The stowaway

Dinner with Cath one evening last week was down by the quayside. We ate in a little fish restaurant – the sort of place where there’s no menu, only the waitress appearing to reel off the list of the three types of fish they had that evening.

She forgot to tell us about that morning’s incident, but we knew instinctively what had happened. The local girls had become quite a nuisance over the holidays, as they messed around on the fishing boats in the harbour – jumping from one to the other, hiding behind the nets, disappearing below deck. Only, none of the boats had ever set sail with one of the girls on board – until then.

The captain had found her, looking scared, when they were a half hour or so into their trip. He’d turned the boat straight around, of course, radioing back to the harbourmaster. It occurred to him as he unbuckled his belt that it was fortunate that the sea was calm enough for him to be able to land his strokes accurately as he whipped her on deck.

Her father – a local businessman – was waiting when they docked. No hugs: a curt “wait there” as he apologised to the fisherman and dug a selection of notes from his wallet to pay for the wasted time and fuel.

He pointed to a low, stone wall, ordering her to take down her jeans and knickers and bend over. He looked approvingly at the captain’s handiwork, then folded his own belt double to add his own strokes to the punishment, as the crowd looked on.

After they’d all been to so much trouble, I’m pleased to report that the sea bass was quite excellent.