Authors: Herzel Frenkel
A few fishermen were tending their boats, readying them for a new day at sea when a loud shout interrupted the serene ambiance that reigned the bay in the early morning. Someone was cursing madly over at the far end of the bay. A yachtsman was swearing, screaming at the top of his lungs. Most didn't understand the language, but the meaning was clear. The man was angry, furious about something.
Avri stopped cursing, feeling embarrassed.
Besides
, he thought,
it sure didn't help any.
He jumped ashore and bent his dock line again, dropped the swim-ladder at the transom and descended into the cool water. He knew her bottom very well and he reached directly for the propeller. Carefully he searched around it, afraid of what he may find.
A mass of twine was wrapped around the shaft. It was tight and very solid; he couldn't peel any of the strands loose. It was all in one compacted stack.
He was surprised and bewildered. He had only engaged the motor for a short second, and, even then dead slow. The engine rocked violently on its mounts and choked dead immediately. He didn't think it turned long enough to mess it up that badly. He had seen ropes thread themselves around shafts before, but not like this.
He came out of the water and started the engine, and, very gently, put it into reverse for a short burst. The engine kicked wildly and stopped dead. The shaft hadn't turned at all. He tried again, this time not so gently and with much anger. The diesel jerked violently and stopped dead again.
Evidently nothing had come loose under the water. He dived in to check anyhow. The water wasn’t cold enough to cool his rage. He came back up on the cockpit, and that’s when his cussing rolled all over the bay like a typhoon.
He slumped on the Starboard coming, dripping wet, holding his head between his hands, waiting for his fury to recede. From the corner of his eye he noticed someone on the pier. Jim Oakeley was standing there, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, looking at him like a big question mark.
"I am a light sleeper,” Jim said while Avri was tending to the coffee pot in the galley. "I heard your motor go on and conk out. It sounded sort of odd, that abrupt stop. On your second try, I figured you must have wrapped some trouble around your propeller."
Avri put two coffee cups on the table and sat down dejectedly.
"You see," said Jim, "I've heard that sound a few times in my life. It is indeed an ugly one. In a half an hour the sun will be up and we will be able to dive and see. I'll get my scuba gear from the Jay Bee. I don't suppose you have any on your boat?" he asked, continuing without waiting for an answer, "We'll set you free in no time. You'll be sailing out of here before noon". He laughed aloud, trying to cheer Avri up. He wasn't entirely successful, so they sat there quietly, sipping their coffees, waiting for the sun to rise.
By seven o'clock the sun had shown its face over the calm waters of Samos bay. Jim Oakeley dived down into the water first. Bubbles from his scuba gear frothed and fizzed as he swam about the transom. He came up shortly, puffing water out of the mouthpiece.
"You have a layer of rope, about an inch and a half thick, around the shaft. You don't have any diving gear with you, do you?"
"No Jim, I don't. The Turks have grown very sensitive about treasure-hunting divers in recent years. All I have is a simple diving mask and a snorkel".
"It's all right," said Jim. "You get yourself down here and we'll share my air, we’ll sort this out between us, never fear. Bring a respectable knife with you".
From his position on the flat roof of his house, Vidas could see the yachts at the new pier. He couldn't follow the details but he could see she wasn't sailing out, and that was enough. That was all that mattered.
Avri and Jim worked the better part of an hour, cutting away at the solid layers of nylon yarn. The engine had twisted the fishing net into a solid blob of plastic that was impossible to undo. They took turns at the chore, hacking at it. It was hard work, floating, as they were, underwater with no solid ground to stand on. Avri worried that the single tank of air may not last for the duration of the job. Finally they got it all loose. Avri grabbed the mass of twine as he surfaced from beneath the transom.
He stared at it, incredulous. It was a piece of fishing net, not a rope.
How unlucky can I get?
He thought.
It isn't even a rope. A fishing net. How the hell could I manage to do that?
