Bringing Dad Home Part III

And finally, the story continues:

FRIDAY 21ST JULY 2006

The weirdness of the night before echoed in my mind as I woke today. I really did feel that and see that, it wasn't my imagination. Get up, things to do. I shower and dress and head straight to Nautica Amengual in the car. As I arrive, Miguel is loading a Sunseeker Superhawk 40 onto a trailer, and she is a beast. When I was a kid growing up, my Dad and I would always go to every Boat Show we could. I'd collect bag upon bag of promotional material from every manufacturer available, lusting over the sleek lines and engine specs of some of the world's baddest boats. The Superhawk was one of my childhood objects of desire, and seeing one swinging gently onto the back of a trailer brought that all back to me.

I watched the slow process, with the owner nervously looking on from the workshed, as Miguel and an old chap who works there lowered the creature onto a flatbed, her transom towards the cab, and her sharp bows extending over the end of the trailer, over the road. Wooden blocks were placed directly under her centreline for the heavy hull base to rest on, while side-struts were put in place to take her weight as she settled into position. It was textbook. Once she was down and secure, the 1000-denier webbing was removed from beneath her, and ratchet-strapping applied to all sides. While they finish the job off, I return to my boat. Once again, I apply the rust-releasing spray to all moving parts. Miguel appears and explains that he has to go to Porto Petro with the boat he's just loaded, and I must leave. I quickly explain the money situation: that I can only withdraw a certain amount each day, and that it will be Monday before I have the money. He says Monday is fine, so I pack up the boat and leave before he locks me in with those Rottweillers.

So, it's set for Monday. I drive out of the yard, but instead of taking a right back to the main road, I decide to take the pretty route to Cala Mondrago. You can get there if you turn left. It's a windy, often single-track, country road, but it's real Mallorca. Not these German-inspired and German-built pseudo-autobahns. I get to Mondrago and park the car up the hill, preferring the walk down to the cala, to parking practically in it. I'm sure the sunbathers would agree. It's beautiful here, picture-postcard stuff. The cala is actually in a parc natural - a reserve for wildlife and natural flora and fauna. No fires. No stereos. No yobbishness. Mondrago is a place of tranquility. I walk up the edge of the cala, taking photos of the beach and kids jumping in off someone else's speedboat. We'd come here loads of times on the boats, whether the speeder or the cruiser. It was a lovely spot. On the edge of the mooring zone - they're pretty tight in Mallorca, with massive lines of buoys inside which boats may not float - there's a small headland, with a cave underneath. We would swim in and out the other side of that cave all day. You'd have to watch if there was an incoming swell - you might be in with a metre of head clearance, before finding yourself launched upwards as the peak of the swell rushed into the cave. The only solution in such circumstances was a rapid underwater descent, before swimming out underwater and with eyes wide open watching for the cave sides and mouth. Salty stuff, but exhilarating. The same headland, once you'd negotiated getting up and out and onto it, was an excellent diving spot, what with the 7 metre depth. While I was at Cala Mondrago, I made two calls: one to my bank in England, to see if they could tell me if I was maxed out on my credit card, or whether it had been frozen for "strange usage patterns"? They could confirm or deny neither. They said I should ring the bank's credit card line, but do you know what, I couldn't be arsed. The second call was to Mark at Peters. This is the company that will be arranging the transport of the old girl home. I got through - amazingly - and told Mark that it was going to be Monday, and could he please pencil in collection of the boat then. He said that was fine. All was in place: by Monday, I'd have amassed enough cash, and Peters were on standby with a tow-truck.

