the ionian june 2012

June 2012 www.theionian.com The Ionian 1

The Ionian The Ionian June 2012 Volume 3. Issue 4 www.theionian.com COMPLIMENTARY/∆ΩΡΕΑΝ

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It’s a frog’s life

3

Escape from the deep

Page 12

The art of spring gardening

Page 7

Ionian Olympic pride

Page 5

Focus on Lefkas

Page 8

Crossed lines

Page 10

2 The Ionian www.theionian.com June 2012


Believe it or not There is an old saying in journalism, "If in doubt, leave it out." Had we stuck to that principle there would not have been much to read in this

month's issue of The Ionian. Which isn't to say that we don't stand by every word. Not many people believed stoker John Capes, when he managed to survive the sinking in Decem-

ber 1941 of the British submarine HMS Perseus, which hit an Italian mine off Kefalonia. The story of the events of that disaster and Capes' eventual rescue from the island by MI9 are told in Jean Baker's story Escape from the deep on page 12 of this month's edition of The Ionian.

Similarly there were a few raised eyebrows when Robin Lamb insisted that he was the wronged party in an incident of tangled anchor chains in Lefkas harbour. Robin continues to protest his inno-cence in Crossed lines on page 10.

And a certain suspension of disbelief is needed for Robin's other article, It's a frog's life on page 13, in which he tells how a persistent amphibian stowaway kept turning up in his gas cylinder locker on board Sundowner. Robin decided that the frog must have been getting high on the gas. Another Mythos, Robin?

Barbara de Machula's neighbour couldn't believe her eyes when she saw Barbara planting out her spring seedlings without first digging a generous amount of kupria - sheep muck - into the ground. And it had to be not any old kupria, but well-rotted kupria. Barbara explains in The art of spring gardening on page 7, how she eventually found kupria of adequate antiquity by visiting a stable so old that it "looked as if it had once had an earlier life in Bethlehem."

In Focus on Lefkas, page 8, our editor Martin Stote tells how he and his wife always make a bee-line for their favourite taverna every time they moor up in this cosmopolitan, chic little maritime town. He claims he always buys the chef a beer.

In Only for a moment, on page 13, boating bard Tom Alsop describes how in a moment of care-lessness he lost his footing while clambering into his tender. I CAN believe that. Done it a few times myself.

Finally, there was no doubting the excitement afoot when the Olympic torch was carried into Vonitsa. Ronne van Zuidam was there to see it and describes the mood of the town that day on page 5 in Ionian Olympic pride.

Enjoy reading... ~~~_/) Barbara Molin

The Ionian

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Founding Publisher: Justin Smith Publisher: Barbara Molin Managing Editor: Barbara Molin Editor Martin Stote Business Advisor: Yannis Dimopoulos Business Advisor: Ryan Smith Greek Editors: V. Gigi and V. Lekkas Layout: Barbara Molin Printing: Graphic Arts Advertising: Colleen Shears Kim Davies Subscriptions: Barbara Molin

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The Ionian is published monthly. Published on the last day before each month, approximately. Publication is for informational purposes only. Although The Ionian has made every effort to ensure the accuracy of the information contained in this publication, the publisher cannot be held responsible for any errors or omissions it may contain. The opinions expressed by the contributors are not necessarily held by the publisher. Published in Canada.


A brass band played, the streets were decorated with Greek and Olympic flags, and excited children clutched smaller flags and olive branches as the Olympic flame arrived in bright sunshine in the Ionian town of Vonitsa on May 12th.

Crowds gathered to see the athletes arrive at the stage erected at the end of the main street, two days after the torch was lit at the event’s spiritual home in ancient Olympia on the Peloponnese, at the start of its long journey to London for the 2012 Olympic Games.

The brass band played the Greek National Anthem as the torch was handed over to new athletes. In front of the stage, a group of children from sports clubs in the town were

waiting in national costumes. The mayor of Vonitsa, Nikos Soldatos, spoke movingly about the Olympic spirit.