He threw the thing on the dock hard and it slithered all the way to the concrete wall.
Oakeley came up from the water, too. He wasn't happy as he called Avri.
"We ain't done yet, my friend. Your prop is bent to buggery".
Avri uttered a curse in Arabic and threw up his hands in despair. It was now nearing nine o'clock and he realized his sailing day was shot.
Jim went to get another air tank while Avri fixed a light breakfast and yet another strong pot of coffee.
Young Vidas had been loitering around the taverna’s phone all morning, attempting, every few minutes, to reach Kondos. He had to tell him about this white yacht, about the Galatea. The line to Patmos was dead. For the past hour he had been listening to a racket of electronic clicks and hums.
The daily ferry emerged at the entrance as usual. Her stack and short mast, strictly a decorative rig, reappeared now and again between the rocky hills until, a few minutes later, she poked her bow into the harbor. She turned gracefully and headed south, straight into her home berth on the main dock.
Vidas considered taking the ferry to Patmos, but promptly dismissed it. He should stay here and watch that yacht, should she overcome his fishing net ordeal sooner than he had figured. He guessed, however, it should take the poor skipper most of the day to cut that tangled mess of pure frustration off the shaft.
He recalled, a couple of years ago, there was that fisherman who caught his sinker rope while fishing amongst the islands. Vidas was returning home when he saw the guy screaming his exasperation to heavens, and had sailed over to help. By that time the man had been wrestling futilely for an hour and a half. They had both worked on it for three or four hours more, diving in and out in turns, before, finally, the last strand was severed. And that was an old Manila rope. Now, with this Nylon fishing net, he was sure the foreigner would have to work at least twice as long.
By quarter to ten he gave up on the phone. The old man at the taverna was eyeing him curiously. There was normally nothing so urgent in Samos as to make anyone so persistent about the telephone. The rhythm on the island was measured by days, not hours, and certainly not by minutes. The old man’s gaze made Vidas uneasy. He didn’t want to be questioned; he wasn’t too good at making up answers. So he stepped out and strolled along the waterfront, passed by the ferry and watched her hoist crates of local freight onto the rear deck.
Two men were marching purposefully up the dock, one carrying a three-blade propeller. It was about twenty inches in diameter and he thought he even recognized it. The two men turned left just before reaching him, and headed up towards the center of town. Vidas followed then at a safe distance. A quarter of a mile further up the hill they turned right and disappeared from sight. He had a very good idea as to where they were heading though, so he felt no need to rush. He took the same right turn and climbed the slope to the blacksmith’s house. Passing by the wrought iron gate he could see the two foreigners standing in the open shed by the workshop gesturing at the propeller.
Vidas had seen enough and he kept on going. At the next street he turned right again and was very soon back at the Taverna by the
waterfront.
He tried the telephone again. No line and no Kondos, so he walked to the new pier to where the white yacht was moored. He wanted to make certain that the two guys with the propeller had come from this yacht. He had to be sure about it; after all, he had never seen them before. He was worried about how fast they managed to get that net off the shaft. True, he hadn’t expected the prop to bend. It was probably that big engine that twisted it so. He was familiar with small outboard engines and those did not bend propellers.
As he approached the yacht, he saw the reason for their speedy progress – a scuba diving set still dripping wet, was resting neatly at the corner of her cockpit.
With this equipment at hand, these guys may still sail out before evening
. And he was worried.
Vidas had to plan another scheme. He must keep that boat in Samos if he doesn't want to lose his reward.
