CAYUCO - a 100 word story

CAYUCO

A fishing boat spotted the ninth cayuco of the year wallowing in the trough between massive full-moon waves, its occupants’ faces grey with sickness and terror.

Tourists took photographs as people struggled up stone steps to policia and medicos, silver blankets and bottled water on the harbour wall. There were disbelieving gasps when another layer was revealed – second-class passengers under the feet of the first, their hair and clothing soaked in brine and vomit.

Just one woman remained, searching desperately through the filth until she found, wedged beneath the lowest seat, a bundle that had stopped crying hours before they sighted land.

--------------------------------------------------------

The above photograph, taken by Georgia Koch, is this week's prompt for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. When you've left a comment on my story (please!) you can read other writers' interpretations by following the Blue Frog link from her blog 

https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/

My story is based on fact. When we lived in Tenerife I witnessed similar scenes in  Las Galletas, the village where I shopped - these photos were taken at sea and on the beach there.

S.O.S

 This is the headline story in today's paper Diario de Avisos, and it puts a real perspective on the rescue services' recent announcement that people could be asked to pay for rescue it they get into trouble when they haven't  taken sensible precautions before embarking on a risky enterprise.
Andre, a Russian who has been living on a beach in Tenerife for some months, decided he would go to America. His boat wasn't equipped with flares, or a radio, but he did have a GPS and his mobile phone, so what could go wrong?
Well, if I read the story correctly (my Spanish isn't perfect) he decided not to use the GPS. I guess that was okay, because if he kept going in a straight line west he would reach America eventually, right?

On Saturday he phoned his Mum in Russia.
"My boat's sinking - I'm on the life-raft - get help."
She called the Russian Ambassador in Paris (don't ask me why Paris) who alerted the authorities here.
Rescue boats went out and didn't find him, so the helicopters were called in. They took two days and eight trips to find him. Eight trips at public expense out over the vast Atlantic ocean to find one small inflatable with only his mobile phone signal to locate him by.
If that had been my phone I'd be dead - it only holds a charge for two days.
For the whole story go to www.diariodeavisos.es

BOAT & BIRD

THE BOAT
No, not that interminable German film, but our friends' yacht.
Yesterday afternoon we followed their detailed directions to San Miguel Harbour and parked facing a peaceful scene of about 100 boats of all kinds moving gently in the swell.
Apart from a couple sitting on high stools at the outside bar, there was no-one around - just the smack of club on golf ball from Amarillo Golf Course beyond the low cliff that backs the peaceful harbour.

We found our friends and were welcomed aboard, then after a drink and a chat we had the ten-cent tour. In a forty-odd-foot boat there are two double cabins, a decent-sized galley, a head with a shower, a living area that can sleep two or three more, a navigation corner, a workroom and a pantry!
Mind you, one would have to be very good friends with one's partner to live there long-term. Here they are, Davey and Nora, who lived (fairly amicably) on this boat for over a year, though they have some hair-raising tales to tell, especially as Nora can't swim.

                                                                                                          When Davey sailed the Atlantic single-handed last year, he stored his tins of food in a locker which flooded halfway across. After that, as he describes in the personal log I am persuading him to publish, every meal was an adventure.
But as you can see, he managed to find the beers yesterday.






THE BIRD   I was coming back from my walk this morning and a couple of minutes from home I spotted this little bird catching insects in a garden next to a cafe called El Buho, which means The Owl. This, of course, is not an owl but a hoopoe, and isn't it pretty?

GONE FISHING

   Not actually fishing, because our friends haven't got their yacht sea-worthy yet, but a drink on board to have a look round is way overdue, so we're off this afternoon to the marina.
(Note the subtle way I drop a yacht into the conversation?)
Davey and Nora actually lived on their boat for some years, trolling round the coast of America, but their on-land home is an apartment near us. We met them in the local bar when they'd just bought it and were moving in with no electricity turned on, so we invited them to breakfast. We've been friends ever since, and last year I held Nora's hand when Davey was sailing single-handed across the Atlantic. Forty days without knowing if he was alive or dead culminated in a triumphant arrival, and when he showed me his personal log of the voyage I typed it up and told him he should at least publish it for his grandchildren.
He demurred. I persisted. He asked me to edit it. I was proud to be asked. He added an explanation of one or two technical terms and inserted photos. He hasn't chosen a printing firm yet, but he has joined our Writers' Square. Baby steps.
Requests to see the boat were met with "She needs a lot of TLC first," but finally they've succumbed. I shall take photos and maybe, if you're very good, post them on my blog.
Oh yes - and another follower very kindly gave me his own personal award when he commented on my blog yesterday - thank you, Maurice.