Camera crews from the television station ERT drove with the athletes, who had come via Agrinion, Amfologia, and Paliambela, to capture the ceremony live on TV.

Pauline Scrimgeour, who had just sailed into the town with her husband Ian on their Moody 376, Arcadia, said, “The high street looked lovely with newly painted white kerb stones and lots of Greek flag bunting. The town was clearly in a festive mood. Then we noticed a podium, above which was a banner with the London Olympic logo and we realised that the Olympic flame was due to arrive.

“Crowds started to gather, music was blasted out through loudspeakers, and the

roads were cordoned off. The local junior Taikwando club arrived complete with pristine white outfits, merrily waving paper flags. Then the local brass band abandoned their seats in the taverna, armed themselves with their instruments and proudly marched along the street, their music adding greatly to the party atmosphere. “There were many speeches and although we couldn't understand a word, we could feel the excitement gathering as the flame approached.

Five local youths climbed onto the podium to accept the Olympic flame which arrived to great applause and cheers.

“It was good to see that during these difficult times the people of Vonitsa could show so much pride and enthusiasm for a flame that was headed for the UK.”

Then the athletes set off again, heading for Aktion, Preveza, Ioanina and Thessaloniki. The Olympic flame continued its journey in Greece for another few days, and arrived in the UK on a special flight on May 18. And at 7:15 am the next day, Saturday May 19, it began its marathon 70-day, 8,000-mile relay around Britain starting at Land's End in Cornwall. Triple Olympic gold medallist sailor Ben Ainslie was the first torchbearer. The torch is due to reach London on July 21, six days before the Games begin.

The Olympic flame was lit, and had to be hastily re-lit after it flickered out, in what was otherwise an elegant and symbolic ceremony in front of the ruins of the Temple of Hera at Olympia on May 10th.

The Olympic Anthem and the British National Anthem were played and the Olympic Flag and the Union Flag were raised. The London 2012 chairman Lord Coe made a short speech in which he said, “We have profound gratitude to Greece.”

But behind the ceremony and the spectacle, the plight of Greece’s athletes remained a subject of national regret and sadness. Because of a shortage of funds, Greece is expected to field just 75 athletes at the 2012 Games, less than half the team they sent to Beijing and a sixth of the team that represented the country in Athens 2004.

Ronne van Zuidam is from Holland and lives with her husband in Paliambela near Vonitsa where they own some holiday apartments. www.5alonia.nl Photos by Ronne van Zuidam unless otherwise noted.

Ionian Olympic pride

Ronne van Zuidam

©Pauline Scrimgeour


After the incessant winter floods that washed away our

road three times, we were finally blessed with a few weeks of bright sunshine, and Mother Nature immediately responded with an abundance of flowers and butterflies, breathtaking landscapes and even dolphins cavorting in our bay.

But there was a downside. We also had to fight the weeds that an invisible hand had seeded in unwanted places, like our vegetable garden-in-waiting. This year in the village, I noticed an increase in vegetable plots, perhaps because of the financial crisis. People now want a few extra veggies just in case…

Some of you may remember my disaster last summer when the cows ate all my fruit trees, tomatoes, pumpkins and whatever else was growing on our mountain. So this year I decided that it was time for

revenge. We erected a solid fence of concrete iron sheets around the fruit trees, leaving space for a proper vegetable garden. I bought this little iron spade and decided that it was time for exercise and manual labour. Those of you who know me, will acknowledge that I am not built for exercise. But with my new spade I thought I could tackle any plot of soil that needed ridding of weeds and grasses. I did notice that my fellow village gardeners had these nice little rotavators, and everywhere around the village I heard the plopping and purring sounds of petrol engines, making neat, virgin furrows of cleaned earth, waiting in all their pristine glory to be seeded. I wanted to prove to myself that I am a tough girl, and I also had the romantic idea that the veggies would be tastier when they were the product of hard manual labour. I managed to clear six square meters by hand. It took me a

