Glorious Day Of Salvage – Part II

Book Extract

With tan sails barely pulling in the gentle breeze, our salvaged motor yacht inched ever closer to the sheltering harbour. Her mahogany coachroof glinted in the sun, joining with her aquamarine topsides in reflections from the sea. She was our prize and we were enjoying every second of the day. It was hard to imagine her as the wreck of just a few hours before, held fast by a rock, canted over at a crazy angle, cabin filled with black oily water, and the whole boat about to be covered by a rapidly rising tide. She looked like one more victim of the ocean’s unforgiving nature and man’s temerity in venturing forth. But something had brought us together at that moment. We paused in our sailing cruise and events took a different turn. My pal Chris, bushy haired and bearded, had a purposeful air about him as he coiled the motor yacht’s warps and laid them on the deck ready for docking. Off our starboard bow, our yacht Pippa was keeping a close eye on us. She was on loan from my brother and now crewed by my wife, Laura, with our baby daughter slung to her front, and Chris’ wife, Anne. The day had started early and things had gone our way. The story of that salvage is told in A Wild Callpublished by Fernhurst in their Making Waves series. This is the account of what happened next – when we sailed our prize across the loch to the town. 

Up to this point, none of us had had time to think. The goal was clear and the task immediate: pump seawater out of the stranded motor yacht before the next tide floods in through the open cockpit. The task had seemed easy enough over a few drams the night before; much less so early the next morning. We knew there would only be one chance to save her. We also knew she might drop off the rock at any moment during the salvage and sink into the surrounding deep water. It was reckless to attempt it. Yet, she was so stirring. She reminded me of my childhood dream of owning a beautiful Silver motor yacht, one of the local boats proudly built on the Clyde. It was surely worth the attempt to save her. We could patch any damage to slow water ingress, perhaps by nailing boards over the hole. If we pumped hard enough, we might float her off the rock on the rising tide using her own buoyancy and sail her to a safe haven. Now as we approached the outer loch, my thoughts returned to the present. Lady Luck had been with us so far, but what next? Hopefully we would find a disused part of the harbour pier to lie alongside. We could dry the boat out, perhaps flush the engines with freshwater, get in touch with the owner and hand her over. A handshake, maybe a dram and that would be it. A day or two tidying up and then on with our sailing cruise. 

On entering the loch, we lowered sail on the yacht. Laura edged Pippa closer until Anne was able to leap aboard with a long rope. Chris took the rope up to the bow whilst I jumped back across to Pippa taking the helm from Laura. With our salvaged boat on tow, we motored slowly and carefully into the loch. Laura somehow produced a mug of tea and bacon and egg roll whilst simultaneously nursing 8-week-old Isla. Munching on my second breakfast, I kept a close eye on both vessels. Minute by minute, the pace of time quickened. Soon we were approaching the narrows that marked the entrance to the inner harbour. I steered Pippa through the winding entrance, making no more than quarter of a knot, just enough to provide Chris with the steerage needed to guide the towed yacht through behind. Passing into the inner loch, we immediately found ourselves slipping past the pier. It was packed with working fishing boats; on the other side we were hemmed in by anchored pleasure boats. We were heading straight for a dead end of shallows beyond. There was no way forward and no room either side. I cut the engine. At that moment, a man in uniform shouted to us from the pier, pointing to the far end. There must be a gap, I reasoned, that was obscured by boats. We slid further along the pier and a few seconds later I spotted the place. Engine cut once more, the two boats came in almost together. We threw mooring lines that were taken by willing hands ashore. With our prize secure, I warped Pippa back to lie alongside her and switched the engine off. The quiet sound of gulls and distant traffic took its place. Without thinking we congregated on the ample decks of the rescued yacht and looked at one another, all grinning, hardly daring to believe we had pulled it off. Immediately there was a cluster of people on the pier above, thronging around the boat. Questions were coming from all sides.

