ANDY
Andy was staying on a catamaran moored out in the bay, beyond the end of the runway – boatsitting for the owner who was back in England earning some money to continue his cruise. We on the Ocean Gambler didn't see Andy that often, but once or twice a week he'd row the catarmaran's dinghy across the bay and tie up at Ernest's Yard. Then he'd walk down into the town to his spot at the top of Main Street, take out his coloured chalks and start to draw pictures on the pavement. The pictures were rough and childlike studies of square-riggers, yachts in a storm, the Rock and the Castle, the Gibraltarian flag with its red fortress and gold key. Occasionally a passer-by would throw a coin into the chalk circle Andy always drew in front of his pictures. Some days were better than others. It depended on the flow of tourist traffic.
I sat with him once for a while, while he laboriously created his art. I sat down on the pavement and looked up at the people; all those people, all those heads and hearts and limbs; all those stories, parading past.
One day Andy rowed me out to the catamaran. I'd said I'd like to have a look around. The cabin was small, cramped and damp; a mess of bedding and clothes and books. We sat out in the cockpit, smoked a joint or two. A shoal of pilchard swam by the boat, close to the surface and Andy, using a child's fishing net on a stick, managed to scoop up a straggler, about as long as my forefinger. When it was finally dead, Andy gutted it with a penknife and tried to grill it over a candle. He'd run out of gas for the stove.
'No, no thanks,' I said when he kindly offered me half. 'You have it.'
Before the sun set Andy rowed me back to the Yard, then I stood on the slipway and waved him goodbye as he turned the boat round and paddled back out to the bay.
I sat with him once for a while, while he laboriously created his art. I sat down on the pavement and looked up at the people; all those people, all those heads and hearts and limbs; all those stories, parading past.
One day Andy rowed me out to the catamaran. I'd said I'd like to have a look around. The cabin was small, cramped and damp; a mess of bedding and clothes and books. We sat out in the cockpit, smoked a joint or two. A shoal of pilchard swam by the boat, close to the surface and Andy, using a child's fishing net on a stick, managed to scoop up a straggler, about as long as my forefinger. When it was finally dead, Andy gutted it with a penknife and tried to grill it over a candle. He'd run out of gas for the stove.
'No, no thanks,' I said when he kindly offered me half. 'You have it.'
Before the sun set Andy rowed me back to the Yard, then I stood on the slipway and waved him goodbye as he turned the boat round and paddled back out to the bay.