week to recover from that, but I felt proud, and 10 kilos lighter! Next, I ordered these “heirloom” seeds from America - funny sweet

cherry tomatoes and pumpkins and melons and peppers and many others. Seeding is fun. You quickly see the trays left outside in the sun

sprout little green shoots fighting their way up through the soil. I think it is magic! Then after a week or so the plants were ready to be planted, a solemn moment in my new gardening life. So with my little spade and the tray of baby greens, on a sunny morning, before the day grew too hot, I was ready to do my thing. But almost immediately my gardening instructor, the lady who lives next door, let out a piercing shriek in Greek. “No! No! Don't do that! You need kupria first!” This was a word I remembered. It is the rich black manure made of sheep droppings. I used a few sacks last year from a farmer down town, and so now my gardening schedule had hit a rock even before I started planting. Fortunately, the sheep farmer came the next morning with new sacks of kupria, and again I was ready to make a start. But my neighbour came running out again in horror, with even more Greek cries of alarm. What was wrong this time? I had these

beautiful fresh sacks of kupria, still warm from the stable, you could feel the energy they gave off. And that was the problem, apparently. My kupria was too fresh. It should be at least a year old, my neighbour insisted, or otherwise the soil would be over-energised and burn my little plants. I sighed deeply and nearly threw in the trowel. Instead, I got some kupria from a stable so ancient that it looked as if it had once had an earlier life in Bethlehem. This time, when I pricked out my plants, even the birds were

singing, and I had this special feeling inside, a glow of pride and expectation and a vision of abundant crops. Peter, my loved one, didn’t get it. He glanced over at me as he took a break from his welding and said, "What on earth are you going to do with all those tomatoes?"

Besides gardening, writing and taking photos, Barbara de Machula also teaches painting. www.paintingholidaygreece.com

The art of spring gardening

Barbara de Machula


Every time we sail into Lefkas, we rehearse a ritual. We walk from the marina or the town quay through the labyrinth of back streets of what was once I imagine the old seamens’ and fishermens’ quarter, with its narrow alleyways, pastel-coloured houses with their Caribbean-style overhanging corrugated metal upper stories - a legacy of the 1948 earthquake - and picturesque little courtyards, until we reach the Seven Islands taverna, next to the first alleyway up from the main square.

There we order a carafe of wine, a couple of cold beers, send one through to Jorgos, the chef, who always manages a big smile of welcome even though he looks like a man who has been sweating over a hot stove since 6 am that morning, and await the invitation to inspect the food in the kitchen.

There, one of the two waitresses pulls from a couple of large ovens a glorious succession of enormous metal baking trays groaning with food. Huge stuffed tomatoes glistening in olive oil, stuffed vine leaves like miniature British Racing Green torpedoes, plump with their payloads of rice and onions and spices, kleftiko, moist in its duvet of baking parchment, and fragrant with a bouquet of oregano and cinnamon, and moussaka with its caramel-brown topping, just begging to be cut into delicious

chunky wedges. We usually sit at one of the tables in the alleyway beneath the

overhead collection of dangling straw hats, where occasionally a youngster will manoeuvre past on a puttering motorbike or scooter, or a local resident will turn a key in the lock of the door of one of the houses just across the alley and disappear into the dark and silent recesses within. At the end of the meal, by which time we have often struck up a conversation with whoever is sat at an adjoining table, there will often be a complimentary slice of melon or a little Greek sweet.

I had better say at this point, before the boss fires me for blatant favouritism, that I am not on commission, and there are many delightful and interesting restaurants in this chic and colourful little Greek maritime town. Some, like the Seven Islands, are homely and fun. Others, like those occupying the more high-profile spots along the seafront opposite the marina, have grander aspirations and are more tourist-orientated. We enjoyed

Focus on:

Martin Stote


many satisfying meals finding our favourite place to eat, and you will too. Wherever you choose, you will have to decide whether to tip the itinerant street musicians, or cock a deaf ‘un.