One man pushed his way to the front. His sharply cut jacket and slicked back hair looking out of place amongst the fishermen and townsfolk. He signalled us away from the crowd and into a nearby office. Once inside he placed himself behind a desk before introducing himself as the coastguard. His advice on the salvage was as full of twists as the swirling paisley pattern of his waistcoat. He commenced by suggesting we hand the yacht over to him. When we protested, he quickly changed tack: ‘Who said that?’ He raised his open hands, ‘I never said that’. We must have looked bemused. ‘You are the owners of the boat now,’ he continued. And then a second later, ‘The owner has never been in touch.’ Gradually, in amongst the wild swings and about-turns, we learnt a few facts surrounding the wreck and salvage. The coastguard had let it be known that the vessel on the rock was not insured. More than that, he had warned off every would-be salvager, cautioning them that they risked being sued if she slid off into deep water during a rescue attempt. It was assumed by all that she was badly holed below the waterline and would sink to the bottom. He had even gone out to the boat at low tide to remove her fenders as some kind of additional deterrent to salvage. As we were preparing to leave he seemed to remember something else. He leant over to emphasize his point and I caught the distinct smell of alcohol on his breath, ‘The receiver of wrecks is on his way. He will take ownership of the vessel.’ 

Making our escape, we headed back towards the boats only to be intercepted by an older man in a smart navy blue and white uniform. He was the harbourmaster but despite his rank and exalted position in the town, there was a smile playing around the corner of his mouth and a distinct twinkle in his eyes. We recognised him as the man who had guided us into the pier. 

‘Well boys, a fine catch that one,’ he said nodding in the direction of the salvaged yacht. 

‘Thanks for guiding us in,’ I replied. ‘There wasn’t much room to play with.’

He nodded, ‘And how did you get her off the rock?’

‘We used her own whale pumps. She took a bit of pumping right enough but lifted on this morning’s tide. We rigged her sails and tacked across the loch.’ Chris launched in with a graphic description of the salvage operation complete with pumping actions and our alternating shouts of alarm and encouragement that had rattled back and forth between bridge and cockpit where the two pumps were fitted.

The harbourmaster chortled with delight. ‘Don’t leave her untended now. There’s some would strip her of gear; there’s even a few who want to take her for themselves.’

We began to realise just how far we had strayed into uncharted waters. I mentioned another concern, ‘The coastguard was saying that the receiver of wrecks is coming to take possession.’ 

‘Aye that will be right,’ he replied. ‘And the owner is a wee hard man from Glasgow. I’ve no doubt he’ll be coming too when he hears the news.’ He shook his head as if at the folly of mankind, ‘The hyaenas are gathering.’ 

‘I suppose that will be the end of it,’ I shrugged.

The harbourmaster looked at the two of us as if measuring us up, ‘You have the ball at your feet now boys. If you want my advice, kick it. Aye, kick it hard.’

After an excellent fish supper enjoyed by the whole crew, Chris began to clean out the bridge with detergent and fresh water. The rest of us stowed sails and tidied up on deck. Completing the transformation, Chris laid out her various warps, sheets and other ropes with Flemish coils. From the pier she looked a treat. Later that night we hatched some splendid plans over a few drams. We would all take a week off work. Chris and I would strip down the engines and gearbox and inhibit them with WD 40 and engine oil with a view to getting them back in commission. Laura and Anne would wash the inside clean with detergent, an unenviable task, and dry out the bunk mattresses and cabin gear. Then we would rewire her, add an echo-sounder and a few engine dials, and complete her restoration. And then? Why, we would charter her out at £800 per week plus skipper and keep her to use whenever the fancy took us. It all seemed perfectly easy in our state of post-salvage euphoria. When eventually I lay down on my bunk, beguiling thoughts of Jacques Cousteau on Calypso with diving adventures aplenty and never-ending sunshine accompanied me to sleep.

