Bringing Dad Home Part I

Profound and profuse apologies for the utter lack of postings this last week. I did try. But I was at a cybercafe in Mallorca, and their definition of a fast internet connection leaves a lot to be desired. I think the fact that two other blokes were in there playing Counterstrike online at the same time meant that the already-weeny pipe was blocked with bullets and stun grenades, and had no bandwidth for my rambling missives.

WEDNESDAY 19TH JULY

My flight from Birmingham was leaving early. I'd got up at five am and had been taken to the airport for 6 by my good lady - who then went straight to work, for some reason. We were due to lift off at 0705, but it was 0730 when the wheels finally left the ground. I fell straight back to sleep. Slightly annoyingly, my three-seat row had me against the window, possibly the most enormous woman I'd ever seen crammed into the aisle seat, and her attention-deficit disordered kid in between. Despite the pillow-like mass created by the conjunction of his mother's arm, belly, breast, cheek and jowl, the kid decided to rest his sleepy head against me for the whole journey. Talk about not knowing which side your bread's buttered on.

We landed in Palma on time at 1035 and, as usual, the exit process was swift. Nonchalant customs officers waved me through the gates without even looking at my passport - as long as you are holding a purple EU document, they don't even bat an eyelid. Definitely one to watch for future terrorist incursions. Luggage was soon spewing from beneath the black rubber flaps, and I was out and on my way. The taxi journey was great - really fast - and the new motorway seemed to give our man a vehicular relish he'd never experienced, except perhaps on the mainland. I found myself explaining in broken Spanish that I was a regular visitor to Mallorca, that my Dad lived here, that he'd died, and I had to pick up a boat...

I should bring you up to speed a bit, here: my Dad died in May 2004. He lived in Mallorca, in the Balearic Islands off the south east coast of mainland Spain, in the Med. My parents had split up in 1997, the decree nisi came through in 2000. Dad had run away to Spain pretty much immediately as he and Mum had separated, and he'd set up out there with a second wife who he married in 2002. Dad and Emma have the most gorgeous house you've ever seen. Really. Unbelievable.

Anyway: skip back to 1988, and my Dad bought his first boat. It's a Sea Ray Seville 18, falling into the Sports Boats bracket. It has a 175 horsepower output, powered by a 4.3 litre Thunderbolt Ignition engine. And power steering. I'd been waterskiing since I was 12, and was just 14 years old when he bought the old girl, which was named Dadsbote (sic). You know I'm a stickler for linguistic correctness, and while my father's tossing aside of the rulebook when it came to naming his boat slightly irked me - demonstating neither punctuation nor correct spellings - I love that craft and I love its name. It also goes like shit off a shovel, so I can overlook such triflings. Over the years, waterskiing had become kneeboarding, wakeboarding, rubber-ringing...it's one hell of a laugh. Add this to my swimming, dinghy sailing, windsurfing, snorkelling and scuba diving, and you'll get the idea that I'm a waterbaby.

But, as is the way with boats, this one was just the start of a marine love affair that would last 15 years. We'd had a lot of fun on that boat, first at Windermere in England's Lake District. We kept it up there at a Ski Club at Low Wood near Ambleside, but soon found the costs of hotels each time we were up there crippling - not to mention the water temperature - and so he bought a cruiser, which was also kept on Windermere. It was a Sealine 32 flybridge, with permanent berths for 4, increasing to 6 if you dropped the saloon table down to meet the edge of the C-shaped seating. You can see where this rampant addiction is going, I'm sure.

After a year or so of cruising and speeding on Windermere, the limitations of being on a 12 mile by 1 mile lake with no sea access became apparent. And so, it was time to move to the ocean. We're gonna need a bigger boat. Moving the operation to Birdham Pool at Chichester in West Sussex on the south coast of England, Dadsbote remained, but Dadsbote Too (sorry), the Sealine, was traded-up for a Fairline 50. This boat happily served the family adventures for about three years, before it was decided that, in fact, what was really needed was sun. And so, Dadsbote and Chocanpop (the Fairline 50 - Dad had worked for Cadbury-Schweppes: Choc and Pop) were both taken over to Cala D'Or, Mallorca. And that's where they stayed.

