When we we got onto the ferry from Trogir to Split, we were sweating profusely - our clothes stuck to our skin - we hung out of the portholes - a faint breeze blew over the darkening waves - the tower of the cathedral reached up to a clear pale blue sky - it was after six in the evening - this was the last boat back -
I suddenly became aware, over the mad throbbing of the engines, that the marineros were shouting at one another - worried, excitable, voices echoed within the passenger salon -
One of the marineros flung open the hatch to the engine room - he scurried down, into the inferno, clutching three litre bottles, full of water -
He soon came bounding up, then raced to the grim lavatory, refilling his bottles - then scuttled down again, into the zone of noise -
This happened, again and again - the engines must be overheating - Anne's cool gaze fell upon the anxious lunging figure - I hope they don't run out of water -
Then, whilst all this was going on, a pouting beauty in a green dress made her way onto the bridge - there was a sign saying - strictly no admittance to passengers -
We could hear her, joshing the other marinero, presumably the captain - then I saw her slim hand upon the throttle, pushing it right down, so the trembling, quivering, boat picked up speed -
Meanwhile, the marinero with the bottles still raced back and forth - then he gave up, lit up a York, and sauntered up onto the bridge -
Needless to say, we made it safely back - the beauty sashayed off the boat, with her escort of two lean marineros -
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