'What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?' Part I

Happy Holidays Corfu Magazine

Articles and Features (published quarterly) about Corfu and its many attractions

Vol. 2, No. 1; September 15, 2006

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What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor?

Fiction by David A. Ross

I had fallen in with a group of British ex-pats who met each afternoon at four o'clock at the Navigator's Pub. My inclusion in the group had been encouraged and facilitated by Philbar Cullinain, a sailor I'd met casually one day as I walked the quay at Gouvia Marina.

I'd encountered Cullinain on several other occasions over the course of a few weeks' time, and I'd now passed more than a few afternoons with the skipper of the Overdraft and his crowd of Celtic misfits. The beer always flowed freely (nobody seemed very concerned with who was paying for what), and the conversation was always good. I found Cullinain, in his low-key and low-voiced way, to be not only witty, but also eternally curious-minded.

Over many a glass of beer I learned the Englishman's colourful history: a rough-and-tumble pre-war and wartime childhood populated with variety show entertainers and comics, (friends of his mother and father), who instilled in him a lifelong love of humour; a scholarship to Eaton passed by for a lack of living expenses (his father was a plumber then earning only five hundred pounds sterling a year); military service at seventeen, and eventually a post in the elite Special Air Services branch of the British Army.

"Every Englishman on Corfu claims to be ex-SAS," he'd told me. "But they're all phonies. I can ask a single trick question, 'What's underneath the clock?' and if I don't receive the answer, 'To be a pilgrim,' then I've caught him in the lie. Simple as that!"

Indeed, Cullinain had spent time abroad in Singapore, Indonesia, Thailand and Laos. In Indonesia he'd been detailed as a bodygaurd for the Indonesian president, and had conveyed to me that in the stupidity of his youth he'd been perfectly willing to take a bullet intended for the Indonesian dictator. In Singapore, he'd established an illegal beer-running business to supply foreign servicement with their favourite beverage. " Which was extremely profitable!" he added. While stationed in Laos, he confessed to me with tears in his eyes that he'd had to shoot two ten-year-olds, a brother and sister. "Extreme situation," he rationalized. "Pure insanity! Innocent children carrying hand grenades. No way around it." I could plainly see that the killing of the two children weighed heavily on his conscience and was perhaps the defining moment of his life. The beginning of the end, so to speak. Though Cullinain was now easy-going and casual in every way, I suspected that the regret he carried ate away at his spirit like maggots on refuse. Did Philbar Cullinain really care if he lived or died? I doubted the efficacy of his facade.

"Would you fancy a sail to Agni with Dazey and me?" he'd asked me one afternoon.

"Where is Agni?"

"Up the northern coastline. The Overdraft makes the trip in about an hour and a half. Not much there, you understand. Except the White House."

"The White House?"

"The British novelist Lawrence Durrell had a house there. And I believe the American writer Henry Miller stayed there with him before the war. Not much left from their time, anyway. But there's a marvelous little restaurant on the key. Been there forever. Lovely place to have a meal and pass a lazy afternoon. Inside they have a collection of photographs from the thirties. Larry Durrell, his brother Gerald, Henry Miller--that crowd. Quite interesting, really."

Having had little experience with sailing, the idea appealed to me. "I'm staying here with a Dutch woman," I explained. "Would it be all right if she came along?"

"By all means, bring her along. We'll probably get pissed up, and somebody's got to steer the Overdraft back to the marina," the skipper laughed as he finished off the beer in his glass.

On the morning we were to sail with Phil and Dazey Cullinain to Agni, K. and I arrived at the pier where the Overdraft was docked. The light was brilliant, the sky infinitely blue, and the sea calm as glass. There was little sign of activity on the boat, and K. wondered aloud if perhaps we'd gotten the day or time wrong. “I’m certain he said we’d sail today at eleven,” I said.

“Looks to me like they’re still asleep,” said K.

“I’m going to knock,” I ventured.

A moment or two after my enquiry, Cullinain appeared looking haggard and hung-over. “Right-o, mate,” he croaked. “Just give us a minute, will you?”