In his book on the Greek Islands, written in 1978, Lawrence Durrell dismissed Lefkada as a “sad little island” with the northern end having nothing of interest for the visitor. What a difference 35 years makes. Lefkas today is a thoroughly modern and cosmopolitan town which has also maintained –no easy trick- its charm and its heritage.

In the shops along the main streets of Ioannou Mela and Dorpfeld (named after the 19th century archaeologist who tried to claim Odysseus as a son of the island), you can buy everything from fresh vegetables and Lefkas honey to designer clothes, throws and lanterns and sculptures from several tasteful bo-ho interior design shops, traditional wood carvings, tourist gifts, or a fender or a rope for your boat.

There are bars with Wi-Fi and camera shops where you can have your films developed. My wife once bought a tiny jar of exquisite rose petal jam, made, allegedly, by monks from an unidentified monastery, following a centuries-old secret recipe. We later found the recipe on the internet. It’s the only time in ten years we ever felt the victims of tourist hype. But the jam was very good.

Visit the Folk Museum and see how villagers dressed for a traditional Greek wedding; or the Archaeological Museum and learn about the island’s even earlier history; have a coffee outside one of the cafes on Sikelianou and gaze over the heat haze shimmering across the salt lagoon.

In the baking afternoons of high summer, the main streets resemble a ghost town; the shops close and the locals vanish into the cool shade of their homes. But come late evening, a carnival vibrancy takes hold as the shops burst back into life, Greek families and a smattering of visitors from many parts of Europe join the grand promenade, and the corn on the cob vendors fire up their barbecues.

Martin Stote, 63, a retired Daily Express staff journalist, has been sailing with his wife Sue in the Ionian for eleven years, initially with Sunsail, and now on their own 42-foot syndicate yacht Kanula. He is the Editor of The Ionian. His wife Sue Smith worked as a journalist for the Birmingham Post and Evening Mail for 28 years, and for the Wolverhampton Express & Star for four years, and took up photography later as a hobby. They love the islands for their beauty, and the generosity of the people. Never knowingly under-reefed, they have yet to make Zakynthos.

Lefkas

©Sakis Zogas, Photo Net

©Vic Middleton


Some years back I had moored stern-to on the Lefkas quayside to pick up some supplies. I was packing them in their appropriate lockers below, when a group in a German-flagged Bavaria came in on my starboard side. Some bumping and thumping announced their arrival and when I emerged from the saloon they were tying up.

“I am ok here, ja?” “As long as you haven’t come to discuss

football,” I told him (Germany had just beaten England 4-1 and I had watched the whole miserable performance in Vlicho Yacht Club). He grunted and returned to tying up his bits of string. As we spoke, a bunch of Brits on a Jeanneau came in to moor stern-to on my port side. I took their lines as they came in.

Some time later I was ready to go, it was about a quarter of an hour before the Lefkas bridge opened, so plenty of time. Close all hatches and stow everything that is likely to fall over, take the passarail in, remove the snubber from the anchor chain, etc., etc. I started the motor and took in the leeward aft line as it was not really doing anything.

“Do you want any help?” called the skipper of the Jeanneau.

“No I should be all right - though you might care to fend off, I am on my own so the departure may be a bit clumsy,” I said casually. “The anchor chain will drop once I start releasing the other aft line and should take me out nicely. Once I am clear of you lot I can start to make a nice clean pick up. There’s no wind to speak of.

“You’ve obviously done this before.” “Oh yes,” I said, putting an air of nonchalance

into my voice - difficult with a mouth dry with nerves.

Sundowner slipped out neat as you like between the two boats but then it became obvious that there was a cross over. The anchor chain rattled as though running along another chain and the chain of the Bavaria was shaking and rattling too. Normally, the co-operation of the boat whose anchor is across yours helps the situation but they had left the boat to shop, or something.