In the morning, Chris, Laura and I walked along to the hotel leaving Anne in charge of the boats. Little Isla came along too. She was being as good as gold in these exciting times. We treated ourselves to some Loch Fyne kippers which we washed down with copious cups of tea. Suitably fortified, Laura went for a bath leaving Chris, Isla and me to make some phone calls at the desk. Chris first contacted a friend of Anne’s who specialised in salvage law. His firm, Maclay Murray and Spens (nicknamed by Anne as Delay, Worry and Expense), had offices in both Edinburgh and Glasgow making him the ideal choice. He quickly brought our whisky-borne dreams of the evening before down to Earth. At best, we could expect 10-15% of the present value of the boat as a salvage fee and it wouldn’t arrive until some distant date next year following a court hearing. Our £25,000 motor yacht glinting in the sun as she motored down to the Med was replaced by a comparatively mundane cheque for a few hundreds. Nevertheless it was something. He urged us to get the boat valued right away. We would need the valuation to present in court or to use in negotiation with the owner.

The next step at least was clear. We rang the small boat yard below the castle and asked the owner to come on over to take a look at the boat and give us an opinion as to her worth. When he arrived, we recognised him as one of the crowd at the pier the day before. In his open-necked shirt and blue corduroy jeans, he looked like one of our gang from university days and, like many of us, was evidently still struggling to make ends meet. His sandy hair and troubled eyes gave him something of the aura of Bruce Chatwin. He was the sort of person that we might have enjoyed chatting to. Only here and now there was just one thing on his mind: he was fuming at having missed his chance to salvage this yacht. ‘You mean you pumped her dry with her own hand pumps?’ He stuttered, clearly having trouble controlling himself. ‘The pumps on my salvage vessel can lift three hundred gallons a minute. I could have emptied her in seconds. If it wasn’t for that * * * * coastguard, she was right in here!’ He pointed wildly towards his yard. 

Seeing our sympathy for his plight, he began to calm down a bit and before long was telling us about his boat business. ‘It’s small. I rely on keeping one big job going at a time. And I’ve just finished the last one.’ Two years earlier he had dredged up a forty-foot yacht from the Kyles of Bute and set about restoring her. As he was finishing the job and beginning to worry about finding the next one, a falling crane had damaged a boat in Stornoway. He had won the contract to repair her. That job was now finished and just in the nick of time, or so it had seemed, this boat was found wrecked on his doorstep. More than that, she was a local boat that he had long admired as a classic example of her type. She’d been built by Frank Curtiss and Pape in Looe, Cornwall on traditional fishing boat lines. ‘Getting your hands on a boat like this is a chance of a lifetime.’

After he had left, we were even more aware of our yacht’s pedigree and our good fortune in salvaging her, but also aware of the strong passions she had inflamed in others. We wondered if the owner might accept an offer of £4,000 for the boat as she stood in lieu of a salvage fee. It represented every bit of spare cash that we could scrape together. The yard owner had been eager to get involved in any deal we might devise. Perhaps he could be part of her restoration. Following his advice we contacted a boat surveyor in Campbeltown, who agreed to come up the next morning despite it being a Sunday, to undertake a survey and provide a figure for the current value. Soon after, the coastguard came by to inform us that the receiver of wrecks would take possession of the craft on Monday. Meanwhile we were instructed to do all that was necessary ‘to secure the boat’ and then either leave her in where she was or take her down to Campbeltown (where the receiver of wrecks conveniently lived).

With events gathering momentum we felt it was important to make personal contact with the owner as soon as possible. Piecing together what we had heard so far, we constructed a rough chronology of the wrecking and its aftermath. The owner had motored out of the harbour in the wee hours of Wednesday morning having well and truly overindulged himself, narrowly missing two incoming fishing boats on the way. Soon after he had driven her onto a rock near an island, from where he was rescued by the coastguard vessel some hours later and taken back to the town. At that point he was still completely incomprehensible according to the official report and had to be prevented from falling off the pier. He had gone on to Glasgow and remained out of touch ever since. Chris went ashore to ring Anne’s cousin again at Delay, Worry and Expense to see if he had been successful in locating him. He had indeed and was able to give us some interesting news. The owner had claimed that he passed out before hitting the rock and was now full of remorse. He had thought the boat was completely lost. On learning of her salvage he had responded, ‘Tell the boys they can have her’. Anne’s cousin gave Chris his number, and Chris was able to get through. After much discussion and not a little commiseration, he had urged the owner to come ‘to sort out the mess and clear his name’. He said he couldn’t but would send a representative in the afternoon.

