My passport is rumoured to be on its way. I have almost downloaded a vast library of software, sounds, instruments, media, books and reference material for use way, way off-grid: the high seas. A satellite broadband system has been ordered and may, with a lot of luck and palm greasing, arrive in the next few weeks. And so, a castaway’s thoughts turn to hitting the open ocean in the uncertain hope there may be a patch of dirt out there I and Elena can come in from the sea upon.
Because Elena is a filthy Russian refugee, and it has taken nearly half a year – so far – to renew my passport, we think it would be nice to have entry/exit stamps to show whomever lets us land on the other side of the planet.
We were thinking of Turks and Caicos as just such a place to get those precious rubber stamps. WRONG! Filthy Russians are not allowed in. Kind of like that ship full of Jews from Nazi Germany that Canada denied entry to. Aye, same sort of deal. Just like Canada really showed Hitler who was boss by persecuting German citizens (and sending them to the ovens back ‘home’), the West now puts Putin in his place by taking rights from, and endangering the lives of, Russians fleeing fascism in their own ‘home’land.
So, getting someone to pick up a stamp and pound it down on a pathetic passport ain’t gonna happen in Turks and Caicos. It is a British territory, after all. If you’ve read my account of what it took to escape from Russians back in 2006 – when this Thelma and Louise run for our lives began – you would know what happened to us in Gibraltar: another British territory. Good times, indeed!
“Cuba!” Elena suggests with glee. “We can go to Cuba to get our passports stamped.”
I thought about this. Imagined all those days and anchorages, hoping down the Bahamian archipelago’s strings of remote islands, sand bars and rocks. All the anchoring with brute muscle force – the anchor windlass (ground tackle system) has been destroyed – and concomitant trauma. The gales and freakish weather we’re getting kicked by, thanks to climate collapse making just about every forecasting model useless. The snobbish American cruisers getting all aggressive and offended at the sight of a derelict, storm-wrecked charter sloop in their visual range.
I imagined island hopping between gales, and fights, and equipment failure, and injuries, and fear, and loneliness, down the ultra remote chain of ‘ragged islands’ to a Cuban port. And it hit me… That is ‘Cruising’ – Fuck it! I have been cruising for 18 years now. I have had enough cruising already! And just for a cigar chomping opportunist to get what he can from us for a bloody stamp in a passport Nah,
I’d rather take my chances on the other side of the planet with gaps in my passport than spend another day yacht-cruising!
I’m (NOT) A Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! Or would somebody just vote me off this fecking island, already!
Featured image: cleats ripped out on Boadicea during one of the Northerly outflows.