Free Levkas Man by Hammond; Innes Page B

we’ll have a westerly this early in the season. Not that it matters, mind you. Corie ’s a sturdy little ship. Built as a fishing boat up on the Clyde way back at the turn of the century—1906 to be exact—and sound as a bell. And she’s got a brand new engine.’ He said it with pride. ‘Come and have a look.’
    He took me up into the wheelhouse and down the companionway on the port side. Aft of the workbench he lifted a hatch. ‘I spent all winter installing this myself.’ He switched on the light to reveal a big Perkins diesel. There was a generator, too, and a range of Nife batteries, also a compressor, and the whole engine compartment reflected the loving care of a dedicated engineer, copper and brasswork gleaming and not a smear of oil anywhere on the bright paintwork. ‘She’s been test run for about six hours with extra warps out aft, and going round to Manoel Island shipyard and back she ticked over sweet as a bird. Can’t wait to get to sea and give her a proper try-out.’
    â€˜What speed will it give you?’
    â€˜About eight knots I reckon.’ He was staring down, his eyes bright with anticipation. ‘Did Mr Borg tell you what he’d done?’
    â€˜How do you mean?’ I asked, wondering what Borg had got to do with it.
    â€˜No, of course not. A nice fellow like that wouldn’t go advertising the fact that he’d helped somebody.’ He leaned his thick hairy arms on the edge of the hatch, feasting his eyes on that gleaming lump of machinery. ‘When I bought Coromandel she had an old Kelvin in her. One of the very early ones. I sweated blood on that bugger—everything gummed up and rusty as hell. The miracle is that it got us out here.’
    And he told me how for two seasons he had kept it going, making his own replacements when anything broke. Then in August last year Borg had chartered the boat for a few days.
    â€˜I think he got a bit tired of the Hilton and wanted a breath of sea air. Then, when we got out to Gozo, he said what about making a quick passage to Pantelleria. He’d been looking at the charts, you see, and he suddenly had this urge to make a passage. He didn’t seem to understand about Customs clearance, but as it was a quick trip there and back I thought I’d take a chance on it. Halfway across that clapped-out old engine started playing up. It was a broken valve and it took me a whole day to machine and fit a replacement. We couldn’t even sail. There wasn’t a breath of wind.’
    â€˜Did you get to Pantelleria?’
    â€˜In the end, yes. By then I had explained to him about Customs and entry formalities—Pantelleria is Italian, you see—so we didn’t go into the port of Pantelleria, just motored round the island, close in, so that he could see the extraordinary lava formation. We spent the night in a little cove, gave him a quick run ashore and then back to Malta. Well, to cut a long story short, on the way back he said he happened to know a scrap merchant in Holland who had a modern diesel engine for disposal. It had been salvaged from a small trawler sunk off the Hook. He’d enjoyed himself so much, he said, that he’d like to make me a present of it. And that’s it,’ he added, pointing with pride. ‘Mind you, it was a bit rusty, but it was bloody generous of him all the same—must have cost a damn sight more than the charter. I waived that, of course. And all he got out of it was four days at sea, a few hours ashore on Pantelleria and some wine.’
    â€˜Where did you pick up the wine?’ I asked.
    â€˜At Pantelleria. He was very fond of wine and some people in the cove we anchored in for the night let him have four cases.’
    â€˜What about the Customs when you got back to Malta?’
    â€˜Oh, we didn’t clear Customs—couldn’t very well after slipping out like that. Not that they worry about wine.