I used to envy boat delivery skippers, until I became one.

I was a teenager in the 1970’s and indentured as an apprentice boat builder, building wooden boats on the south coast of England. It had been what I wanted to do since I was a knee high to a grasshopper. Woodwork, boats and water. It was all I was interested in. The old fellow that was my master was a cranky old git, prone to throwing tools around the workshop when my clumsy hands ruined good timber. So I learnt quickly as I quietly shaved, planed and sanded away by hand for hours on end, but I dreamed of running away to sea. In my day dreams I sailed the boat I was working on across the oceans.
      Once or twice a year, when all the sawing, shaving, sanding and varnishing was done, our hard work was launched and the old delivery skipper (everybody over 30 was old to me then) arrived to deliver the new yacht to its new owner. He was full of tales of the southern seas, the golden ladies and sunshine days, although I later found out, that most of his jobs were just up and down the south coast! But as a young lad, I hung on to his every word and I was determined to be more of a sailor than a creator. across the oceans.
      It was not long before I was hanging around the yacht clubs, hoping a guy didn’t turn up and that I would be given his berth. And so I progressed up the “ranks” to regular crew, then helm and eventually on to skipper. Skippering racing yachts is a dream job. If it got broken, it got fixed, which usually for me meant extra work and money. If you won, then you got a bonus, lose a race and you blamed the boat! across the oceans.
      Then came the day when I was asked to crew on a delivery trip. I had been waiting years for this moment. It was a nice smooth delivery in perfect weather, nothing went wrong, and I got a nice drink out of it from the owner. And so started my additional career, which, as wooden boat building died out as rapidly as rum draining out of a leaky barrel, became almost my main income. It didn’t take me long to find out that smooth deliveries are as rare as hen’s teeth and rocking horse dung, and I soon learned the basic rules to yacht delivery. across the oceans.
      Rule No 1: If you want to hear someone lie, ask the owner what condition his boat is in when discussing terms of the delivery. “Perfect,” is always the answer. “Never better,” says he, “had it out last weekend. A delivery skipper’s worst nightmare are the words “I do all the work on her myself.” across the oceans.
      Rule No 2: What starts out as “Whenever you can make it my friend,” soon turns into, “I must have it there yesterday.” across the oceans.
      Rule No 3: Get as much information as you possibly can from as many sources as you can. See Rule No 1. across the oceans.
      Rule No 4. Get paid up front if possible. See Rules No. 1 and 2. across the oceans.
      These rules should be remembered at all times. Unfortunately, however, sometimes you have to take the owners word for it, when the boat is hundreds or thousands of miles away. Get there, get on the boat, fire it up, fix whatever problems you have to and get it to position B, get paid, go home and wait for the call about the next job. across the oceans.
      Sometimes that call is a long time coming. That is usually when all these rules go flying out of the window and the overiding rule comes in to play, work is work and money is money. across the oceans.
      It had been a good while between delivery jobs, a bleak winter “on the beach” in England. A cold winter of site carpentry work, home at six every night to wailing babies and a stressed- out wife, when I got a call from a mate of mine in the delivery business. “It’s a dream job,” he said. “A charter company needs to move its entire fleet of 40 boats, 200 miles or so. Three to four weeks of early summer in the Eastern Mediterranean sailing nearly new yachts.” It was just what I needed. I flew to meet him in Greece. When he told me more of the job in the airport bar, I should have gotten straight back on the plane. across the oceans.
      A very simple job, plain sailing. Up the coast to Yugoslavia in one of the company yachts, collect a yacht each, and sail back down the coast and leave the boats in a Greek harbor. There were five of us delivery skippers and one Zodiac driver. His job would be to sail the transport boat and act as leader. Easy money. “One small, little difficulty,” he said. “There is a little local difficulty in the area. The charter company is having a little trouble with the authorities about their charter operations.” Something was rattling inside my brain. There was something troubling me and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Then I realized what it was – it was May 1992 and two months previously Bosnia, Herzegovina, Serbia and Croatia had become household names at the center of the world’s attention and the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia was no more. It wasn’t a little local difficulty; it was a full blown civil war! The previous year these boats had been in one of the Mediterranean’s most popular sailing areas, now they were stuck in the middle of a war zone. across the oceans.
