Ryan’s Take:
It started with binoculars.
Liam had them out before breakfast, claiming he’d spotted either a dolphin or a bin bag that “looked hopeful.” I was halfway through a soggy cracker when he froze, went quiet, and said, “We’ve got company.”
There was a boat. Grey. Official-looking. Fast. With men who did not wave. They pulled alongside silently—like sharks with bureaucracy.
We weren’t doing anything wrong. Probably. But that doesn’t matter when a boat marked “Autoridade Marítima” pulls up and stares at you like your sunscreen is illegal.
One of them called out something in Portuguese. Liam panicked and answered in French. I offered them a biscuit. It was not taken.
They tied on, boarded without much ceremony. Two guys in creased uniforms, sunglasses, and the kind of expressions that suggest they don’t laugh often. One of them nodded at the cabin. The other started tapping parts of the boat with his knuckle like he was judging a melon.
We had exactly one minute of pretending we were confident before Liam spilled our bag of expired flares across the deck. They clattered like guilt. One of them said something that included the word “proibido.”
Liam’s Take:
In my defence, some of those flares were still within six months of their theoretical use-by date. And they were in a bag labeled “spoons.” That should count for something.
Also, I was trying to remember the Portuguese for “We are good boys” and it came out as “Nous sommes gentils garçons,” which is French and creepy.
They weren’t angry. Just… disappointed. Like two uncles you forgot to pick up from the airport. One of them opened a locker, found Ryan’s secret stash of mouldy oranges, and made a noise that sounded like a sigh and a swear having a child.
There was paperwork. There is always paperwork.
Ryan filled it out wrong three times because he kept trying to write in knots per hour and they wanted kilometers. I accidentally ticked a box that classified us as a commercial passenger ferry.
Eventually, they gave up. Or gave in. They left us with a warning about safety checks, a leaflet with diagrams of lifejackets that all looked deeply judgmental, and the advice to “organise your supplies better.”
I said “obrigado” and they didn’t say anything back.
Ryan Again:
After they left, we sat in silence for a bit. The deck looked like a teenage bedroom. Damp, chaotic, deeply ashamed of itself. Liam tried to make tea but forgot we’d run out of gas.
I said we should sail to Sines as planned. Liam said he needed to lie down in the fetal position for a while first. We compromised by drifting.
That night, as we bobbed offshore with no plan, I realised I was wearing two different shoes. Liam found an old flare in the sink. The boat smelled faintly of leaflets and sea fear.
Tomorrow, we get back on course.
Or not.
