Thursday, December 28th, 2006. Coastal skipper.
My club mates will feel that sinking feeling all again. I went today through the legal requirements passed in 1997 for nautical sports, and manning a kayak in the night requests a coastal skipper certificate. I hurried to buy a good manual and a Gibraltar Strait’s nautical chart which here, is the requisite chart for the official tests. If passed, the certificate attests enough knowledge to skipper a yacht on coastal cruises, day or night. Legally enough to get the Maritime Civil Guard off my back in the future. Along the way, I shall look for a marine radio operator’s certificate, and a first aid certificate, as little I remember from my scuba diving days.
Actually, I passed my examinations for small sail and power, recreational boats when I was in Law School, but never bothered to collect the certificate. True. I am like that.
Still, I have distinctive, fond memories of the physical test undertook at the Naval Captaincy Headquarters of Barcelona, an imposing building, ornated much to my taste, as a wedding cake. An aging naval doctor of a ligneous complexion, ushered me to a dispensary for an experience to dearly remember. He asked to me to stood at attention. I did so with a double heel clicking. He flashed a sad, tired, smile at me, and asked me to close my eyes as I kept my ankles together. I did so for about a minute waiting for the next command. Waiting. Waiting.
“Excellent” - he said. “Your balance is perfect”.
I raised my eyebrows, mentally asking myself if ever a skipper candidate fell down, stumbling, during the test. If so, I keenly would like to hear any anecdotes on that particular incident. As my thoughts lingered to the prospective fun of joining the Navy, I heard behind my back the faintest of whispers, as if the distant murmur of a peaceful brook lapped against green, lush, banks. “Pardon me, sir” - I said.
A rumble of feet in discomfort. Then, I vaguely perceived in hushed, somewhat muffled, sounds, a weak command: “Weighhhh anchorssss.”
“Weigh anchors” - I replied shouting.
“Very well. Very well” - He finally conceded as he scribbled in an official form.
Some short glances at an eyesight test chart, and at a colour chart to be sure that the skipper was not a hopeless blind nor daltonic, and I had passed.
Since then, I cast doubts on the level of training of any astronaut aspirant that Spain sends to the European Space Agency.













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