      Oh well, if my mate said it could be done, it could be done. I was already here and besides it was good money, money that I badly needed after a quiet winter and a young family to support back home. across the oceans.
      That night on the sail up to the first collection, we donned dark clothing. A plan was formed, the lead yacht would stand off the coast about 10 miles, and six of us would zip ashore in a Zodiac with a 40hp on the back, slip into the marina, open up the boats, fire the engines up, throw off the dock lines and leave before anybody had noticed we had even arrived. We would meet the lead yacht off shore and sail in convoy down the coast for a couple of hundred miles into Greek waters and collect the cash, repeat in different marinas until all 40 yachts were in safe waters. I had already spent the money in my head. across the oceans.
      We felt like World War II commandos as we motored into the first marina, it was a clear night with just enough moon to guide our way in and a steady offshore breeze to sail out by. Easy money. We even had the keys to the boats! Not a sound was heard nor a soul stirred as we came into the harbor. Money in the bank. across the oceans.
      The boats started easily and we motored out in convoy, out of the harbor, turn to port into the wind and, as each boat hoisted its sails, I smiled to myself, easy as pie! Then ZING! A hole appeared in my mainsail, then another, followed by another – %$#%! They were bullet holes! They were firing at us from the hills with sniper rifles with silencers on! We’d just turned into target practice for bored, over-armed peasants! across the oceans.
      The VHF came alive with anxious shouts from the other yachts. Quickly we turned our bows out to sea, present arse! Narrow the target boys! These guys are quite good shots! I rammed the throttle forward, full speed ahead! I switched the Autohelm on and dove down the companion way, hiding behind the engine until I was sure I was out of range. across the oceans.
      Morning came and found us assessing the damage 10 miles off shore. Most of us had bullet holes in our sails, one of the yachts had a couple of holes in the hull, thankfully above the water line. One engine had cooked itself as the skipper had gunned the engine too hard and the water impellor had stuck, but no casualties. We had survived our first raid on the enemy camp and captured our prizes. As we chatted through the night over the radio, the stories got more exaggerated; a mile wide shot soon became a gnat’s whisker away from removing an ear! across the oceans.
      Two days later, all five yachts were delivered to a happy charter company, who didn’t care about the damage. They were just happy to get the boats back, something to do with insurance policies and civil war exclusions! It was beers all round, all night, on our group captain’s bar tab. across the oceans.
      Over the course of the next few weeks, “the cockleshell heroes,” as we called ourselves in the safety of various Greek bars, had liberated all 40 of the charter yachts from the hands of the enemy! We learned that our enemy was not one side but both sides, not out of animosity, we were just fair game. We got quite skillful in planning our night raids, preferring cloudy nights, cutting the Zodiacs’ engine, etc. and even rowing the last bit under muffled oars. Between ourselves, we found our language becoming militarized, “see you at Mick’s Tavern at lunch time mate,” became “meet you at rendezvous point A at 1300 hours. across the oceans.
      We quickly learned not to put up the big white targets that we used to call sails until well out of range. We carried black plastic tarpaulins to cover the yachts white sterns. We still got shot at but we got better at being smaller targets. We’d gun the yachts’ engines as soon as possible, as hard as possible to get out of range as quickly as possible; if the engine was wrecked when we got back, the company was still happy, just so long as they got a whole, repairable yacht back. across the oceans.
      It was fun, exciting work and the money was good but the next time my mate calls me about some boats that need liberating from somewhere with “a little local difficulty in the area,” I shall either be busy or I shall stay on the beach!
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