I was in the middle of trying to raise the offending chain to the surface, when I was asked by a Danish-flagged boat whether I would mind moving so they could get out of their berth on the other side of the Bavaria.

“Pardon but we want to catch the bridge.” “Me too.” I managed to motor away out of their path for

long enough for them to get away but was closing on the Bavaria.

Once the Danes were clear I was able to resume the recovery of my anchor, but the Brits were now getting agitated. Their chain was rattling too indicating to them that I was crossed with theirs. However, I could now see the chains. Mine was running parallel to my British neighbours but the Bavaria’s anchor chain was at quite an angle to both of us - over mine and under his, as neat a bit of weaving as you could hope for. The disturbance created by my chain was being transmitted to the Brits chain by the Bavaria’s chain.

“Wait. I will start my engine and let off some chain.” The skipper of the Jeanneau shouted.

“You don’t need to.”

“I do. You are across my chain. I can feel it.” “No, I’m not. I can see it. The rattling is being

caused by the chain that is over mine and under yours”

But he turned away to confer and possibly missed what I had said. So I started to pull in more anchor chain. That got his attention.

“Wait. Can’t you wait? I just have to put something back together then I will start my engine.”

“You don’t flipping need to.” “I do. You’re crossed under my chain.” “No I’m not!” This amusing debate carried on (sprinkled

with a few profanities) with me continuing to pick up chain. One of his crew rowed out and confirmed that what I was telling him was indeed true. He then came aboard to see if he could help.

The problem was quite bad because I had laid out a lot of chain - both a good and a bad thing. My anchor was way past the crossing point so, with no one on the Bavaria slackening chain, it was going to be impossible to pull up anchor and drop his chain from it. The only remedy was to detach my anchor chain from my boat having first tied a line to it on the other side of the cross over.

I secured my boat on station by putting a line around the Bavaria’s anchor chain. Once secured, I could feed out my anchor chain under his chain praying that the knot I had tied around my anchor line was a good ‘un and I wasn’t about to lose my anchor and chain. It was a bit of a heart stopping moment letting go of the chain even though I had checked and rechecked that everything was secure and as it should be.

This classic case of fouled anchors, which happened in Lefkas late last month and which happens in most harbours on a daily basis, had Robin Lamb remembering a similar tangle in which he insists he was the innocent victim. (Sure you were, Robin!)........

Crossed Lines

Robin Lamb

I think you’ve snagged my anchor. I think you’ve snagged mine too. It’s a fender bender.

What a mess! Free at last. We’ll pull you out. Make sure your end is tied on!


I was in the middle of this when I heard some shouting and looking up and towards the stern I could see a Swedish flagged boat all but sat on my stern.

“Are you comink or goink?” “I’m stuck-ink.” “Pardon?” “I am stuck. I have a crossed chain. I am

trying to deal with it.” “We want to moor there and you are in our

way,” he indicated the harbour-side berth that had been vacated by the Danes.

“Right now chum I seem to be in every ******’s (person’s) way. You’ll have to wait. And would you mind moving your boat off mine. You’re not helping.”

By now the crew of the Bavaria were back on board and I was piling up chain on the deck and being shouted at.

“You are across our line.” “It’s you who are across mine.” “Vot?” “Oh never mind.” “Be careful of our anchor.” “Thank you that’s most helpful.” I wished I

had a grasp on the German language but I hadn’t so I adopted the strategy of just letting them shout at me while I got on with it.

I pulled in the line that I had attached to my anchor chain and recovered the chain then fed it back through the rollers over the gypsy and into the locker then secured the end in the locker. I was now in a position to pull in the anchor. I thanked the Brit for his help as he got aboard his tender and left.

I then ceremoniously released my line to the Bavaria’s anchor line blowing him a kiss as I waved bye bye. He waved both hands, one with four fingers held out, the other with just one. I knew he would not be able to resist talking about football for long. I also felt that had there

been a poll for the most popular boat in the harbour, I would have difficulty making the top ten. Ha, well at least I was out of it – nearly.

