Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“I’m just trying to help. My job is teaching someone to sail and teaching them to know what the boat is capable of. You want to leave soon? This is Turkey! You can’t just go to the store and buy the equipment you will need. It can take months and thousands and thousands of Euros to get something from customs if it even gets here.”

“I didn’t know that, but we’ll find a work-around. What do other people do?” I asked.

“They island-hop to Greece, then Italy, then France or they put the yacht on Dock Wise and ship it. Why do you think yachts are so cheap here?”

“What if they want to cross oceans or sail around the world?”

“They don’t do it with a charter yacht and they spend a long time, sometimes years, preparing themselves and the boat!” Sinem caught herself, stopped, shook a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros. “Business is bad and I want this job, but I don’t want to help you two kill yourselves.” Something caught in her bronchi and Sinem doubled over with a wet racking cough.

“I guess it’s do-or-die.” I let Sinem hack away.

“Die? What about dying?” Anna broke in. “I do not want to die.”

“Then you two better have the right equipment, and if Anna has to be out of Turkey in two months, you may not have time.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “If you like his report, see what your surveyor has to say about your plans and see if he can get the equipment you need. I’m just a sailing teacher.” She turned and started walking. “Call me when the boat’s in the water.”

The survey report was beautiful. Spiral binding, glossy covers, high quality paper. Harvey must have had a sophisticated print shop on board that gulet of his. There were pictures, recommendations, assessments, and finally a description of the vessel calling it, “A good charter yacht worth more than the agreed upon price.” That, I really liked.

I met with Harvey, gave him the agreed upon cash for the survey, and asked him if he could help with my plans to go seriously offshore. Well, I’d come to the right place. Harvey’s Yacht Inspection Service morphed instantly into Harvey’s Yacht Outfitting Consultancy. He assured me he had designed and built yachts for far more demanding tasks than simply crossing oceans. I was promised a hand delivered proposal the very next morning.

That proposal, although as nicely bound and printed as the survey report, was less than inspiring. In fact it was downright sobering. Did Harvey think I was made of money? In it, he included a map with three routes; to Halifax getting close to Florida, to Vancouver going around Cape Horn, and to Vancouver going through the Panama Canal. His footnotes referred to the Panama route as the most likely to succeed. The Panama route had the added benefit of bringing the yacht home instead leaving it in Eastern Canada. There would be no market for a serious cruising yacht in marinas that freeze solid over winter. I’d forgotten about winter, and by the time I’d finished reading his proposal, I had completely dispensed with Halifax as a destination.

The equipment list was broken into two parts: need to have, and nice to have. The estimated cost was more than the price of the yacht — completely out of the question. The necessary stuff rang in at merely astronomical, but within my borrowing range. It included modifications and upgrades I hadn’t considered, like extra fuel tanks. If we needed it to get home, then there was really no choice. I convinced myself the parts and work would increase the resale value of the yacht and gave Harvey the green light to go ahead. His take from the project would be a ten percent commission on the parts, shipping, fees, taxes, labor (including his), you name it. For the next two months Harvey was not only going to be a project manager but our new best friend.

With Shadow in the water, we moved back on board and the sailing lessons started in earnest. They went according to plan, with Sinem teaching Anna how to use the engine, maneuver the yacht, tie knots, and handle the sails. I watched and even tried a thing or two with comments like, “interesting, I wonder how that feels on this boat?” as a foil.” Sinem never again brought up equipment or preparations, although stuff was showing up and being installed by the various tradesmen hired by Harvey.

When things finally unraveled on Harvey, they did so spectacularly. The two brothers I’d met during the travel lift incident started things off by sneaking back into the marina and setting fire to the yacht. They’d been welding together an ungainly steel cage Harvey had designed to hold equipment. Although the fire was quickly extinguished, the commotion brought another crowd of shouting, fist waving, epithet hurling Turks to the boat. Harvey, of course, made himself scarce and the two brothers, who knew nothing about boats or welding, found themselves the focus of an angry crowd getting downright ugly. I worried about a public stoning, right then and there.

Down below, in a cabin still filled with toxic smoke from the fire, Anna called Sinem. She showed up minutes later with Erdem running behind her mountain bike in his suit and shiny shoes. Then the marina manager and several security guards showed up. It was the same potbellied manager as before, but the security guards were a new touch. I think he’d just about had enough of Harvey, his workers, and our boat by then.

In Turkish, the manager asked the brothers if they had been working on Shadow. The big one with Down’s syndrome grinned at the attention. The manager muttered something, grabbed the older brother and pointed at the smoldering deck.

Nobody said anything.

Then, with childlike exuberance, the big one made a noise like an explosion or a discharging fire extinguisher. He waved his arms at Shadow, repeating a Turkish word I’m guessing was, “fire!”

It was good enough for the manager. He cracked a maleficent grin and ordered the security personnel to take the brothers away. The crowd murmured and guffawed in agreement. Finally, with nothing else to do, they wandered off in separate directions.

“Well now, that was quite a show!” Tom, having watched the action just had to comment on it.

I stuck my head from the companionway. “I’m glad you’re amused. Bit of a fire. We’re making sure it’s out. Might be smoldering in the insulation or something.” I heard Anna coughing below. “Don’t know if a boat even has insulation.”

“Some do.” Tom waved a hand in front of his face. “Pee-ew, sure does stink. I hope you aren’t down there breathing that.”

Burning plastic, resin, and who-knows what else made for a nasty and seriously carcinogenic incense. I climbed out, calling Sinem, Erdem and Anna up from below. The five of us gathered under one of the dock’s sunshades. Introductions were made and everyone agreed that Harvey was bad news.

Tom read Harvey’s glitzy Yacht Conversion Proposal and came to our rescue, yet again. When the smoke and toxic stench abated, he and I went below. I showed him the pile of equipment such as radar, water desalination components and electrical gear that had already arrived. Two enormous and outrageously expensive solar panels leaned against a bulkhead.

“You have bills of sale for this stuff?” Tom asked.

“Of course.” I pulled a clipboard from under a box.

“Uh huh, I see you paid by credit card.” Tom leafed through the wad of receipts. “Says here he picks things up, adds his own delivery fee, a customs clearance fee, and then ten percent on top?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Sounds about wrong. This stuff isn’t coming through customs. He’s getting it here and charging you a special customs fee . Maybe thinks you won’t notice. Mind if I see the credit card slips? ”