Chapter 21

For informational purposes only, Port Said to Rota, Spain via the Cape of Good Hope is 10411 nautical miles and 43 days 9 hours at 10 knots. That might explain why we were sailing 1982 nautical miles VIA the Strait of Gibraltar in 8 days at 10 knots...

IF

If’s are damn near as bad as But’s ... wretched things.

“If we went here, I could see,” fits in with, “We’ve come this far, we might as well go see.”

It doesn’t matter who said it ... as soon as it was said, we were sailing miles out of the direct way to Rota ... again.

Zoe is Australian.

“We’re this close ... let’s go see Anzac Cove,” she suggested.

We were this close because I wanted to visit Crete and Ideon Cave, which was the birthplace of Zeus. We had our own gods ... yes Seven, I know. Technologically Advanced Scientists ... not gods. Until something better comes along you’ll do. Crete wasn’t all that far from Port Said, Egypt ... and, thanks to our resident Physicist... “minor in anthropology, thank you very much,” ... Cora Jo, Ph.D, we’d already spent two weeks at the Pyramids ... and we weren’t in that big a hurry. So ... why not Crete.

After Crete came Zo’s suggestion. Gallipoli. Thousands of Australian and New Zealanders sacrificed all on the peninsula only to be defeated by the Turks. Australian history ... sure, Zoe had to go.

That might explain why we were sitting in the anteroom of The Consulate General of Ukraine in Istanbul explaining why we wanted ... well ... some of us wanted ... to see Sevastopol, Yalta and Odessa in the Crimea. The instructions said call during non visiting hours before visiting. The some of us who wanted to see was limited to Zoe Flintkote ... and JW ... husband to Zoe ... because JW knew the golden rule... If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Because we were visiting during non visiting hours our reception was by receptionist ... the thirteen year old daughter of the Consul General ... and only because she was passing by the gate at the same time we were begging entry.

Things would have been easier if Russia was still the USSR. We’d ask ... they would say ‘Nyet’ ... and the Flint and crew would sail off into the sunset, perfectly content that we had tried and politics got in the way.

But no...

The daughter thought it was a fine idea ... she got to practice her English ... and we received dubious visas. They were properly stamped and signed ... excellent forgery. “I always sign daddy’s name to my school permissions,” she said. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.” She rubbed her butt.

“Now, how are you getting to the Ukraine?” she asked.

“We have a boat,” we said in trio.

“That is very clever,” she said. “Can you do it again?”

“What?” in harmony.

“Oh. You can. I have always wished my parents were more prolific.”

“All our lives,” we said, “We’ve been able to do this.”

“A boat?” as if our statement had just burrowed in and struck a nerve. “What kind of boat?”

“A sailboat.”

“There’s room for all of you?”

“Ninety feet of luxury catamaran.”

“Really? I’d love to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Get up and go.”

And then Cyn opened the mouth and said, “Ask your dad.”