The anchor came up cleanly in so far as there were no more crossed lines but uncleanly in that it had a fisherman’s discarded net wrapped around it. Mud, weights, netting, and line were wrapped in and out of the curious curved protrusions of my Bruce anchor. It was wound around so tight and the lead weights were so big that it was almost impossible to move. If I hauled the anchor in close, there was not sufficient room between anchor and boat to wangle the netting and weighting clear of the anchor flukes. If I released it a bit, the whole mess was difficult to reach without overbalancing and falling in the water – my final swansong of complete incompetence. I was drifting now - a 38 ft Bavaria (yes, mine is a Bavaria too), with no one at the helm but with a lump of mud drooped over the pulpit wrestling with another lump of mud that was wrapped around the anchor.

“You are rather near to me” this time British and upper crust with it to judge by the accent. I was closing on a smart blue 50 ft sloop. A smart blue ensign, blue blazers and pink gins completed the picture if you know what I mean.

“But I have missed you,” I said as we slid past his tender leaving a gap you would have difficulty stuffing a cigarette paper into -‘phheww.’ I finally got the whole mess free and dropped it into the water. I suppose I should have taken it aboard rather than drop it where someone else might pick it up but it was heavy and I was weary and I wasn’t thinking straight. I walked back to the helm oozing mud all over the show and I thought I heard:

“Yachting is just not the same now the working class can afford it.”

“Quite, what is the world coming to old boy?”

“Care for another pink gin?” “Do you know, I don’t mind if I do.” Oh, and I did miss the Lefkas swing bridge

opening but caught the one an hour later, in case you’re wondering.

Photos: B. Molin

Here is a reminder that it's not only yachties who get their anchors in a twist. This day-charter boat skipper made a pretty good job of it in Ay Eufimia on Kefalonia. He fouled the anchor of Dutch sailor and photographer Lies van 't Net, who promptly took this picture… but had to wait until now to get her revenge.


The British submarine HMS Perseus,

under the command of Lt. Commander Edward Nicolay, left Malta on November 24, 1941, on a patrol of the Adriatic and Ionian Seas, heading for its home base at Alexandria. On board were two additional passengers, stoker John Capes, who was returning to his submarine at Alexandria after dealing with some personal matters in Malta and Lt. Nicholaos Merlin, a submariner of the Hellenic Navy, who had been given special dispensation to observe one of England's newest and biggest submarines and whose mother's ancestral home was on the island of Kefalonia.

At 10 p.m. on the 6th of December, Perseus was slicing through the surface waves, whipped up by strong winds off the southern tip of Kefalonia. It is considered highly likely that Lt. Merlin was in the conning tower peering through his binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of his mother's village. Below, John Capes was relaxing on his makeshift bed in the stern compartment, with a bottle of rum and re-reading some old letters. Suddenly, an ear-splitting explosion violently rocked the submarine, tossing the crew around their quarters and work stations. Perseus had struck an Italian mine, which cracked the front of the hull, causing tons of water to flood the front compartments and the submarine to nosedive to the bottom of the Ionian Sea, all in a matter of seconds.

Incredibly, John Capes' rear compartment had not flooded and although injured after being thrown against the bulkhead, his first thought was to go and search for other possible survivors. He found three badly injured crewmen in the carnage of what had been the engine room and knew that he had to act fast as the far bulkhead door, which was not properly secured and only holding due to the pressure of the water on the other side, could give way anytime. One by one, he helped the men back through to his stern compartment, where he had previously noticed their only possible means of escape, an emergency hatch. With the temperature dropping and the men shivering in the cold air, John remembered the perfect medicine to warm him and the men up, his rum! After all had had a good slug of the rum, John removed the crew's boots and helped them

into the Davis Submerged Escape Apparatus. Thankfully, the hatch was undamaged and John helped the sailors out of the submarine through the hatchway then followed himself.

