Buying Molio - A Wild Call
Book Extract
“Jeannie Mac! but you don’t waste time,” exclaimed Neil a few weeks later as I handed him a pint of Murphy’s. “Mind now – she’ll give you nothing but trouble.” We had retired to Cronin’s in Crosshaven and I was telling him about my negotiations with the boat’s owner. Emails had been flying back and forth from Scotland to the Emirates. He’d wanted £42,000 for her. I pointed out that she had sunk at her mooring and looked semi-derelict. In the end, he’d dropped to £28,000 and agreed to a survey. I’d found the best wooden-boat specialist in England and asked him to meet me in Crosshaven. He’d been examining the boat all day, pricking each timber to test for rot, checking for signs of structural damage or bodged repair work, and assessing what life was left in the sails, rigging and electrics. His notebook was filling up with comments in a tight, spidery hand. “You must be mad now.” Neil looked genuinely concerned.
“Ah, but she’s a rare beauty. How can I pass her by?” My head was spinning with ideas about rescuing my dream boat and sailing her to Scotland. “I’ll have to get the price down. The owner knows the score. Nobody is buying wooden yachts. And if the surveyor finds any more problems... there’s bound to be more problems... he’ll drop the price.”
“I hear she was stood out the water for two years. The mast was lying on the fecking sod.”
“Willie told me he’d cut the rot and scarfed in a new piece of Yellow Fir.”
Neil nodded; he knew Willie’s reputation for repairing wooden boats. “And what if there’s more rot? What if you’re fecking about in the ocean and the bottom drops off?”
The door swung open and the surveyor walked in with the quick-eyed movement of a ferret, a nautical ferret at that I thought, with a single gold earring and a loose kit bag over one shoulder. I shifted along the bench to give him some room while Neil fetched him a pint from the bar, placing it carefully on the polished wooden table. The surveyor took a deep swallow.
“You’ve had a long day,” I declared.
He took another long pull which brought the level right down and wiped the foam from his beard. “What a lovely old girl,” he said.
“Now he’s looking just like the Cheshire Cat,” said Neil, eyeing my broad grin over his glass.
“I’ve been over every inch that’s accessible and as far as I can tell, she’s sound,” continued the surveyor. “The oak frames are strong and there’s no sign of rot in the planking. The strakes are made from Pitch Pine which is full of resin. That’s been protecting her. The teak deck is a bit worn but it should last another ten years. Mind you it will need some caulking. Structurally she’s sound as a bell. The mast and spars are true and the engine is almost new.” He took another draught of beer and paused briefly to flick through his notes. So far so good, I thought. “In other respects mind you, she’s in a deplorable condition. The sails and rigging are at the end of their working life. The electrics are corroded. The main switchbox is pretty much shot. There’s rust coming up from the keel bolts. There’s a gap between the deck and the sheer strake on one side. The toilet pump is jammed; so are the seacocks. The navigation instruments are old and unreliable. The whale pump isn’t working. The stove needs replacing and while you are at it, you should replace the gas piping. The soft furnishings are dilapidated. Pretty much everything is worn out.
“That sounds good but it doesn’t sound good,” I replied. It felt like I was on a roller coaster.
“There’s a saying,” the surveyor explained, “when it comes to valuation – one-third for the hull, one-third for the spars, sails and rigging, and one-third for the engine, instruments and other gear.”
By that reckoning, I reckoned she was one-third sound, one-third worn, and one third a mixture of new and deplorable. I scratched my head in puzzlement.
“Now that’s a marvellous equation, that is,” said Neil, “the yoke is half good and half bad.”
“If you can do some of the restoration work yourself,” said the surveyor, “it won’t be so bad.”
“I could give it a go,” I nodded “but where would I start?”
“Tell you what,” said the surveyor. “I’ll write out a programme for you with the things that need to be done right away and those that can be done over the next few years.”
“Thanks, that would be useful.” As I thought about it, the sun seemed to come out. “More than useful, that would be bloody
marvellous,” I signalled to the bar for another round.
“Wait a minute,” said Neil. “How about the leaks? We don’t want him fecking drowned just when you’ve got him to open his pockets.”
“There’s a leak from the rudder mounting,” said the surveyor. “You can see the stains running down the hornbeam – it wants sorting but shouldn’t be difficult. One of the garboards needs re-caulking. I can’t see any big problems there. I would re-fasten all the planks just to be safe.”
“You think she’s up for long-distance cruising?” I asked.
“She’s a strong boat. She’d take you anywhere once you’ve seen to her, but don’t underestimate the work.”
I took a big breath. “So how about the price? What do you think she’s worth?”
The surveyor grimaced. “It’s hard to put a price on a boat like this. It’s as much about what someone is willing to pay as it is about the condition of the craft.” He took a deep pull from his second pint. “She’s got a great pedigree. She’s sound enough. But she’s rundown. The market for wooden boats is flat. I’d say anywhere between twenty and thirty thousand pounds.”
“I’d need to get her at the bottom end to afford her.” It felt as if I was looking over a cliff edge – a cliff made of tenners.
“I’ve got an old sailing barge,” said the surveyor. “Keep her in a creek next to my house in Essex. Wonderful old girl. She takes a bit of looking after, just like this boat will.” He smiled for the first time. “You’d have a lot of fun with her.”
True to his word, the surveyor wrote a report as thick as an old telephone book with pages of notes on the boat’s condition and a plan in each section for how to bring her back to cruising condition in
affordable steps. I sent a copy to the owner with a note highlighting the more costly repair work needed. Barry sent it back unread with a covering note. “It’s £28,000 or nothing. You have to understand that this boat was my home for 3 years in the Caribbean. I sailed her across the Atlantic twice. I know exactly what she’s worth and I’m damned if I’ll let her go for a penny less. I’d rather pay the marina charges and sort her out myself when I get back.”
I went back over my savings again. They didn’t come close. It would be reckless to ask the bank for a loan given the unpredictable nature of my work. It all pointed to no deal. The problem was she had a name now, Molio. It was the affectionate name given to St Molaise by the people of Arran when he arrived from Ireland at the end of the sixth century to live the life of a hermit. And with her name came connection. Molio was not just a boat anymore. She was my passage to freedom. For all his dire warnings, Neil understood. When a man is trapped in a complicated world of work and commitments, freedom comes at a price. But it is surely a price worth paying. I made an appointment with the bank manager in my home town.
A few months later, I met Barry on board Molio to make an
inventory of gear. He was a friendly man, the type of sailor who would lend a hand if you were in a fix, or invite a party of guests on board for a meal in the evening. At the same time, he seemed restless with an eye on the next horizon. He’d brought over his new wife from the Emirates. It was perhaps the final act in exchanging one life for
another. He didn’t want anything from the boat. He hardly wanted to touch her. He nodded at a large duffel bag on the bunk. “You’re about my size; hang onto the clothes if you like.” Later I would send a parcel of personal letters and photos to the Emirates, receiving in return papers and photos of Molio’s previous life with a video of her racing in the Antigua Classics. But for now, he wanted out. We went quickly over the inventory and retired to Cronin’s to sign the bill of sale. Neil and the Viking were already there as witnesses. We stopped business for a minute to share a glass. Then I wrote the cheque and handed it over. As I did, I noticed the look on the Viking’s face. He was incredulous. How could a Scotsman part with so much cash for a decaying wreck? But then, he didn’t know; this boat was the gift of a father to his son.