Blog 029: A Suitcase Full of Suspicion, A Passport Full of Stamps.

(and Why We Almost Joined a Montenegrin Chain Gang)

Not me sleeping on a hammock...

People ask us, with a glint of envy in their eyes and a piña colada in their mind's eye, “What do you do all day?” The implication, of course, is that our existence is a never-ending montage of Pookie flipping a perfect seabass on a grill as the sun sets, me tapping out a single, profound email before high-fiving a dolphin, and us both falling into a hammock strung between two palm trees.

Let me, for just a moment, shatter that beautiful, blissful illusion.

Our life is not a montage. It is a sitcom written by a caffeine-filled lunatic who’s also really into bureaucratic paperwork and near-death experiences. If our days were a circus act, we’d be the jugglers who accidentally started with pins and oranges but now have a chainsaw, a priceless vase, and a live squid in the air, all while the ringmaster (that’s Fate, by the way) keeps changing the rules and shouting “Faster!” We’re not always graceful, we drop things constantly, but the crowd gasps and we take a bow regardless, hoping the squid doesn’t land on anyone important.

The last blog ended on a high, I believe. We’d conquered Bangkok, played tour guide to a small army of visitors, and eaten our collective body weight in some of the most sublime food on earth. But looming on the horizon was our white whale. Or rather, our blue ocean: The Atlantic crossing. And to prepare for such an endeavour, one must undertake a quest of mythical proportions. Not for a golden fleece like Jason and the Argonauts, but for something far more precious and slightly less shiny: Pharmaceuticals.

Now, in Thailand, you can walk into a pharmacy and, alongside your paracetamol, order up a suitcase of amoxicillin, a stash of steroids, and enough codeine to tranquilise a modest-sized hippo.

All over the counter.

All perfectly legal.

For a sailor heading to remote corners of the globe, this is not suspicious; it is profoundly sensible. Our ship's medical kit isn’t a little white box with a red cross on it. It’s a formidable arsenal, a veritable Boots-the-Chemist-on-sea, weighing in at a cool 25 kilograms.

So, we did what any sensible, preparation-obsessed individual would do. We bought one of everything. We packed it all into a large, innocuous-looking suitcase, patted it gently, and flew from the land of smiles to the land of… well, we weren’t entirely sure, but I do recall we ended up at Tivat Airport, Montenegro.

Montenegro is stunning. It’s all dramatic black mountains plunging into brilliant blue Adriatic, a landscape that looks like it was drawn by an artist with a flair for the dramatic. Its history, however, is a tad more… “checkered”. Having shaken off the vestiges of Yugoslavia, it retains a certain… let’s call it “procedural vigour”. A communist-era hangover where officialdom is not just a job, but a performance art.

We landed. We collected our bags. And there it was: The Customs Scanner. The Great Eye of Sauron of every international traveller. And it was mandatory. Every. Single. Bag.

Despite having a genuine reason to have so many drugs I must admit that my heart did a small, nervous tap dance. I looked at the suitcase of drugs. I looked at the other suitcase, filled with obscure marine engine parts that looked, to the untrained eye, like components for a homemade rocket launcher. I began mentally rehearsing my explanation in Serbo-Croatian, a language of which I know precisely three words: “hello,” “thank you,” and “beer.”

A large, burly customs official, whose uniform seemed to be straining to contain a lifetime of procedural vigour, barked at me for my papers. I handed them over. He scrutinised them with the intensity of a diamond appraiser.

“You’re not Russian?” he barked. The question seemed loaded with unspoken context.

“No,” I said, cheerfully.

“Are you sure you’re not Russian?”

“Completely sure. Look, we’re from the UK. England.” I said pointing to my passport.

By now we had reached the front of the queue. So, seizing the initiative, I started manhandling our bags onto the conveyor belt for the scanner. Action, I find, often distracts from suspicion.

“England?” he said, his brow furrowed in genuine bafflement. “Why you come to Montenegro?” His tone suggested we’d just arrived at a car park in Slough and declared it our dream destination.

“We are here on holiday!” I announced, with a confidence I did not feel, as I shoved the pharmaceutical cornucopia onto the dark, ominous carousel that led to the curtain of the X-ray machine.

“Holiday!?” The word seemed to unlock a hidden joy in him. His face transformed. “Holiday makers!!” he boomed with delight. “Oh, you don’t have to put your cases on the machine! Here, I will help you!”

With the speed of a man who has just found his favourite cousins at the airport, he grabbed the case full of suspicious engine parts and marched it around the scanner. I spun around, a silent scream forming in my throat, but I was too late. The Drug Luggage had already been consumed by the machine. I scurried to the other side to retrieve it, my mind racing with images of Montenegrin prisons, which I imagined were very cold and featured a lot of potatoes.

Just as my hand touched the handle, a shout erupted from a glass-walled office.

“STOP!”