The ferry had sailed away and the dock was peaceful again, hardly a soul to disturb the almost ethereal beauty of the ancient village. The phone at the taverna was still dead, so he walked out to his boat. The engine started at the first pull of the cord and he motored slowly, in a wide circle, around the old wall by the southern shore. There were hardly any boats docking there now. The bottom was rocky and fouled with junk and wrecks and kept most boats off. There was one particular piece of junk Vidas was after. It was a length of steel cable, about three quarters of an inch in diameter and some two hundred feet long. It was dumped there by a salvage crew some two years ago. There were these two tug boats, heavy monsters from Thessalonica, which came to haul a Yugoslav tanker off the rocks on the north shore of the island. Most of the men in Samos had been hired to help with the operation. It was hard work, but good pay, good enough for the young Vidas to buy his first boat, the one he was now using to search for the cable.
It was getting near noon. Vidas crisscrossed his boat along the shore, dragging a cat's-paw anchor behind him. He held the anchor line in his right hand, letting it go every time the four-pronged hook caught on to something. At times he thought he was fishing out every piece of junk in the bay. He stopped each time, putting the motor in neutral to pull the line up and prized another piece of scrap back into the bay. At times he even had to dive in and release the entangled anchor at the bottom of the bay.
He had been trawling like this for over an hour when he finally hooked up the cable. He pulled it out and laid it across the bow of his boat. He was close to the west end of the shore, so he pulled the cable in that direction, hauling out a length of the cable and laying it back in the water behind him. It was a great relief when he reached the end of the cable and it was not snagged on the bottom. The cable was his now.
Vidas motored across the bay to where the Galatea was awaiting her restored propeller, the cable slithering behind like a water-snake. The boat was moving very slowly while dragging the long cable. He hoped he wouldn't have to answer too many questions about that odd maneuver.
Vidas turned sharply to the right at the north-west corner of the bay and the cable followed astern in a wide ark, sliding, at the bottom of the bay, over all the anchors of the yachts moored at the new pier. It worked exactly as he had hoped. The young fisherman made a casual U-turn and motored back over the anchor lines again, only this time in a slightly diagonal direction. Some fifty yards after the Galatea, he let go of the cable and headed back home.
The north side of Samos bay, was now one big mess of anchor chains and bow lines, awaiting to be entangled with a wild steel cable once an anchor is weighed. The chaos would only become greater as the yachts would try to pull their anchors up.
Fresh northerly gusts hit the entrance as he returned to his usual dock.
The Meltami is early this year
, he thought as he tied the boat to the steel bollard. He added an extra bow line, just to be safe.
The telephone was still dead. The old man shrugged his shoulders, as if to say - what can I do about it?
"I have sent word with the Captain of the ferry, so maybe tomorrow they'll come to fix it".
Vidas responded with a smile and joined two other fishermen at the small table under the window. He ordered a light lunch and they all discussed the Meltami. An early Meltami was a strong Meltami, and a strong Meltami was everybody's concern.
* * * * *
The blacksmith examined the propeller carefully, turning it in his robust hands, running his fingers over its smooth curves, gauging its thickness and strength. It was a superb piece of craftsmanship that had gained his admiration. He was enthused by the challenge of restoring it to its original shape.
"Thirty dollars," he said in a heavy accent as he put the bronze casting on the workbench.
The price was an excellent deal for both of them. Avri nodded his approval and the man started to work without further ado. First he fired a fresh pile coal in the small hearth. He then arranged a set of tools, large clamps and wooden mallets, setting them on the rugged workbench along the wall, next to the hearth.
Almost like a surgeon preparing for a surgery,
Avri thought.
There was a big iron anvil mounted on a heavy round block of dark wood. The blacksmith moved toward the anvil with a resolute stride. He hugged the iron with both hands and started lifting it against his crotch. His arms tightened and his face turned red as the iron lifted slowly and steadily off its wooden pedestal. He then waddled, bent-kneed to the other side of the yard, hands extended down and his back upright as he lowered his heavy burden onto the ground. For a long moment he stood there, knees bent and straight back, breathing deeply and staring down at the floor, his arms still hugging the iron. When he straightened up again, he had the air of a conqueror about him and Avri was sure the man could do the job. The man was a doer, determined to shape metal and steel to his will.
