashore, eat and drink, watch the passing parade, and explore the sights.

  When we arrived in Dubrovnik, we sensed uneasiness in the air. Ethnic tensions were about to erupt into conflict, and the years of Yugoslav communism were coming to an end. It took us a few days to understand how the prevailing command economy functioned.

  When I broke our broomstick, Felix said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll buy another one ashore.’ But the bear-like man in the hardware store smiled and shook his head. ‘We had broomsticks last winter,’ he explained in an amalgam of Italian, German and Serbo-Croat, ‘but we didn’t have the brushes. Now we have the brushes. Maybe we will have the sticks in a few weeks. Maybe next year. If people want a broom,’ he continued to enlighten us, ‘they buy whatever is available and hope to pick up the rest some other time.’ We thanked him and moved on, clutching our shopping list for globes, diesel oil, a rubber belt, bolts…