The burly official’s face fell. He took the suitcase from my limp grasp and wheeled it into the office. I followed, feeling like a schoolboy who’d been caught redirecting the plumbing in the chemistry lab.

Inside, an equally formidable woman was jabbing a finger at the X-ray screen. The image was a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours, but predominantly the ghostly white outlines of hundreds of bottles and blister packs. I caught one word: “medicina.”

My brain, fuelled by pure adrenaline, seized on it.

“Medicine!” I blurted out.

They both looked at me.

“Yes! Medicine! My wife… she is very poorly.” I gestured desperately out of the window towards Pookie, who, seeing the commotion, was doing a spectacular impression of a woman who had absolutely no connection to me whatsoever and was trying to sneak the rocket-launcher parts out of the building.

I offered a weak, pathetic cough to sell the story. “Ah! OK, OK…” the big official said, his face softening. He muttered something to the lady, and I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he drew a cross across his chest. “You go. Enjoy your holiday!” He pushed the suitcase back at me.

Well I have never moved faster. I collected Pookie and the other contraband, and we fled the airport like bank robbers after a heist, leaving nothing behind but a cloud of dust and a lingering scent of panic and cough drops.

 We made it to our beloved Sawasdeekat, our floating home, our sanctuary. All we wanted to do was unpack our illicit haul and pour a very large drink. But the cruising community is a social beast, and we were already late for drinks on a neighbouring yacht. The story of our brush with international drug-running was told and re-told, each time the officials getting bigger, the suitcase more full, and my coughing fit more Oscar-worthy. It was, as they say, a hell of an icebreaker.

The next morning, we were on the move again. A taxi was waiting to whisk us to Dubrovnik, from where we’d fly to our next destination: Malta. And this brings me to a point of necessary confession.

I voted for Brexit.

Before you switch off, allow me to explain, not with politics, but with a breeze of nostalgia and a hefty dose of frustration. Before you switch off, allow me to explain, not with politics, but with nostalgia. As a boy, crammed into our blue Commer Wanderer, my family would drive through Europe. Back then, it was the EEC, and every country felt… like itself. France looked French. Men in berets with strings of onions cycled past with a baguette and a bottle of vin under their arm. Italy had its own specific glamour – every piazza had its impeccably dressed, suave gentleman leaning on his Vespa, looking like he’d just stepped off a film set. Europe was a tapestry of distinct, vibrant cultures happily coexisting in close proximity.

Italian Man enjoying a smoke with his Vespa

French Man looking at the onions for sale

Heath playing outside his Commer Wanderer

But that common market evolved. The goal, and quietly embedded into treaties like Maastricht, was an "ever closer union." This wasn't just about friendship and trade; it was a political project, a slow and steady harmonisation of everything. And who was driving this? A Commission of appointed, not elected, officials who held the sole right to propose legislation. The entire structure felt increasingly remote. A bureaucracy answerable not to the public, but to its own ideal. Dissent wasn't just unpopular; it was treated as heresy against the project itself.

We (The UK) were one of the largest net contributors to the EU budget, bankrolling a system that often seemed to specialise in spectacular waste—from the travelling circus of its dual parliamentary seats to funding projects in wealthy member states. But despite writing the cheques, our influence waned. Because we kept the Pound, a decision for which I am eternally grateful, we were sidelined. We were outnumbered on crucial panels and committees by Eurozone members who voted as a bloc. Time and again, we found ourselves on the losing side of decisions that went directly against our national interest, watching industries we once led be weakened by regulations we didn't support but were forced to implement.

I didn't vote to be isolationist. I voted for the rose-tinted Europe of my childhood, a partnership of proud, independent nations trading freely. I voted for accountability.

The irony, of course, is delicious enough for Pookie to serve it as a amuse-bouche. Because now, we are the foreigners. The EU, making an example, handed down the Schengen rules with the full force of pedantic law: UK passport holders can only spend 90 days in every 180 in the Schengen zone.

Let me translate that for a sailor: The Mediterranean season starts in April. By the end of June, we have to leave. All of it. For three whole months. We must vacate European waters during the absolute prime of summer. July and August! The dream! So where does one go? Algeria? Libya? It’s a farcical, bureaucratic nightmare designed for aeroplanes, not for boats that move at the speed of a brisk bicycle.

But I am nothing if not a determined (some might say stubborn) problem-solver. I had found a loophole. A golden ticket. A “Get Into Europe Free” card.

Malta. The glorious, sun-drenched island offers a "Nomad Residence Permit," a visa for remote workers like me. Valid for a year, it also grants you access to the Schengen area. Genius! So, our mission was simple: fly to Malta, secure an apartment as a ‘base’, undergo the medicals, provide the financial records, and get our precious visas (did I say we had less than a week?)

I’d never been to Malta before. What a revelation!

It turns out that Malta is not one island, but an archipelago, with the three main ones being Malta, Gozo, and Comino. Its history is mind-bogglingly long and layered. Its home to some of the most ancient free-standing temples on Earth, older than Stonehenge and the Pyramids of Giza. The Megalithic Temples of Malta are a true prehistoric wonder.