I could relax. Tomorrow morning, very fucking early, I would be getting up to head to Puerto Pollensa in the northeast of the island. It's not a long distance, but the route I had to use was complicated. I decided that I would take a recce this afternoon, and make sure all was sorted and in place. The road from Cala D'Or to Puerto Pollensa is a beautiful one, combining as it does a whirlwind drive-by of some of Mallorca's quaint and not-so-quaint dwelling places, together with vast expanses of countryside scenery, from the flatlands with their vineyards, arable produce and animals, to the mountain ranges across the southeast coast, as well as the ever-growing big daddies along the island's northern edge. Leaving Cala D'Or, you head for Santanyi, the administrative town for this part of Mallorca, and pick up signs to Felanitx. Along this road, I felt a strange compulsion to visit the monastery at Sant Salvador. You can see the place from anywhere in the southeast of the island. It rises to 510 metres above sea level, and is a flat-topped outcropping, savage in its ferocious jabbing of the sky. Perhaps that's why they chose it as a monastic site? This is not to say I'd never visited Sant Salvador, that I'd never even thought of going there: on the contrary, I'd been there many times, with the family, with Bob on our mopeds... it wasn't new to me, but today, it felt that way.

The drive from the main road up to the top is 4.5 kilometers. The lower stages are gentle, sweeping valley drives, through fields of wheat and stalls selling watermelons and grapefruit. As you approach the bottom of the escarpment, things get hairy, very quickly. Obviously the gradient increases. The road narrows, and become very windy, full of hairpins - and I mean hairpins: some of these almost go back on themselves as you turn almost completely in the opposite direction. The drops from the sides are sheer, and many of them are unprotected from the lacksadaisical driver. Finally, after what seems an eternity in first gear, with second making the odd appearance, you reach the top. Of course, being a tourist attraction as well as a place of devout, unblemished contemplation, the car park is large. In fact, there are many facilities here that would suggest uses other than religious observance. Points of view are marked, not exactly Kodak Photo Spots, but pointed out nonetheless. Barbecue areas - and here I mean brick-built areas with fuel level, grille and all the business, are all neatly coupled to six-seater BBQ tables, just like from B&Q. They do specify no rollerblading, skateboarding, or indeed any kind of rolling activity. They do not want loud music, in fact, no music at all. They point out the spots where sexy local wildlife might appear. Very little attention is actually paid to Jesus or God, surprisingly for such a rabidly Catholic country. I decided to change all that, and spent 10 minutes at the foot of an enormous statue of The Christ, and took some great, almost-360-degree, footage of the surrounding countryside. Once I'd done that, I walked through the car park, past my car and ever-increasing numbers thereof, to the main monastery building. Outside the main entrance, there is a well, drawn from the bedrock many metres below. Signs implore the visitor not to pollute the well, as it has quenched the thirst of pilgrims for hundreds of years. I push the button - sorry, you don't actually get to lower a bucket and wind the bugger back all the way to the top - and drink from the battered brass ladle that forms the drinking vessel. The water was sweet, and quenched me immediately. Am I trying to wash away my sins? Am I preparing for a religious epiphany? I didn't know, but I walked inside.

