was already busy with morning traffic as he drove the rattling Land Rover down to the Royal Natal Yacht Club. The streets along the esplanade were choked with cars and it took him at least twenty minutes to travel the mere five kilometres from Ridge Road to the Royal Natal.
As David walked from the parking lot with its rows and rows of yachts on one side, he began to appreciate the influence Julian Harper had at the club; somehow he had managed to arrange David’s membership almost overnight. David was sure the Royal Natal Yacht Club didn’t accept new members any old day. He arrived at the club to enquire where Julian’s boat was berthed, only to be asked by a secretary to wait a moment for the commodore. She dialled a number, spoke into the phone and then disconnected.
“If you would follow me, sir?”
She led him through a short passage to a cool lounge with a deck that opened out onto a pleasant garden with chairs and tables, a swimming pool, green lawns, palm trees and brightly flowering hibiscus. There was a magnificent view of the harbour. Several people sat at the chairs and tables having tea or late breakfast. Two children romped in the pool while a woman lounged in the sun nearby. There was a bar set in an alcove against the far wall of the lounge with two men leaning against it. They glanced up as David was led in, and one of them, a middle-aged, balding man, came across to him. He introduced himself as Bernard King. He had a wide smile and a warm handshake.
“Good to have you on board,” he said to David. The man was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved, open-necked shirt. He didn’t look like a commodore – not that David knew what a commodore should look like.
“Thank you,” David replied politely. He peered around the lounge and deck outside, at the nautical pictures on the wall, the flags, the honours boards and the bright upholstery on the cane loungers. “Nice place you have here.”
Bernard grinned broadly. “Thanks to new members such as you.”
David smiled to himself. Of course, Julian must have made a handsome donation to get his membership application noticed.
“Well, I suppose you’ll be wanting to have a look at Sea Scout?”
David stared at him.
“She arrived yesterday from Richards Bay,” Bernard told David as he handed him a small grey disc on a lanyard. “She was sailed in by two idiots who nearly crashed into the Isle of Capri.” David assumed the Isle of Capri was another boat and not an actual island. They left her in a bit of a state I’m afraid.”
David groaned inwardly. Julian had warned him about the neglectful owners, but surely they could have delivered the boat in a reasonably good condition?
“That tag will get you through the security gate at the entrance to the jetty without the guards bothering you.” Bernard pointed to the disk on the lanyard. “And Bobby Baumann asked me to tell you that he’ll meet you today to discuss her refitting.”
“Bobby Baumann?” David asked.
“Contractor,” Bernard explained. “He’s quite good, very reliable. If anyone can sort out your boat in a hurry, it’s him.” David wanted to correct him about the boat, but didn’t have the time. Bernard was already waving him towards the marina. “Go down the middle jetty,” he told David. “She’s the big one at the end.”
In the distance David could see big cargo carriers, container ships, small yachts and ski boats. The port, with all its cranes and warehouses and docks, shimmered in the sharp light. Along the wharf as far as the eye could see was uninterrupted activity with bustling loading and offloading of containers. Closer in to the marina a narrow strip of white in the middle of the harbour revealed a long sandbank. It was low tide.
The small-craft harbour itself consisted of three sections. Against the southern wharf, where the club, restaurant and parking lot were situated, the visiting international yachts were berthed. They were huge, mostly catamarans and pleasure cruisers lined up along one side of the causeway. One yacht was a smaller, sturdier boat that looked like it might be on a round-the-world trip. Its decks were loaded with additional storage containers, its sails were being aired on the walkway and its crew, a couple with sun-bleached hair and sea-faded T-shirts, were halfway up the masts rerigging with professional ease.
David watched them for a while, taking in the fresh air and sunshine. He started to relax as he admired the little craft and its air of adventure. The middle jetty of the marina was double the length of the international causeway, with rows of yachts stretching along both sides. To the north was a shorter jetty and then the other embankment where more boats were stored on dry land, in cradles or on boat trailers, waiting for their weekend owners to pay them some attention.
David let himself through the security gate and greeted the guard sitting in his booth; then he went down the ramp towards the walk-on and the first of the boats.
They started small, ski boats and day cruisers and other fishing boats. As he walked further along the floating causeway the vessels became bigger. They had names such as Endless Summer, African Queen and Lazy Spirit. They were blue and white, spotlessly maintained, their sails folded away under matching navy covers. David imagined he could smell the money that floated in this marina.
There were very few people about. Faint music was coming from a large catamaran on his left, and a little further along a middle-aged couple in swimming costumes was hosing down the deck of their yacht. David greeted them and continued down the causeway until he could go no further.
Sea Scout was waiting for him at the very end. She was larger than he had imagined. In fact she was huge. She looked in good condition, her hull a pristine white, her name painted in crisp royal blue on her bow. But that’s where his expertise ended. He couldn’t tell that her sails were badly furled on the booms and inadequately tied down. He couldn’t tell that her fenders were barely holding her away from the rough abrasions of the jetty.
He walked along her length toward the stern, which jutted out into the water, and searched for a place to climb aboard. Her boarding steps were lying on the jetty in front of him, half in and half out of the water. He was about to bend down to lift them up when someone called out behind him.
“Mr Roth?” A darkly suntanned man in his mid-thirties strode up. “Need help with that?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, the man stepped around David and effortlessly hauled the boarding steps from between Sea Scout and the jetty. He fitted the steps to the side of the yacht before turning and extending a large, calloused hand towards David. “Bobby Baumann,” came the introduction.
David shook his hand. “David Roth,” he greeted.
“This is quite a boat you’ve got here.” Baumann gestured with his free hand. “Impressive,” he added. David released the firm handshake but was interrupted before he could explain the details of ownership. “Pity about those two you got to sail her from Richards Bay. They don’t know a boat from a boat race.”
“Pity,” David echoed.
“Well, that’s what you get when you employ amateurs,” Baumann replied over his shoulder as be climbed up the boarding steps. He kicked at a loosely tangled pile of hosepipe and ropes which should have been neatly coiled on the deck as if to confirm his statement; then he lowered himself fluidly into the wheelhouse. David followed more carefully.
Sea Scout’s upper deck consisted of the foredeck with its shorter foremast midway along, and a long, elegant bow ending in a slightly raised bowsprit. The cockpit was situated three-quarters of the way along the deck, the rear section ending in a raised