K. was immediately dubious. “Do you suppose he knows what he’s doing?” she asked me.

“He told me he’s been sailing for forty-five years,” I assured her.

“That fact aside,” she said, “he looks barely able to tie his shoes.”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” I said, and sat down upon the pier to wait for the Cullinains to rise and shine. K. sat cross-legged beside me.

Ten minutes passed before Cullinain appeared and invited us to come aboard. “Dazey will be another minute or two,” he said. “She’s just now getting dressed in the aft-cabin. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A brandy, perhaps?”

“No, thanks,” I said as I stood on the deck and looked into the forward-cabin. The yacht’s interior was down-at-heel and rather grimy from negligence, though the boat’s owners obviously did not notice their own muddle.

“I’m accustomed to coffee in the morning,” said Cullinain as he put a pot to boil upon the stove in the tiny galley. And once his coffee was made and poured into his cup, he spiked the brew with a shot of brandy. “Java with a tipple,” he explained. “Gets the juices flowing.”

I well knew the signs of an alcoholic; my father had drunk himself to death, and was now ten years in the grave. Cullinain was no doubt well along the same path. Though Philbar Cullinain’s affable personality was not yet drowned in booze, nor thoroughly consumed by grief, nor stifled by anger: something altogether likeable remained, even shined in his eyes, and shone upon his beset face. Having long ago judged himself totally wanting, he refrained, where others were concerned, from any judgment whatsoever. He habitually accepted others as they were and offered unconditional friendship. That was his magic; that was his redemption.

“How long have you lived aboard ship?” K. asked.

Cullinain scratched his head. “Seven years now,” he said.

“Thank you for inviting us,” K. said to him.

Cullinain waved off the thanks. “It’s a beautiful day. And we’re all here together on Corfu! What could be better?” As he sipped his brandied coffee, his eyes seemed to clear, his aspect to brighten. “Well, let me just see what’s keeping Dazey.”

But as he turned to move toward the aft-cabin, Dazey Cullinain herself came through the doorway, her hair bristled, her complexion florid, her step unsteady. A bikini top covered her breasts, and a faded sarong was wrapped round her hips. “Good morning all!” she clucked.

“At last she’s emerged!” Philbar announced.

“Sod off, Phil! Where’s my coffee?”

He handed her a mug filled with a concoction much like that in his own cup. She took the mug in her trembling hand. “Have you done the Times crossword yet?” she asked.

“I’ve only just got up myself,” he said.

“No surprise there,” she said. “You didn’t roll in last night until past three in the morning!”

“Pissed out of my head,” he added.

Dazey turned to K. “He was out last night with his friend Wolfgang Lidl.”

“The old Nazi!” Philbar laughed.

“Actually, he’s a retired Surgeon General in the Austrian Army,” Dazey qualified.

“An absolute lunatic,” Philbar laughed. “And a crackerjack sailor! Whenever he comes to Corfu, together we paint the town red!”

“Perhaps you noticed the glow this morning,” Dazey said, referring to her husband’s common metaphor.

I smiled benignly, while K. did not know how to react to this bizarre couple. But the lack of a response did not deter Dazey Cullinain one iota. She rambled on and on about Philbar’s exploits with the retired Austrian surgeon. “Whenever they’re together, they’re like a couple of adolescents,” she begrudged. “There’s simply no checking them. But don’t take me wrong,” she said, “I truly like Wolfie.”

“He’s an old Nazi,” Cullinain reiterated. “But he’s a great guy. And a crackerjack sailor!”

“Wolfgang knows boats, that’s for sure!” said Dazey.

Cullinain turned to his wife. “Sorry I forgot to tell you, darling, but apparently I’ve promised these two gracious people a cruise to Agni today.”

“Oh, right-o,” she said, utterly unruffled by the prospect of an impromptu excursion.

“So, I guess we’d better get underway.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” she agreed.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?” Cullinain asked us. “A glass of red ink, perhaps?”

“Red ink?”

“Local wine,” Cullinain explained.

“Maybe later,” I said.