Aware of the dangers of 'the bends', Capes carefully controlled his rise to the surface but had a close encounter with an acoustic mine on the way up. Unfortunately, on reaching the surface in the dark, he was unable to find the three other sailors but through the gloom of the night, John was able to make out the slightly lighter colour of some cliffs and so swam towards them.

After five hours of swimming, John Capes eventually washed up exhausted on a sandy bay

with cliffs looming above him. Fortunately for him, some local men had spotted his lifeless body and went to investigate. Kefalonia at the time was under Italian occupation and it was under the noses of an Italian sentry on the cliff above, that the men moved John to a cave at

the back of the beach and gave him ouzo and dry clothes to keep him warm, having first ascertained John was English and not an Italian spy. He remained in the cave until the following night, when he was moved by donkey up little-used tracks to a house in nearby Mavrata.

This was the first of many sympathetic Greek people, who at great personal risk of execution by the Italians if reported by local informers, hid John for the next 18 months in various homes across the island.

Movement between the houses was usually at night and often without prior warning, in order to avoid suspicion from the Italians or local informants. For most of the time John had to remain inside and was only allowed out for fresh air at night, away from prying eyes and possible betrayal. In time he learned Greek from a dictionary and was therefore able to converse simply with his hosts, as his English accent would have given him away.

Eventually, a message was received at Allied Headquarters in Cairo, that a submariner had survived from HMS Perseus and was secretly living on Kefalonia. MI9 arranged that a fishing boat (caique) crewed by Greek

resistance be sent from Smyrna in Turkey to find and rescue John. And so it was that finally on May 31st, John made his very last journey on Kefalonia, to a small bay just outside the small port of Poros to be rescued by Captain Miltiades Houmas and the crew of the "Evangelistria". The 400-mile return journey took three hazardous days, much of it through enemy waters but on the 2nd of June, John was greeted by the British Consul in Turkey – he was at last a free man.

On his return to England many people, including high ranking Naval Officers disbelieved his story, as John had the reputation of being a great storyteller. It wasn't until 56 years later, and after John's death, that a diving team headed by Kostas Thoctarides found the submarine in 52 metres of water, approximately

five kilometres off the Kefalonian coast. Inside the stern compartment it was all as John Capes had described, the discarded rum bottle and three pairs of boots left behind by the sailors that John had tried to help escape. Out of respect for the remains of the crew still incarcerated aboard Perseus, nothing was removed from the submarine and it was officially designated a War Grave.

There are two memorials to HMS Perseus, the first being a plaque showing the names of the drowned crew, on the wall of the Community Centre in Mavrata. The other monument is above the small bay from where John Capes was rescued. There is a sign on the side of the main Skala-Poros road before the road descends to the port. A track leads through pine trees to the monument, the inscription of which reads, "the patriotic islanders who put courage before fear to shelter John H. Capes, the sole survivor of the British submarine HMS 'Perseus', which was hit by a mine and sank on December 6th, 1941 off the coast of Mavrata, Kefalonia".

Jean Baker, a former hairdresser and education

welfare officer from the U.K., lives in a little village near Skala in the south of Kefalonia. She has written a booklet entitled Memories of the 1953 Earthquakes, which she sells locally, and is planning another, on the Perseus story.

Pictures of HMS Perseus and John Capes supplied by and used with the kind permission of the Royal Navy Submarine Museum, Hampshire, U.K. At the museum a visitor can dive into history and go onboard submarines and meet a real submariner to

hear his stories about living beneath the waves. The collection includes the Royal Navy’s first submarine Holland 1, launched in 1901, recognised as a marvel of engineering and the only surviving WW2 submarines remaining in the U.K., the mighty HMS Alliance and midget submarine, X24. The history galleries include working periscopes and the thrilling stories of the heroes who have served in

submarines. For more information, www.submarine-museum.co.uk

Pictures of the memorials on Kefalonia by David Evans, also originally from the U.K., who has lived on the island for 18 years. www.kefalonia-captured.com

The story of the events of December 6th, 1941 have been told in a very well-researched book, HMS Perseus, Death Escape, produced by Rena Giatropoulou and Kostas Thoctarides for the Prefecture of Kefalonia-Ithaka.

