I kept my foot down and horns went up around me before I realised I was driving on the wrong side of the road. I came within inches of front ending a Fiat 500. I swerved to the right and spent ten minutes losing myself in the maze of streets before heading for the motorway that led to Palma.
I had no plan beyond getting the hell out of Inca and, as I passed a Lidl supermarket I hit a roundabout that sat above the motorway. I only had eyes for Palma and the plane home. But the flight was four days away. Add to this that Dupree would have a watch put on the airport and I changed my mind and took the motorway north to Alcudia and Puerto Pollensa.
I kept my foot as close to illegal as made no difference — putting the miles between me and Inca. At the Puerto Pollensa turnoff I slid off the motorway and turned left towards Pollenca and Puerto Pollensa.
Five miles along the road I pulled off onto a dirt track. The light had long since gone and the adrenalin from the encounter had turned sour. I found an open gate to a field and slid the car into the field.
I put my head back and dozed for an hour before waking and pulling out my digital recorder to waffle for a while.
It’s time for bed and I have no plan for tomorrow.
Chapter 53
Tuesday August 5 ^th 2008
I was woken this morning by an irate farmer leaning on the horn of his tractor. He was sitting in the lane with a face like fizz. I got my shit together and pulled out of the field and headed back for the main road. With no better idea of what to do next I hung a right and pointed the car towards Puerto Pollensa.
The road was quiet and my mind wandered as I sped along. I hit a small industrial area and entered Puerto Pollensa via a roundabout that had a Fairview yacht franchise on one corner and an Eronski supermarket on the other. The town closed in around me and a few hundred yards later I reached the sea front.
Puerto Pollensa is essentially a holiday destination mixed in with a high number of ex Pats working their way to a funeral in the sun. The town is small and compact. The centre is a small maze of three and four storey canyons. I cruised around and exited the town onto what looked like a new ring road. I followed it round the town and crossed where I had come in. I kept going and dropped down to the beach front.
The beach was quiet and well ordered — none of your Magaluf or Palma Nova nonsense here. There are no towering hotel blocks lining the sea front. In fact it is more akin to a quiet US gulf coast town than your typical Spanish resort of old.
I parked the car across from the beach and got out. A small wall separated the sand from the road and a tractor was towing a rake behind it bringing order to the area. I sat on the wall and stared at the sea.
To my left a marina harboured a range of small yachts. To my right the coast disappeared into the distance.
Puerto Pollensa sits in a small bay and I looked over at the rocky promontory that formed the far side. Out on the bay a small fishing boat was setting out for sea and I wished I was on it.
The idea of being on the boat took on merit as I watched it carve a route through mirror calm waters. I could wait until Friday and try and exit through Palma airport but the odds seemed stacked against that being a trouble free journey. The alternative was staring me in the face.
Mallorca is the northern most island in the Balearics and there is clear sea between it and the coast of Spain. Not only that but it lies less than 200 kilometres from Barcelona. I figured that there must be some traffic between the two. Not the commercial ferry type — that might be being watched — but more the casual tourist type. Surely someone in the marina might be heading for Barcelona at this time of year.
Once in Barcelona I would head for Girona airport to the north. From there to Prestwick Airport in Scotland on a cheap Ryanair flight. That way I would exit Mallorca without going via Palma and enter Scotland without visiting Glasgow Airport. At least I would give myself a chance to get home without Dupree finding me.
It sounded good but I had no idea how difficult it would be to find someone that was both going to Barcelona, and willing to take a stranger. I went back to the car and drove to the town centre. Once I had parked up I walked down to the marina, picked a bar that overlooked the complex and ordered a coffee.
It was still early and people were thin on the ground. I was close to the entrance to the marina and watched the comings and goings.
An hour later, a little hotter and none the wiser I was still sitting in the same chair. I ordered a Coke.
I simply had no idea where to start. How do you hitch a lift in a boat?
The morning meandered along and I considered and reconsidered my options. Lunchtime arrived and the cafe busied up. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and I ordered pizza and a large plate of chips along with another Coke.
As I ate, I studied the other patrons hoping for some divine inspiration.
By two o’clock I was getting depressed. The lack of action was killing me.
At the back of my head I had the nagging feeling that the goons from Inca wouldn’t take long to figure where I was. After all how hard could it be?
I got off my seat and went for another wander and, as I walked, I passed a small bar ringing with laughter and looked in. Four men were standing at the bar giving the local beer a good hiding. I walked up to the bar and ordered a pint of what they were downing and earwigged the conversation, letting the alcohol take the edge off my growing frustration.
It became clear that the men owned a yacht in the marina and were on holiday. In for a penny and in for a pound, I gate crashed their conversation and asked which boat was theirs?
They were unfazed with my interruption and one of the men nodded to the door and we walked over. He pointed to the marina and tried to guide my eye to their boat. I couldn’t swear that I was looking at the right one but when I asked what type it was he went off on one. Halfway through I had to own up to knowing nothing about boats, but this just made him more vocal on the subject.
We drifted back to his mates and I bought a round. This went down well and soon I was knee deep in nautical terms and stories.
The guys were good company. They had been friends since school and acted the way you do when you know someone so well that you can read their thoughts. Ten years ago they had agreed to buy a quarter each of a yacht. None of them knew the first thing about sailing but they all fancied it. The current yacht was their third and a source of pride and joy.
I asked where they had been and where they were heading.
‘ Malaga then San Antonio in Ibiza then Mahon in Minorca and we came in here two days ago. If things go well we want to try and get to Barcelona and then down the coast and back to Malaga.’
I was amazed they didn’t notice my double take when they said Barcelona.
‘When do you head off?’
The guy who had tried to show me the boat told me they were leaving first thing in the morning. They wanted to try and get there while it was still light. I asked if they wanted a passenger and they laughed. I said I was serious and they went cold on me. Then they got bored with me and made their excuses before leaving.
I sat with my drink and contemplated my next move.
I could trawl the marina for someone else bound for Barcelona but I could look long enough.
I left the bar and found the four men a couple of bars away. I didn’t go in but found a cafe opposite and waited.
Just after four they tumbled out and walked towards the marina. I fell in behind them, keeping well back. They were laughing and joking as they staggered out onto one of the piers. Four boats from the end they leapt on board a tidy looking motor cruiser. I reckoned she was forty feet, maybe a bit more, in length. I retreated to the entrance of the marina and decided on a course of action.