The wind had been picking up all morning and by now there was a strong breeze blowing from the south up the loch. I walked out to the old pier in the outer loch and watched the large waves rolling past. On the far shore they were crashing explosively onto exposed sections of coastline, sending white spume into the sky. If the damaged yacht had been on that rock now, she would have been fully exposed. The waves would surely have been thumping her up and down like a toy boat. Almost certainly her timbers would have sprung a leak. She might already have slipped to the side and been lost in sixteen fathoms. It seemed certain that we had rescued her in the nick of time. Even so, it was no longer easy to feel so positive about her fate. There was too much confusion. Worse than that, her charms like a siren’s song had captivated more than just our thudding hearts. I sensed the air filling with the lust for ownership. Perhaps there was something to be said for just letting her go. We could leave the next morning and make the most of our short sailing holiday. 

Back at the boats the four of us talked over our options. Chris felt strongly that whatever course we took, the two engines and gearbox should be inhibited against the corrosive action of seawater. It was the best thing for the boat. We agreed and he began the task by flushing all the component parts (starting motors, generators, alternators) with fresh water. By late afternoon, he was stripped down to his underpants and deep within the engine compartment sluicing more freshwater over the electrical gear when there was a series of thumps on deck followed by angry yells. Looking up, Chris was confronted by a bald-headed man with puffy face, upturned nose and bulging tummy striding across the deck followed by a woman and teenage boy. He marched straight up to Chris, ‘What the f*** are you doing on ma boat?’ he demanded.

‘Are you the owner?’ asked Chris, keeping his cool.

‘I’m his f****** rep-ree-zen-tive, so get aff.’ 

‘I am authorised by the receiver of wrecks to look after this boat,’ replied Chris evenly, struggling to be civil. Adding, by way of further explanation, ‘What I’m doing is inhibiting the engines so they don’t get ruined by seawater’. Again he kept calm even if his voice had a cold edge.

‘I don’t care what the f*** you are doing,’ replied the man, whom I mentally nicknamed as ‘Baldy’. ‘I’ve a salvage team arriving the morrow to lift this boat off yon rocks. You had no f****** right to move her.’

Chris pointed out that this wasn’t what the owner had told him. As the fracas continued, I stepped aboard and walked over to even up the numbers.

‘Come on then,’ responded Baldy. ‘We’ll go thegither an’ ring Glasgie and I’ll prove it to yer.’

‘I’ve no intention of leaving this boat,’ retorted Chris. 

His reply seemed to goad Baldy even more. ‘Right, jackets-off pal!’ 

Chris had finally had enough. Rearing out of the engine compartment, he stood up straight in his underpants and shook his fist in Baldy’s face, ‘Get off this boat,’ he yelled. ‘Yes you. I’m ordering you off this boat now!’ Chris is a big chap and Baldy backed off a couple of steps. Following him, Chris had more to say, ‘You are a contemptible liar! You’re making me lose my faith in humanity.’ I couldn’t help but smile at this rather wonderful assertion in the heat of the moment. Chris did have great belief in his fellow man and woman wherever he found himself.

People in boats anchored about the harbour were listening in as the two voices rose in pitch and intensity. I could see some of them chuckling in their cockpits. The confrontation was on a knife’s edge. At this moment the woman stepped over to Baldy who was evidently her husband. I noticed some locks of brown curly hair falling over her shocking pink cardigan and instinctively knew that this public confrontation was the last thing she had wanted. Nevertheless, I expected she would back up her husband. Not a bit of it. ‘What do you keep arguing for Kenny? Arguing gets us nowhere.’ With that she and her son turned and walked back to the ladder fixed to the pier and climbed up to the top. Baldy backed off a few more steps until he was standing at the foot of the ladder. He paused uncertainly for a few moments and then climbed up to join his family. Chris walked over to the bridge to affirm our status as masters and commanders, then joined the rest of us for a confab. Once Baldy had disappeared, he went ashore to ring up Anne’s cousin and update him on this turn of events. Some minutes later he returned looking a tad sheepish, ‘According to salvage law, an owner’s bona fide representative has every right to be on the boat and to take responsibility for her.’ 

