Another Sicilian job.
By early summer 1988, we were settled in Cana Cavea. I had wired the house, the cable channels were filled, and the walls were plastered and painted. We had an additional upstairs bathroom and toilet. The floors were tiled, and we were ready to renovate the old donkey stable into a self-contained two-bedroom apartment.
I was reducing my work commitments in the UK, but the money came in handy, and I would commute when I was called. However, there were no budget airlines then, and national-carrier prices were exorbitant. For cheap flights you had to buy private unused package flight tickets on the black market that were surreptitiously advertised in the local English paper, that is another story.
Sandy had a developing business selling property to buyers anticipating the benefits of Spain’s entry into the EEC. I needed some way to earn a living, I couldn’t register as an engineer because of the Colegio Profesional system that was in force, and I hadn’t found any HiTech industry on the island, at that time, that needed my skill set.
While building a stone wall and contemplating this dilemma, a car drove into the garden, and a medium height man got out.
“Are you Bernie?” he inquired.
“Yes”
“You’re an electronics engineer” it was a statement.
“I’m Eddie, the mechanic in Cala D’or Marina. Leno’s got a problem with his boat, he wants you to fix it”.
“I’m busy at the moment, I’ll try to get down as soon as I can” I replied.
“When you get there ask for me, I’ll show you the boat”.
So much for living under the radar, I thought as he drove away.
Engrossed in working on my house, I forgot about Cala D’or.
A week later Eddie returned.
“Leno is not very happy with you. You said you’d fix his boat”.
“I didn’t. I said I’d try to get down when I could”.
Eddie explained that Leno owned the marina and I should get down there and sort the problem.
I wasn’t happy that my rural tranquillity was being disturbed with a problem that wasn’t mine. I was about to tell Eddie to piss off when I realised this could be an opportunity. There must be HiTech stuff on boats.
“OK, I’ll be there at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” I said.
The next day, I took my tool kit, multimeter and oscilloscope and headed off to Cala D’or. Eddie took me to a fifty-foot long, exceptionally well-kept boat with a master bedroom, two smaller bedrooms, galley, dining area, a fly-bridge and front and rear sun decks. I can’t remember, but it may have been an Italian Benetti.
“It’s the NECO. The rudder’s driving hard to starboard” he said, which meant absolutely nothing to me.
He gave me the service manual and left saying.
“I’ll leave you to it. Leno is in Nice at a meeting. I’ll let him know you’re on the boat.”
I skipped through the manual, it described a:
main electronic control box;
distribution box;
remote control and cable for deck use;
fluxgate compass (whatever that was);
rudder position potentiometer; and
an electro-mechanical rudder drive.
After reading the manual, I knew what a fluxgate compass was and realised that the AutoPilot was a closed-loop feedback servo system. I should be able to fix it, I’d passed control theory.
Where to start? With no previous experience, I decided first to locate the various components. This wasn’t so easy, the equipment was fitted into the boat with aesthetics, not serviceability in mind. I came to the horrible realisation that I was going to have to remove some of the boat’s polished wooden panelling. After turning the boat into something resembling the aftermath of a burglary, I located all the systems components. By then, it was late afternoon, so I closed up the boat and went home.
Before returning to the marina the next day, I sorted out a selection of electronic components from the stock I’d brought in from the UK. Back on board, I started an inspection of the autopilot’s parts. Eddie turned up. He’d checked on the boat the night before, seen the crime scene, and given Leno a progress report.
“Leno asked if you know what you’re doing?”.
“No” I replied honestly “I’ve never worked on an autopilot before”.
Eddie went off, leaving me to it.
I couldn’t find anything obvious like corrosion or bad connections. I would have to take the electronics control with all its knobs and dials apart, an option I wasn’t enthusiastic about.
I stripped the control and tested its components. I found a pair of BFX29 PNP transistors, one of which had gone collector-emitter short circuit. These provided the port-starboard signals to the rudder drive and were undoubtedly the cause of the failure. They were a common type, and I had some in my spares box.
Eddie returned.
“I phoned Leno, he said you don’t know what you’re doing so you have to get off the boat. He’ll get Hector down from Palma”.
“Look,” I replied, “I didn’t ask to do this job, but now I’m here I’ll finish it”.
“Leno said to get off the boat, that’s final”.
If I’d not been so close to finishing, and they hadn’t threatened to bring in the guy from Palma to take the credit for the repair, my reaction may have been different. The truth was, it was a matter of pride.
“Why don’t you tell Leno to fuck off. I’ll get off the boat when I’ve finished the job”.
Eddie left to give Leno the good news.
I desoldered the BFX29s, replaced them with two new ones, then reassembled and tested the control. The autopilot came to life with full rudder control. After sustained testing to ensure it was operating to spec, I put the panels back in place and tidied up. I then went to find Eddie, told him I’d finished the job, and asked him to let me know when Leno was back. I returned home to my stonewalling in the peace of the countryside.
Two weeks past with no word. In that time I found out more about Leno. He was Sicilian and a tough businessman. Each year he went to Nice for a meeting. One year he returned with two broken legs, after being hit by a car. Being a Sicilian, the local populace put a more sinister spin on the accident. This made me think, maybe I’d been a little rash with the last message I’d sent to him via Eddie. Regardless, I printed out an invoice from my BBC Acorn Atom, and with some trepidation, headed for Cala D’or marina.
Leno’s office was behind two, one-way mirrored glass doors. They might even have been bullet proof. The receptionist told me to take a seat, and I was given the long wait treatment. However, I figured any Italian worth his salt wouldn’t miss lunch, so I sat tight. Leno broke first, probably his curiosity got the better of him. I was summoned into the office. In his mid-sixties, he was an imposing figure behind his desk. I introduced myself and sat down.
“That wasn’t nice, what you said to Eddie,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but you know it was a matter of honour. You asked me to do the job, and I felt obligated to finish it”. I used language he’d relate to, avoiding the word Sicilian.
Leno nodded his understanding. Then came the déjà vu vecu. Like being on Castoro Sei heading to Trapani in 1982, for the second time in my life, I was being given the offer from a Sicilian that I couldn’t refuse.
“How would you like to work for me”.
“I work for myself” I replied.
“I have a large workshop that’s not in use, you can use it to set up an electronics business”.
“I wouldn’t want to pay rent for a business I had no experience in.”
“You can have it no charge to see how it goes. The marina office will pass on the clients, and you can use the fax and telephone”.
Something for nothing! This was out of character with all I’d heard. Being indebted to a Sicilian didn’t seem like a good idea to me. I had to think about it.
“I accept.” I said “On one condition, I’ll pay the marina 20% on every invoice I raise. If there’s no work, I have no costs, and if there is we both get the benefit”.
“Good, then talk to Miguel in the office, he’ll show you the workshop and give you the keys”.
We shook hands on it and then almost as an after-thought, I handed him the paper.
“Here’s my invoice for repairing your boat”.
Thus was inaugurated, Butler’s Mallorca Marine Electronic Service.