I found a great spot to moor at a quay for small boats marked “molinos de Jonquet” on my BlueNav electronic chart. I took care to choose a spot that was not in use (evidenced by the growth on the mooring line), and set about exploring the highlights of the town.
One Gothic cathedral later; we’d run out of tourist sites to visit and sat wondering what the Mallorca sailing hype is all about. Admittedly this was November so we couldn’t expect to find carnival, but we’d held such naively high expectations!
Luckily, before the boredom set in too deeply and reduced us to autonomous zombies seeking pleasure in purchasing kitsch plastic tourist offerings or t-shirts, we were kicked out of Palma by a uniformed baton wielding despot with so many chips on his shoulder he could open a mill.
The banging on the bowsprit woke me at an uncivilized hour (any hour before I naturally wake up is uncivilized in my book). Poking my head out of the forward hatch I found an animated official banging away with his crowd control baton on Eileen’s brightwork.
Spanish isn’t my forte but I did manage to establish that his acrimony had something to do with me and an incongruity with his clipboard. No matter, surely it was just a matter of handing over the appropriate mooring fee.
Apparently not. Insisting that another boat was due to take our spot, and every other free place on the quay for that matter (as unlikely as this may seem given the quantity of unused berths).
Needless to say, this encounter did wonders to colour my appraisal of this city with its upstanding executive establishment. So we were not too miffed to loosen warps and politely wave adiós. 🙂