two drafts of drafts

In the Jailhouse
Mossel Bay, South Africa

The short of it is that John and I went out with friends. We got
drunk. We walked home. Some Port police officers stopped us walking
home to tell us that we weren't allowed to drink (or be drunk
presumably) in the port. How the hell were we supposed to know that,
we argued. And what's more, we live here; you can't tell us we can't
go back to our boats. We have no where else to go. At this point
things got more heated than necessary and we were not so kindly asked
to get in the back of the truck. Which, very confusedly, we did.
After which, as we left, John decided this was all very very bad and
we should run for it. So he jumps out. He is far too drunk for such
daring, and drunk enough to try it. I jumped after him, but had no
feel for what we were trying to, but was confused, as we hadn't been
arrested or charged or anything. I just wanted a moment to think
before we went any farther. So I jumped, but abruptly stopped,
realizing it equated to "running from the cops" which I had NO
interest in doing.
John was taken down roughly and maced. His pants were ripped in half
and John is one of those men who prefer to NOT wear underwear. So,
maced, handcuffed, and half-naked we drive the long drive to South
African prison.
John is yelling and saying many rather nasty things which didn't make
us any friends. We had no passports on us. Normally we don't carry
them as it is too easy to be mugged and have them stolen, but it was a
shocking lapse on my part to not have a photocopy in my wallet. I
can't explain how or why it wasn't there. It is always there. I used
to have a copy sewn in my pants. And, now, when I desperately needed
it—it was gone, or removed. And this was grave.
So, why were we arrested? I don't know. Drunk in the port? Perhaps.
We were never given a breathalyzer to determine that we were drunk.
If that were the case, we should have been taken out of the port, not
arrested. (This could have happened if we had cooperated.) This is
what we were told we were being charged with. After we were maced,
again.
It is clear now we are going to jail. In South Africa, this is not a
pleasant realization. But there is nothing to be down. I was calm
and smiling. There was enough fuel on the fire already. I didn't
like the cops but I wasn't going to let them beneath my skin. We had
little power. They refused us a phone call and there was no way for
me to know if that was local protocol or not. I tried to secure a
private cell for the night, which was a most essential matter, and
failed, as the mace-happy officer should me a great pool of blood, and
says, "see what happens … ?" Indeed I did, but wasn't going to baulk
under such a blatant intimidation.
We were thrown in with 5 somalis, all asleep. I eyed them all
apprehensively. They were young, small. The cell was small but
decent. I didn't know what time it was, but I was keen to stay awake.
It was fruitless in the end. They were all good lads. They weren't
criminals, just immigrants with expired work permits.
We were given coffee and four pieces of bread in the morning and told
we'd have to wait for the immigration office. Only one hour the
officer said. Half a day passed. Friends of the Somalis brought them
a bucket of KFC, and they shared with John and me. It was divine
food. And really, who shares food in jail? This was alright.
We start to believe we are in for the whole weekend. We had been
warned, never get arrested on a Friday because they will keep you
until Monday. We were arrested on a Friday. So we settle in for the
haul, make small talk with the Somalis. Yet shockingly, in late
afternoon, we are ALL pulled out of the cell. The immigration officer
drove an hour to met us on his day off. Perhaps the officer felt bad
about the manner and nature of our arrest. He told us in no uncertain
terms that we had done nothing wrong. I repeat. THE POLICE OFFICER
SAID THAT WE HAD DONE NOTHING WRONG. I will say that this is not
true. It is inexcusable to be without a photocopy of your passport in
a foreign country, in my opinion.
We were released late on Saturday afternoon. Everyone is rather
infuriated about the incident and we are meeting with a lawyer and the
newspaper in a few days, though I am really not interested.

longer one
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It was a light and easy 24 hour sail into Mossel Bay from Plettanburg
Bay. The anchorage is more secure, but not much. In fact the open
anchorage is perhaps the only detraction to perhaps my favorite South
African town. Mossel Bay is quiet and quaint and safe. You can walk
about town comfortably and the streets and shops are welcoming and
attractive. A bit like small town America. In fact it was this
comfort and hominess that would, in the end, lead to 'significant'
problems.
A few boats were already in the harbor that I knew, Buena Vida and
Blue Falcon, and my friend Errol completed a two-year circumnavigation
here, his home. My first day in port was some walking about and
seeing old faces. That afternoon / night John on Dancyn came in to
port and he was equally moved by the tranquility of the place. As we
made a tour of the shops the next day—organizing supplies and hardware
to shore up our vessels for the Cape—we decided a night out was in
order.
Strange, but I could really feel it. I was keen. I don't go out
much, and generally only go when dragged. But this time I was keen.
We enjoyed the end of the afternoon at the Havana Club drinking a $3
bottle of wine. I went off to a dinner on Buena Vida and that
encompassed the early evening, and drinking was, luckily, not
involved. When I fetched John from a Brai (South African bbq), he was
already going long. He was in good form indeed, and enjoying himself
as only John Rand can. I was with Kali and Cunnel from Buena Vida and
we laughed our way up the street from the yacht club to the first club
that our friends had recommended.
I should say, that just beyond the yacht club gate—a place with great
relevance to this story—we were past by a police car, whom John
quickly shouts good spiritedly to, and then asked if we could hope in
the back for a ride. This request was ignored at the time, but
granted enthusiastically as the moon rose and feel on the night to
come.
Everyone was having a fine time. It was great to relax,be out with
friends, to be so close to the Cape. We met with a guy we had only
met earlier that day, Hansi. He worked in the local chandlery and he
introduced us to his friend Laura, who was new into the professional
yacht crew business. We sat around a very comfortable room with a few
more bottles of $3 wine listening to John weave funny tales of SE Asia
cruising. It was all fine.
It was a fine night all in all. We went to the local dance club and
met up with the rest of the Buena Vida crew and danced for hours and
all were smiles. Our crowd left us as the night waned, and eventually
it was only John and I. And John still maintaining a level of high
cheer. It must be late; the night is done. I figured it was as good
a time to go as we would find. I found no complaints from my boy and
we took to the road home.
John wasn't negotiating the hill well; I sort of walked the front line
and he leaned in and that got us into the port. … where we found a
'sort of' guard at the corner. I told John to shut-the-hell-up as we
walked by, which of course did not happen. And only moments later as
we approached the gate to the yacht club, mere yards from our
dinghies, the cop car pulls up along side us. And here the fun
begins.

I figured there was nothing to fear. If I wasn't sober, I was quite
lucid and in control and decent in everyway. We haven't done anything
wrong; broken no laws (that we were aware of); we only went out for a
few drinks and were on our way home. The port police never seemed to
expect that we actually "lived" in the port. I would explain this and
all would be well. But it wasn't well.
First, they didn't want to hear it. "You are not allowed in the port
while drinking. You are drunk." I could hardly argue the point, and
yet, we had to. "We live here. If you just let us walk another
fifty meters we will hop in our dinghies and be gone. We aren't even
anchored in the port." At this point, I think, in hindsight, we quit
listening to each other. I didn't sense that things were sliding into
dangerous territory.