“Right-o, mate. Then I’ll just tend to a few necessities, and we’ll be off,” he said. Turning to Dazey, he asked, “Would you mind helping with the ropes, darling, while I turn over the engine?”

Dazey climbed the three steps leading to the deck, and then teetered onto the peer. Unraveling the mooring ropes, she tossed each one onboard.

Philbar coaxed the tired motor, which faltered three times before ignition was finally achieved. “Off to Agni!” the skipper proclaimed as the Overdraft sputtered out of Gouvia Marina at half-a-knot, its Popeye captain at the wheel, the first mate gone below to the galley for a second cup of brandied coffee and a crossword puzzle, and two skeptical passengers on deck, ready and waiting for who-knew-what.

Along the tree-lined coast we chugged, Gouvia Bay and Corfu Town behind us, Mount Pantocrator above and to our left, and the hazy mountains of Albania in the distance. Cullinain steered the boat as K. and I sat on deck in the bright sunshine. Graceful sailboats glided across the bay. Ferryboats the size of luxury hotels navigated the narrow straight that divided Corfu from the mainland. And the Overdraft labored like a tug past Dassia, Barbati, and Kalami. But it was a spectacular Ionian morning, and we two novice sailors were happy to be aboard. As the journey progressed, our doubts concerning the competency of the captain and crew diminished. Until we heard the sound of Dazey’s singing voice wafting up from the forward-cabin. K. cocked her head to listen. To my ear, the melody was vaguely familiar. What was it?

A Gilbert and Sullivan operetta—Pirates of Penzance! But the words were all wrong…

“I am the very model of a modern techno-journalist,

With words I am a demon all the meanings I can turn and twist,

My knowledge of the industry is positively minimal,

In management’s true function my disinterest is criminal…”

“What is that?” said K.

“Shhh… Just listen!” I said with a smile on mt lips.

Dazey Cullinain’s invincible voice went on with the clever parody:

“As lobby correspondent for the now defunct News Chronicle,

In nineteen forty-five when oil and gas were economical,

I am so well equipped to give out current information,

And write about the industry in times of high inflation!”

“She writes about the industry in times of high inflation!” chorused Philbar’s baritone voice from the wheelhouse.

“When I have learnt what progress has been made in the refinery,

When I know more of offshore than a pupil in the primary,

In short when I’ve a smattering of basic oil technology,

You’ll say a better journalist has never worked at old BP!

My knowledge of the industry, for all that I’m so devious,

Is either non-existent or is back in decades previous,

But still with words I am so good,

The meaning I can turn and twist,

I am the very model of a modern techno-journalist!”

“In short with words she is so good, the meaning she can turn and twist; she is the very model of a modern techno-journalist!” Philbar broke out laughing as he raised his glass. “Don’t stop now, darling!” he roared.

Dazey’s head popped through the entrance to the wheelhouse. “Did you fancy my little ditty?” she asked.

“Wonderful, darling. Truly wonderful!” He turned to K. “The woman’s keen with words, you see. She loves to write little parodies.”

“All apologies to G&S,” Dazey qualified.

“No apology necessary,” I encouraged.

“Right-o, mate! They’re long dead, aren’t they?” said Philbar.

“I suppose they are,” said Dazey. “Then I shouldn’t have a problem with the copyright, I suspect.”

“Have a drink!” Philbar called out. “Dazey, pour each of our friends a glass of ink!”

“Right-o!” She descended back into the galley.

“We’re all here together, off Corfu, I think… (We are off the coast of Corfu, aren’t we, darling?) We don’t know where the bloody hell we’re going, but we’re sailing. We’re sailing! What could be better?”

“How long have you lived aboard ship?” K. asked.

Cullinain scratched his head. “Seven years now,” he said.

“Thank you for inviting us,” K. said to him.

“At last she’s emerged!” Philbar announced.

“Sod off, Phil! Where’s my coffee?”

He handed her a mug filled with a concoction much like that in his own cup. She took the mug in her trembling hand. “Have you done the Times crossword yet?” she asked.

“I’ve only just got up myself,” he said.

