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| Documents present and correct |
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Yesterday
involved a hint of bureaucracy. Usually I
would have already run screaming from the poop deck, but it actually was a walk
in the park. Last week the ´boys in
navy´ came honking up the channel and their usually ridiculous speed of, far
too many knots, bearing in mind the
speed limit is 3 knots. I think they basically get a buzz out of looking
windswept and interesting, whilst tearing along at approximately 25 knots.
I don’t
usually find them interesting, more boring and repetitive and very remiss of
their duties. It was obvious from the
exorbitant use of their fuel supplies, that they had simply nothing better to
do, than ride the Ria. When they spotted
some boat owners were on board, they scooted alongside with faces stern and official,
scary enough to send the largest of aquatic birds into flight. I usually mirror their faces on these
occasions, but when I recognized one of the officers and greeting them with one
of my big beaming smiles, their whole demeanour changed and smiles were
exchanged as the officer asked how I was.
By their book, they still asked to see the boats’ documents and
insurance, but went no further.
In fact I
didn’t have insurance to hand, but Sr José said very casually “oh no problem,
just take it along to the Maritime Police office when you are next in Town.” (or words to that effect in Portuguese). I sent my regards to his partner, who I
conveniently know and off they whizzed to their next victim.
They didn’t
get off so lightly. Next thing I see is
the skipper rushing ashore in his dinghy, with an ashen face of pure
worry. Being the thoughtful and
inquisitive neighbour I can be, I rowed alongside the catamaran on my way back
to land, to ask what had happened. Their
stricken faces explained that he had gone to show the insurance, which he had in
the car and after showing some flares onboard, which were out of date, the
police shook their heads and took off with them, following in the wake of the
owner.
Upon making
landfall, I swiftly sidestepped them and made my escape.
Some days
later, like yesterday, when I opened the door into the building of the Polícia
Maritima I had a sense of déjà vu. (See post of 2009). I explained that I needed to produce my
insurance document and the man’s face creased into a frown, as if I had asked
him for a milky coffee and a cup cake.
He started to nod his head as I mentioned José’s name (I could only
remember his first name), which was enough to make the plains clothed guy
acknowledge, grasp the coffee stained insurance information from my hand and
pass it over to the copying machine. It
was as easy as that. I departed the
building with a hop, skip and a whoop whoop!
Next on the
bureaucratic list is the barbaric floating tax and lighthouse duties, which all vessels have to
pay. It’s the grand sum of €4 per annum,
but in true disorganized style, I neglected to take my ships’ documents with
me, so I’ve added it to my perpetual ‘to
do’ list.