The four of us held a council of war whilst Isla slept on, seemingly oblivious even to the earlier ruckus. Baldy might have rights to be on the boat, we concluded, but nonetheless he was a complete menace who at the least owed us an apology. We decided something else as well. Whilst we might have let the boat go for a token before, not now. If we couldn’t keep her, we would demand as much salvage money as we could get.

On Sunday morning, a hail from the pier alerted us to the surveyor from Campbeltown who had arrived to take a look at the yacht. He was a tall, distinguished looking man with a crown of thick white hair above a straight Gallic nose. Once on board, his quick smile and quiet voice only added to the charm. He asked for an update on events and was highly amused at our account of the salvage and subsequent goings-on. He soon got down to work, examining the boats condition and making a detailed inventory of contents. Finally he put it altogether to arrive at a valuation, estimating that she had been worth £20,000 to £25,000 prior to being stranded on the rock. The repairs he estimated at £9,000. He mentioned two other items of interest: the owner had arrived and was asking questions around town; his representative and wife were sailing companions who were desperate to get the boat for themselves. He strongly advised that we settle the salvage through legal channels, ‘Understand this: Campbeltown is quite a civilised town but this one...’ he paused momentarily as if seeking the right word, ‘This one is West Highland!’

It was time to meet the owner. We climbed up the ladder to the pier and soon found him in the coastguard’s office. Against our expectation, he presented a dignified figure in a grey tweed suit that matched his hawkish eyebrows. He was keen to explain what happened on the night in question: ‘I’m sick with myself. I was feeling a bit ill so I decided to turn inshore and anchor but,’ he shrugged, ‘I didn’t quite make it.’ He confided that the yacht wasn’t insured, intimating that he was in a tight spot. It was a good try but we didn’t buy it. We discovered later that her predecessor, a somewhat larger motor yacht, had faired even worse under his ownership having collided with fishing boats on several occasions. In the last ‘accident’, she had been hit on the beam by one of the fishing boats and cut right open, causing her to sink. It was hardly surprising that the insurance companies had kept well away from this boat. Despite feeling sorry for himself, the owner could appreciate a business transaction when one came his way. We offered him £2,500 for Palinode. No deal. He offered us £1,000 for her salvage. No deal. 

Chris and I left the office to go for a walk and talk things over. We needed to bring matters to a close so we could move on with our holiday. We headed along the coastal road out of town but had reached no further than the small boatyard when a car drew up with the surveyor at the wheel. It was followed by a second with the harbourmaster. As they were getting out, the boatyard owner walked up from the shed. We had an impromptu West Highland conference. Their advice was either to increase the offer to £3,000 and waive the salvage fee or go through the courts and hope to gain a similar figure for the salvage. We thanked them and buoyed up by their good wishes walked back to the coastguard’s office. 

The owner was there waiting for us. We offered him £3,000. He shook his head before repeating his former offer of £1,000 for the salvage. We were not going to let her go at that price. Instead, we offered our maximum of £4,000 but he held firm, repeating his own offer. Regretfully we had to turn our backs on our Calypso dream. We would ask the court to settle on a fair salvage fee. Matters were now rapidly concluded. We filled in a WR5 form for the coastguard who all of a sudden was a changed man, being both clear and helpful. As we were leaving, the owner came over and shook us both by the hand, thanking us for saving his vessel. We felt he really meant it. Late in the afternoon the five of us motored out of the harbour in Pippa, hoisted sail and pointed the bows to home. A good wind sprang up, carrying us on a fast reach. As if sensing she was homeward bound, Pippa surged forward at six to seven knots. It was a fine sail to mark the end of a grand week’s cruising and adventuring. 

A few months later we had some welcome news. Disproving his firm’s nick name of Delay, Worry and Expense, Anne’s cousin had helped us secure a really great salvage fee. Chris and I put it to good use in starting our new ventures in USA and Africa respectively. Best of all, the rescued yacht lived on. In time she found new owners to care for her and went on to enjoy many more adventures whilst cruising her favourite waters, the sparkling seas of the Western Isles.