Brian, Kiwi Dave, the skipper, Nick, Norman and me relieved after jumping through the Greek hoops and being re-united with our passports
I may be paranoid but I think the God of Wind has had a word with the God of Port Police who decided to go one better. Instead of just making us go back to where we started in the morning. He thought where we were 4 days ago would be even better sport. This trip is beginning to feel like snakes and ladders, without the ladders.
What happened? We originally thought since we were going straight to Skiathos via some minor islands and anchorages we would use that as our Port of Entry into Greece. However since we were going into Khios town yesterday to get more diesel and another dinghy we decided we’d take in the passports and papers too.
First we went to the passport office. Passports were in order but before we could be given official entry the official said ‘Ok first customs have to check the boat’
‘Well that’s going to be difficult because it is on the other side of the island’
‘Then you must bring it here’
You don’t understand she’s an old heavy boat and with this sea and the headwind we’ll be lucky to do 2 knots. It will take 12 hours’
A shrug ‘You have to bring it here’ He’s getting angry now too, it’s the end of his shift, he’s changed out of his uniform and he just wants to go for lunch
‘But But etc… ‘ follows the whole Psara story to elicit some sympathy ‘and also we have to be in Skiathos by Sunday etc’ followed by the whole Mama Mia story to impress
‘I don’t know you must then speak to the Port Police’ Now very angry and shouting but happy to pass on the problem to the next man.
At the port police the whole wind/ Psara/Mama Mia deadline is first explained to an attractive lady in white. She seems reasonable and shrugs.
‘Well maybe if customs agree, it’s OK’
In customs (incidentally all these separate offices require 5 minute walks in the baking midday sun) the very nice and friendly customs man shrugs his shoulders and says it’s OK with him. By this time the new passport man and his manager is there too and he has a heated argument with the customs man. I plead with the customs man to go with me to the Port Police. He goes on his scooter, I trot behind.
Thinking I’ve now got it cracked I give the thumbs up to the others.
Inside the passport people have telephoned ahead, the big chief has got involved, put his beautifully whitened plimsoll down and that’s that. We have to bring the boat to Khios and they are holding our papers to make sure we don’t make a run for it. We are the Khios 5. The island has some strange magnetic hold over us. Time is running out and the wind is howling.
An image begins to creep into my consciousness of 150 film crew standing around in Skiathos waiting to make a movie with everything in place but one boat. I am reminded of a friend of mine, a cameraman, who once told me. You cannot be late on set. If I was going to be late I’d have to crash my car or break my arm, anything rather than be late. If we are not in tied up in that harbour by 8 on Wednesday morning I may have to open the sea cocks
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