In the final dramatic maneouvre in his world of ship addiction, Chocanpop was also traded up for La Bella Orca (The Beautiful Whale), also a Fairline, but was now a Fairline Squadron 65. This marked the end of the road. I think I went on it two, maybe three times, before my parents' marriage collapsed in ruins. And I never saw it again. And, once Dad had settled with Emma, she was sold. That's the boat, not Emma. But - and here's really the point - Dadsbote, the original Sea Ray speedboat - was kept. And, in his will, it was left to me. That's what I've been sorting out this last week.

The taxi driver took me to Peters in Cala D'Or, where I arrived at midday. They are the British company who were - until recently - the largest Fairline boats distributor and sales operation in the world. They now handle Azimut and Sealine. In arranging this mission, I'd been lucky enough to speak to Mark McAllister, son of Ian McAllister who taught my Dad how to helm and moor a 23-ton vessel. This was an enormous piece of luck, as my Dad and Mark's dad Ian were peas in a pod. Maybe that should be beers in a pint. Anyway, Mark remembered me when I'd contacted the company before heading out there. And so, I turn up at Peters - no sign of Mark - but did meet his lovely wife Mel, who also works at Peters. She sorted me out, pointed me in the direction of the hotel, and I hauled my holdall onto my drenched shoulders and hoofed it over the hill about 500m to the Hotel Leo d'Or. Considering the cost - just 50 euros a night, including in-room safe (I'll get to that later) - I'd been done proud. Aircon, too. Blinding.

I unpacked and headed back to Peters at about 1330 to meet Mark, who was now off on his lunch. You get used to this in Mallorca. It all happens a little bit differently, a bit more leisurely. Slowly, is what I'd call it, but you must drop the mores of your home culture When In Rome. And so I wandered around the marina to Terrassa Porto Cari, a very nice but wildly overpriced cafe/bar, which is right next to where we used to moor La Bella Orca. Adolpho was pleased to see me - and I him, given the fact that the last time I'd been out here before Dad died, poor Adolpho had been caught in a kitchen explosion at the cafe: he's lucky to be alive, that man. Last time I'd sat here he'd been in ICU with poor prospects. Savouring the resilience of life, I ordered what I always order: un tostada jamon y queso, con una Coke Light, por favor. Damned expensive - the sarnie and two bottles of Coke cost 8 euros. But, look at the scenery...

I wandered back round the marina to Peters, where Mark had arrived. After letting him deal with a well-heeled customer, we chatted for a while and discussed what was needed. You need a bit more info here: Dadsbote was not on the water. In fact, she had been on her trailer in a boatyard about 10 miles from Cala D'Or - and the sea - ever since Dad died. To be fair, she'd been there a bit before that, too. The long and the short of it is, I'd come out here to get the boat off this Mallorcan bloke, to give to Peters to bring back to the UK. That is the mission. I hoped it was going to be easy. We discussed operational matters first: what state is she in, is the trailer moving? Have the wheels seized? Has the handbrake seized? I had no answers yet. Mark advised that I source some bearings-releasing spray, an ultra-penetrative liquid that, once sprayed on anything rusted and seized, renders it moveable within minutes. I agreed that this would be a good idea. So, mission one: get to the yard. Assess the boat's moveability. Find out what the bill is.

So I head into Cala D'Or, to get this spray. Of course, in my haste, I have forgotten that siesta occurs and shops close around lunchtime, some for three hours. Given the state of my shirt, I was beginning to understand why. Naturally, the place is shut, reopening at 1600. Grr. I need a fucking swim. The temperature in the shade was 34 celsius...in direct sunlight, 45. I went back to the hotel, grabbed my beach bag and headed down to Cala D'Or itself.

The resort area known as Cala D'Or is actually served by 6 main calas, most with beaches. From west to east, there is Cala Llonga, which is where the marina is. There is no beach here, but just to the south of Llonga there is the tinsy Cala D'Es Pou, a frequent skinny-dipping site from days of yore. It takes ten minutes to walk there from the marina and dive in nekkid, once you've had enough to drink. But, it's a mini beach. Don't go thinking of building a hotel there, or anything. Continuing east, there is Cala D'Or, which is where I'm about to head off swimming. Then there's Cala Gran, Cala Esmerelda, Cala Ferrera and Cala Serena. All of these calas are accessible from the sea via the same inlet, and all have beaches.