“No surprise there,” she said. “You didn’t roll in last night until past three in the morning!”

“Pissed out of my head,” he added.

Dazey turned to K. “He was out last night with his friend Wolfgang Lidl.”

“The old Nazi!” Philbar laughed.

“Actually, he’s a retired Surgeon General in the Austrian Army,” Dazey qualified.

“An absolute lunatic,” Philbar laughed. “And a crackerjack sailor! Whenever he comes to Corfu, together we paint the town red!”

“Perhaps you noticed the glow this morning,” Dazey said, referring to her husband’s common metaphor.

“He’s an old Nazi,” Cullinain reiterated. “But he’s a great guy. And a crackerjack sailor!”

“Wolfgang knows boats, that’s for sure!” said Dazey.

Cullinain turned to his wife. “Sorry I forgot to tell you, darling, but apparently I’ve promised these two gracious people a cruise to Agni today.”

“Oh, right-o,” she said, utterly unruffled by the prospect of an impromptu excursion.

“So, I guess we’d better get underway.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” she agreed.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?” Cullinain asked us. “A glass of red ink, perhaps?”

“Red ink?”

“Local wine,” Cullinain explained.

“Maybe later,” I said.

Dazey climbed the three steps leading to the deck, and then teetered onto the peer. Unraveling the mooring ropes, she tossed each one onboard.

Along the tree-lined coast we chugged, Gouvia Bay and Corfu Town behind us, Mount Pantocrator above and to our left, and the hazy mountains of Albania in the distance. Cullinain steered the boat as K. and I sat on deck in the bright sunshine. Graceful sailboats glided across the bay. Ferryboats the size of luxury hotels navigated the narrow straight that divided Corfu from the mainland. And the Overdraft labored like a tug past Dassia, Barbati, and Kalami. But it was a spectacular Ionian morning, and we two novice sailors were happy to be aboard. As the journey progressed, our doubts concerning the competency of the captain and crew diminished. Until we heard the sound of Dazey’s singing voice wafting up from the forward-cabin. K. thingyed her head to listen. To my ear, the melody was vaguely familiar. What was it?

A Gilbert and Sullivan operetta—Pirates of Penzance! But the words were all wrong…

“I am the very model of a modern techno-journalist,

With words I am a demon all the meanings I can turn and twist,

My knowledge of the industry is positively minimal,

In management’s true function my disinterest is criminal…”

“What is that?” said K.

“Shhh… Just listen!” I said with a smile on mt lips.

Dazey Cullinain’s invincible voice went on with the clever parody:

“As lobby correspondent for the now defunct News Chronicle,

In nineteen forty-five when oil and gas were economical,

I am so well equipped to give out current information,

And write about the industry in times of high inflation!”

“She writes about the industry in times of high inflation!” chorused Philbar’s baritone voice from the wheelhouse.

“When I have learnt what progress has been made in the refinery,

When I know more of offshore than a pupil in the primary,

In short when I’ve a smattering of basic oil technology,

You’ll say a better journalist has never worked at old BP!

My knowledge of the industry, for all that I’m so devious,

Is either non-existent or is back in decades previous,

But still with words I am so good,

The meaning I can turn and twist,

I am the very model of a modern techno-journalist!”

“In short with words she is so good, the meaning she can turn and twist; she is the very model of a modern techno-journalist!” Philbar broke out laughing as he raised his glass. “Don’t stop now, darling!” he roared.

Dazey’s head popped through the entrance to the wheelhouse. “Did you fancy my little ditty?” she asked.

“Wonderful, darling. Truly wonderful!” He turned to K. “The woman’s keen with words, you see. She loves to write little parodies.”

“All apologies to G&S,” Dazey qualified.

“No apology necessary,” I encouraged.

“Right-o, mate! They’re long dead, aren’t they?” said Philbar.

“I suppose they are,” said Dazey. “Then I shouldn’t have a problem with the copyright, I suspect.”

“Have a drink!” Philbar called out. “Dazey, pour each of our friends a glass of ink!”

“Right-o!” She descended back into the galley.