The walls of Sant Salvador are dedicated to the lives of fishermen. Obviously, given its small island status, much of the traditional activities of Mallorca - and all the Balearic islands - are farming and fishing, working the land and sea, toiling against the elements, against nature, possibly against God Himself. Ornate plaster plaques, hand-painted, adorn the passage through the cloister, past the cafe and Tour De France maillots jaunes that adorn the walls of this very secular area. While the idea of a nice, cold drink and pondering the sporting history of Mallorcan monks appeals, it's not why I'm here, and increasingly I'm not sure why, but I'm walking this way. I enter the chapel. Signs just outside remind the visitor that this is a place of worship, that this place must be respected as such, that noise is not encouraged, but the shoving of small denomination coins into each section would reveal greater, hidden truths. I'd been here before and done so: illuminated The Nativity; St John; Jesus on the way to Calvary. I'd done the tourist bullshit. I was here to see The Man.It's amazingly cool inside. So cool, you would never think the mercury's pushing 40 plus in direct sunlight. The silence is deafening. A couple are in here too, they're looking around at the artefacts, carvings, reliefs and scenarios played out around the edge of the chapel. I slowly walk up the right hand side, with the right hand block of aisles to my left, and several alcoves with payable-graces to my right. I walk past them all towards the altar, my eyes focussing on the seven-pronged candelabra, thinking how like the Jewish candelabra it was. At the massive candles on stands either side of the altar. At the cleanliness of it all. It was like it never got dirty, never showed signs of patination or age. I walked up the steps to the right of the altar, past some nice - though pretty entry-level - rose windows. Behind and above the altar are the candles, the ones that you light for people dead and at peace, or alive and suffering. I get to light two candles; one for Dad, one for Mum. They aren't real candles. You pop 50 cents in the slot for one - or 1 euro for two - candle/s. My euro fell in and two random lights started blinking. Maybe they're not random. Maybe there's an exact, seemingly-random pattern to them all. I wasn't going to wait to find out. I walked across the top at the back of the altar, and walked down the left-hand staircase. The couple who'd been sightseeing had gone, and I was sure I was alone. I walked in front of the altar and felt my legs give way. I sat down on the front row on the right hand side. I did something I hadn't done in a church for a long time: I prayed. I prayed as hard as I could, naming each and every person I prayed God would have his eternal effect upon. I prayed for family, for friends, for situations in the world, I prayed that equality would win, I prayed that the world got better, that more people realised what they needed in their lives. And I sobbed. I sobbed for what seemed like an eternity. The tears deflected from my cheeks onto my shorts, my shirt, the floor. And, for the first time in a long time, I felt some peace.

I left Sant Salvador with a spring in my step, and clearer vision. Getting back onto the main road, I continued towards Felanitx. From Felanitx to Manacor. From Manacor to Petra. From Petra to Sineu. From Sineu to Inca. A surprise awaited me at Inca - the motorway has been extended, all the way from Palma to near-as-damnit Alcudia. This cuts out a lot of crap. I jumped on the hardtop, taking my speed up to 120kmh and loving every minute of it. I took the exit to Pollensa and drove through the town towards Puerto Pollensa. The road takes you right up alongside the jutting mountainside that forms the northeastern part of the sierras, its granite outcrops and violent shapes hanging at your shoulder like some mountain nemesis. They follow you all the way to the Puerto. Once there, I park the car in the main - and free - car park on the seafront, between the two beaches and the marina. I decide the best thing to do was to call Scuba Mallorca, and get directions. I vaguely remember the map from their website. I know it's not far from the front. I get through to Mick, who runs the dive school. He soon has me strolling down the nearest road to where I actually am, away from the seafront. We're the second dive school, not the first. I trust this is only a geographical assessment in relation to my current position. Soon, I'm in the shop and gripping flesh with Mick. He seems an amiable bloke, despite his odd, lisping/sybillant speech problem. I ask how long he thinks I should give it from Cala D'Or, and he says an hour. I'll give it one-and-a-half. I enquire about parking. He tells me the blue zones are paying, the sidestreets are free. If you can find a space. I ask about the carpark on the front, the one I'm in now. Oh, that's fine, there. But there's a one-and-a-half hour limit? Pah, he says. There's nobody checking what time you arrived, so as long as you don't feel morally obliged, you can park there all day, if you want. I decide then that I will leave Cala D'Or at 630am for my 8am arrival time at Scuba Mallorca tomorrow morning. I thank Mick and leave.

I didn't get back to Cala D'Or and the hotel until 9pm. I washed and changed and headed out to Blue Juice. A couple of San Miguels later - OK, make that several - I wandered off back over the hill to Cala D'Or itself, where I find myself lured towards the noisier venues in town. I pop into Bar Cream and meet Bill and Val, the bar operators, and tell them I've heard of them from Ian at Blue Juice. I promise to be there for the gig on Monday night. Two hefty JD and Cokes later, I secure a grubby cheeseburger from Kebab Cala D'Or and wind up at home, with wind, at about 3am.

In my pissed-up state, I take sultry/mean'n'nasty/stupidly grinny photos of me in my badass Panama hat. As if Greater Powers are preventing me from further embarrassment, I pass out.