IT WAS A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE
come out of the oven and smelled divine.
Strolling back, we found our path blocked by a lowered boom and a sentry. “Your pass,” he demanded. “We are heading back to our boat,” we said and pointed to the beach. “You came in from the sea?” He reacted like a scalded cat, jabbering into his radio. “This is a British Army base. Entry restricted!”
He summoned a van, which screeched to a halt. Three tough, brawny men emerged. Bemused, we were ordered into the van, protesting. No explanation came, only a stoic silence. We were shown into an office, where a steely-eyed man exuded authority from behind a desk. Casual amusement turned to alarm. The hard-faced man insinuated that we were either spies or terrorists and demanded our passports. I stifled a giggle. Me? When he examined our passports, his face turned from puce to purple. A South African and an Irishman! What a combination! England and Ireland had been at loggerheads for years — there had been Irish terrorist attacks on Gibraltar in the past. And as for South Africa … that continent was full of of terrorists, wasn’t it? He leaned back in his chair and surveyed us. We were sweating as much as the croissants we were still clutching in their bag. What were the consequences if they really believed we were terrorists? I had visions of the Spanish Inquisition, where innocents were slapped in irons, without trial, to see out their lives in dungeons. What of our lonely boat out at anchor, abandoned? No one would know what had happened to us.
Eventually, steel-eyes grunted. “Show us your dinghy,” he ordered and we were marched from the office, past the plump sunbathers, to the corner of the beach where our deflating dinghy lay forlornly. He looked at us pityingly. “Go,” he ordered, handing our passports back. We pushed off and rowed away with the officials standing on the beach surrounded by curious onlookers. When we got back to the boat, the croissants had gone. — © Maureen Girdlestone
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