I scooted around the rocks to one side of Cala D'Or and found myself a nice spot near to someone's private swim-ladder into the sea, which I will need for getting out as the rocks have been sharpened from salt-erosion over millennia. This is closed-shoe terrain. Don't try it in flipflops. I'm sure my body hissed and steam rose as I plunged into the inviting aquamarine bay, it was pure delight. I floated about, watching the boats come and go, listening to the delighted chatter of the young'uns mucking about...and also the delighted chatter of some who simply should have grown out of all of this, but hadn't. A 41-year-old man (I was told!) was jumping off the rocks into an inflatable dinghy, and obviously taking some great spills into the water as his intended target slipped to either side on impact. It was exactly the kind of thing my Dad would have done.

Suitably refreshed, I returned to the hotel and headed out into Cala D'Or, which had now reopened after the daily siesta. Walking past the most gorgeous Chevrolet Corvette and feeling lust, I headed towards the man with the can. Despite the fact that my holiday Spanish extends as far as ordering drinks and food, asking how much it costs and where do I find so-and-so, I entered Commercial Palmer - Cala D'Or's all-singing, all-dancing hardware and boat chandlery store - with the intention of getting this spray can of bearings-releaser. In the end, I had to draw a boat on a trailer with pen and paper and point at the trailer, before explaining very poorly that it has not moved for three years. A few further hand-gestures and the bloke knew what I needed, and took me straight to it. Blinding.

Back at the hotel, I wandered across the street to book a hire car, which I could pick up at 9am tomorrow morning. What with the heavy day's workload so far, I returned to Cala D'Or, this time with snorkelling equipment and spent a nice hour underwater, finding a starfish and chasing several other species around a bit. Hooligan.

Mark had suggested meeting for a beer at Blue Juice Bar, a new addition to the marina operated by a lovely Scots bloke called Ian. Ian is a musician/ creative/ arty type, who decided to run a bar in the sun. Good on him. He comes across as a Highland version of John Lydon, with his bleached-blonde spikey hair (with early male pattern baldness, widow's peak style) and beginnings of middle-aged spread. His son, Mikey, is over in Cala D'Or helping him at the bar, as Mikey's mum hasn't got time for him, apparently. Can't really see what Mikey's problem would be with leaving Glasgow and moving to Cala D'Or, but there you are. Mikey desperately wants to be home in Glasgow. God love him for it: he's 19-years-old, wants a motorbike and to be in a rock band. More on that later.

I got down to Blue Juice around 630pm, and started quaffing San Miguel shandies like they were going out of fashion. Mark was with his wife Mel and their little girl Molly, as well as Julie (Mel's sister) and her husband John (actually John Butcher, the ex Blackburn Rovers player.) In some capacity or another, all work at Peters. We had a few drinks, and then all four returned to their house, where dinner, kiddies bedtime, etc all beckoned.

I propped up the bar a bit with Ian, until Rob and his mum Gina arrived. They and the rest of their family have moved out here to build nice villas. They did run a bar, The Waterfront, on the other side of the marina, but the rents are crazy over here and the season short, so they chucked in the towel and started doing what they do best: there is Dad, who's been a builder/contractor all his life, then there are the three sons, all brickies, chippies, sparkies. So, they changed tack and started building luxury properties. Good on them. Had a great conversation with Rob - he's a real lad, doesn't take any shit off anyone, and if he does, they soon find themselves in hospital. Apparently he gets this from his Dad, as Gina nods, sagely. Anyway, a whole range of topics were covered, largely along the "England's gone to the dogs and so we fucked off" line. It must have been a good line, as I finally stumbled home quite roaringly pissed at 2am.

Despite a busy day, I was glad to have been able to shoehorn an eight-hour drinking bout in there, as well. As my head went down, I dreamed of collecting cars and boats and running away.