We limped into Cala Ratjada two days ago with a squall barreling down out
of the northeast, thick with lightning, and a full throttle dash into
harbor with everyone soaked through before the lines were even out. No
berth was waiting, so we spent that first night rafted at the fuel dock,
which I am reliably informed is not glamorous, though I would point out
that in several centuries of ship’s business I have slept in worse places
than a pontoon that smells faintly of diesel nobody aboard this boat even
burns anymore. By the next morning a proper berth had opened up and Cala
Ratjada looked considerably friendlier in daylight, as harbors generally
do.
Today Björn came aboard with a duffel bag and, as far as I can tell, no
particular idea what he’d signed up for, having missed the squall
entirely and arrived to find us already settled and smug about it. We
cast off for Menorca this afternoon in the gentlest conditions the whole
crossing has offered so far, which feels like a small injustice after
what the boat put up with two nights ago.
I like a new face brought aboard on short notice regardless of the
weather that greets him. It is the oldest kind of crewing there is: a
stranger, a boat, and whatever the sea happens to be doing that
particular week. Björn passed the test, for what my opinion is worth,
which around here is not much, but I am on record as saying so.
