Ballroom Dancing the Med

Strange… but true by George!
In Turkish waters last week, I asked another ancient mariner, Bill by name, who had told me that he lived in his sailing yacht in one of the large marinas which edge on to the broad circular bay of Fethiye, how he had spent his time the last nine months that he had been there. Teaching ballroom dancing, Bill said. He was a tall, fit-looking man in his sixties, and I had no reason to doubt his word, and although I felt it wise not to enquire too much further into his overwintering habits, which he had already explained had continued for several years already in different ports around the Mediterranean Sea, I could not resist asking him further about his winter job experiences as a ballroom dancing teacher. Yes, he said, I have taught in several places, Barcelona, and Majorca, and parts of Greece. And in Rome, He added.
Are you writing the book, I asked.
No, Bill said.
Do you mind if I do, I asked after a pause.
Not at all, he replied.
My transaction over, Bill reverted to his preferred genial role as local expert in sailing matters and shopping guide. So unusual book titles are procured by the acquisitive collector. And books, so it seems from other ancient mariners.Like your soiled hardback copy of Simone Weil’s Memoir. And all for a pound sterling, or even less in my case. Strange coincidences.
And yes, I believe the café in the Earlham Road, Norwich was called the Workshop, where we had both been within a day or two of each other.
Some time later, I watched the line of Turkish day-boats disgorge their tourist cargoes on to an island beach of ravishing beauty. You can walk along the beach, a loudspeaker explained in south London accented English, But return for lunch at one-fifteen. And for departure, it transpired, since the schedule required their moving on to several other bays and inlets before the day was out. Then the fast arrival by an inflatable dingy with a powerful engine into the bay opposite the dayboats, and speeding by I see a man and two women in swimming costumes. The three get out, and I realize it is a mother and daughter, and the daughter’s fiancé, who is a tall, strongly built man. A pretence at a commitment to swimming is performed, the mother wearing orange armbands, but then she carefully lies herself on her back on the inflatable dingy looking away in an equal pretence of sunbathing, while the daughter and fiancé retire along the beach to get to know one another better. Thunder, the clouds build from off the mountains to the north, the sun is hazing over, and there is the promise of a heavy rainstorm to follow soon. The beauty like the beginning of a Fellini film all over again, I think by George.