Escape from the deep

Jean Baker


Climbing onto Sundowner in the yard in

early April, a small frog greeted me at the top of the ladder. I wondered how it had got there. It couldn’t have clambered up the ladder. It was small – not much bigger than my thumb. Had it got onto the boat when we were stern to on a jetty sometime last season? A blasted rat had so why not other animals? Noah had the same problem apparently. Had it been living on Sundowner in the yard since we bought the boat ashore last September?

The frog was small and not too keen on being caught. It went to ground in my gas locker but I eventually caught it and carefully took it down to the long lush grass beneath the boat where I felt sure it would rather be happier. I then went over to Ian on Cariad to discuss the matter over a little light refreshment as we are inclined to do when faced with an imponderable question - the mysteries of the universe, whether to go to Panos Taverna tonight, that sort of thing.

“What I reckon happened,” Ian said after determinedly sucking the last from his tin of Mythos “ is that it got picked up by a bird for breakfast and wriggled free just as the bird flew across Sundowner.” We agreed that that was probably the explanation and settled for supper at Panos Taverna. The next day the same thing happened. The frog was there glaring at me as I got to the top of the ladder. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, hopping mad. “It takes me half a day to get up that blasted ladder of yours… and I’ve just got up there… and what do you do but take me straight

back down. Don’t even think about it today. You don’t know what it’s like being a small frog in a boatyard.”

It was true. I didn’t. However, the secret of how he got aboard was revealed. Sticky feet, suckers or something very gecko-like. He demonstrated sprinting up and down the ladder for my benefit. I offered him a beer.

“Don’t drink,” he told me gruffly. “You’re getting us frogs confused with them newts. Scum of the earth they are. Don’t deserve to be called amphibians.” I thought of correcting his English but let it pass.

In the early hours of the following morning, the gas alarm went off waking me and probably most of the boatyard. I shot out of bed and switched it off. Then it hit me. It was the frog. That’s why he favoured the gas locker. He was addicted to the stuff and had been tampering. He only favoured my boat because they were French next door and they would catch him and eat his legs and he would have to spend the rest of his life bumming around.

I’ve just posted a notice with a picture of him in the boatyard:

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE ‘MAD FRED THE FROG’

The public are warned not to approach him directly as he is a known gas addict and could

be violent. Contact the authorities and they will arrange for special forces units to apprehend

him and frog march him off.

Oh dear I wish I hadn’t put that last bit in. Nobody will take me seriously.

Robin Lamb sailed in Essex as a teenager through the fifties and early sixties. On leaving University he discovered that sailing was an expensive addiction so did little until the eighties. Retiring in 2008 he and his wife Helen sold their Solent-based Colvic Countess and brought Sundowner, an ex Sail Ionian boat to spend the summers in the Mediterranean. Robin is also writing a book about Sundowner’s trials and tribulations. The first few chapters are at: http://authonomy.com/books/34065/sundowner/

It’s a frog’s life

Robin Lamb

Only for a moment Tom Alsop

It was only for a moment I was hanging in mid-air

When I stepped toward the dinghy And the dinghy wasn't there !

Thought quickly while descending The outlook's rather grim

For pretending I was intending To be going for a swim

With long trousers and hat on In my hand a shopping list There was no explanation

For the footing I had missed

The harbour closed above me Was I going to meet my death Must remember under water

That I have to hold my breath

Surfaced with a splutter An expletive on my lips

Am I getting old for dinghies Perhaps should stick to bigger ships

Tom Alsop (S.Y. Magenta) started writing scurrilous verse for a BBC Local Radio Station - Radio Merseyside - and later for Five Live. “I seem to have covered most of the humorous situations in life and now have gone into retirement from the daily or weekly production.”


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the ionian june 2012

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