The coal in the hearth bred red corners and white tips as heat migrated from one chunk to another. Again, they had to wait. The blacksmith called something toward the house and gestured Avri and Oakeley to join him at the small bench in the shade. As his English was not good enough for conversation, they sat there quietly enjoying the silence. Shortly after, a chubby, gentle-faced woman came out with a tray of stuffed cookies, and served cool lemonade that she poured from a glass pitcher. She smiled to each of them as she offered the refreshments but said nothing.
They waited a long half an hour for the hearth to get hot. The blacksmith got up frequently, stirring the coal to an even glow. He then laid his hand on top of the hearth, felt the heat of the orange colored bricks, sat back on his stool and took another cookie.
When the temperature was right he laid the wrenched propeller on the coals, placing it carefully for even heating. The long silence resumed, only this time they felt action has begun and waiting was easier.
A fresh gust of cool air blew from the North. Flames danced over the glowing coal. The Greek placed a large plywood barrier to shelter the hearth from the wind and the amber hue returned to the coal.
"It looks like the Meltami has started somewhat early this year," Avri said to Oakeley.
"I reckon it is the first time I am about to encounter this wind," Jim remarked. "I have read about it in Dunham's Water Pilot but never had the pleasure of meeting the girl".
"Let me tell you, Jim, she is not a callow girl. She is a full grown woman this, Meltami. She is a summer wind that blows in the Aegean from about mid-July or early August and lasting until late October or even a month further. She starts about noon, almost every day, blows up to force four or even five and then tails off toward the evening when the air calms down to a nice summer breeze".
"Does it ever develop into a full-blown storm?"
"Not an ocean style storm, no, but she can be quite vicious at times, occasionally up to seven Beaufort. The wind could blow hard although the sea does not get very high. Just strong and wild, not very high".
"Sounds almost like fun," Jim smiled.
"Yes, it really is, except when it gets really strong. There is very little warning before she erupts in fury".
"Just like a woman," Oakeley remarked and they both laughed.
"How true," Avri said, and continued, "The only sure sign I know of is her timing. The day the Meltami starts late she is sure to blow throughout the night. Also, if she erupts gusty she will stay that way for hours".
Avri was about to tell him of an encounter he had had with the mercurial lady off the coast of Crete a few years ago when the blacksmith suggested that the propeller was ready for reshaping. They both got up to watch the Greek go at it.
He used long tongs with wooden cheeks to grab the propeller out of the hearth and place it on the wooden block which a while back carried the iron anvil. He held the hot bronze with a thick piece of leather and started hammering the twisted metal using various wooden mallets: a small one for the narrow sections near the center and a wide one on the flat, peripheral surfaces. He hammered steadily and fast, pausing only to exchange mallets. After some fifteen minutes of hammering the propeller was basically in shape again. The man put it back over the coal for a while, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and downed another glass of lemonade. The man had that air of victory about him. Avri was content too.
The propeller went in and out of the hearth twice more before the Greek was fully satisfied. He placed it on top of the hearth, letting the bricks cool it off slowly.
The guy really knows what he is doing
, Avri thought.
If the bronze cools too fast it will develop cracks and be useless
.
This time the waiting was accompanied by tiny cups of black coffee and sweet Baklava. By twelve-thirty, the propeller was cool enough to handle. Avri waited patiently while the man inspected his work. He was content with the result and he handed it to Avri with the triumphant gesture of a conqueror.
It was a great piece of work, indeed. Avri checked it all around. It was flawless and he was happy.
Another fifteen minutes of filing and polishing and the two yachtsmen were on their way back to the boat.
Mounting the propeller on the shaft would still take more than an hour. There were also other matters to consider: The shaft may have been bent or the bearing could be damaged or perhaps out of balance. They just had to mount it on and hope for the best. It was close to one o'clock and Avri was determined to sail out today. The barometer inside his head was dropping, warning him of troubles ahead.
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