We landed and immediately felt a weird sense of familiarity. They drive on the left! They have plug sockets that look like ours! Everyone speaks flawless English, a wonderful and welcoming legacy of the British Empire.

Fun Fact: The Maltese language, Malti, is a fascinating historical cocktail. It’s the only Semitic language written in the Latin script, a beautiful, chaotic blend of Arabic roots with a massive infusion of Italian, Sicilian, and English vocabulary. It sounds vaguely like Arabic being spoken with a strong Italian accent by someone who’s forgotten half the words and is substituting English ones.

We based ourselves in Sliema, a lively waterfront town. The weather in March was blissfully warm. We found incredible restaurants – Maltese food is a hidden gem, a magnificent fusion of its Italian and North African influences. Think phenomenal pasta alongside slow-cooked rabbit stew (*stuffat tal-fenek*).

But one afternoon deserves its own chapter. We’d heard whispers about a place called Picasso, perched on the Sliema waterfront with a postcard view of the illuminated fortifications of Valletta across the harbour. It sounded glamorous. It was, in fact, better.

We secured a table on the terrace, the grand master’s city twinkling across the blue water. The menu was a love letter to the Med. Pookie, of course, was instantly intrigued, her chef’s radar pinging at the descriptions. She made a hopeful enquiry about the kitchen to our waiter, a question that in many places of this calibre would be met with a polite but firm refusal.

Not here. The chef, a man of immense talent and even greater generosity (whose name I shamefully cannot recall, though his food is etched into my memory), didn’t just agree; he welcomed her in. I watched them disappear through the swinging doors, two artists entering a gallery, and knew I was in for a spectacular meal.

What emerged later was a masterpiece. A whole sea bass, encased in a thick, aromatic crust of salt and herbs, baked to perfection. The chef wheeled it to our table on a trolley and performed the cracking ceremony with the practised flourish of a sculptor—a few precise taps of a knife and the crust shattered away, releasing a cloud of steam that carried the scent of the sea and the Mediterranean hillside. The skin peeled away to reveal flesh so impossibly moist and flaky it practically dissolved on the tongue. It was theatre. It was culinary brilliance. It was one of the best things I have ever eaten.

And the show wasn’t over. From my vantage point, I watched him attend to another table. A large, weathered Parmigiano-Reggiano wheel was brought out. With a confident grip, he took a copper pan of freshly cooked spaghetti and poured it into the hollowed-out cheese. Then, with a graceful, almost rhythmic motion, he used two forks to toss and roll the pasta, scraping the melting cheese from the inside walls, coating every single strand in a rich, nutty, gloriously unctuous sauce. It was a simple dish, elevated into an event by sheer skill and presentation.

And then, a final miracle. We found a young Thai woman called Ped, selling authentic Thai food from a van she’d brilliantly named “Thais-Ty.” We’d sailed 5,000 miles and found the best Pad Thai in the Mediterranean in a car park in Malta, after eating salt-crusted fish prepared by a maestro. The world is a wonderful, bizarre, and delicious place.

And then, a miracle. We found a young Thai woman called Ped, selling authentic Thai food from a van she’d brilliantly named “Thais-Ty.”  We’d sailed 5,000 miles and found the best Pad Thai in the Mediterranean in a roadside in Sliema. The world is a wonderful, bizarre place.

We explored the breathtaking capital, Valletta, a fortress city of golden stone built by the Knights of St. John.

Fun Fact: (Sorry I’m clearly on a roll here) The Saluting Battery in Valletta fires its cannons every day at noon and 4pm. This is not just for tourists; it’s one of the oldest military ceremonies in the world that’s still in operation, dating back to the 16th century. The boom that echoes across the Grand Harbour is utterly magnificent. (See! And there you were, thinking I was going to tell you that Malta residents are NOT known as Maltesers!)

We took a ferry to Gozo, found our ‘nomad’ flat, and even had a night out with Ped and her boyfriend, who took us to the local haunts where the food was even better and the wine even cheaper.

Our four days were a whirlwind. It wasn’t enough. We hadn’t even touched the ancient silent city of Mdina. But time, that cruel master, was calling. We had a boat in Montenegro that needed to be sailed over 700 nautical miles to Italy, where it was due to be hauled out of the water for its annual service. Our mission was accomplished; the visa paperwork was in. Now, we had to get back.

We flew back to Dubrovnik, our heads full of Maltese sunshine and cannon fire, ready to point Sawasdeekat’s bows towards Italy.

But the Mediterranean, as always, had other plans.

So Join us next time, dear reader, when we attempt to sprint up the Croatian coast, only to find that tides, winds, and a healthy dose of mechanical mischief have a vote in the matter. If you would like to, you can find a video version of our escapades on Youtube. Simply type “Sawasdeekat” into the search and you should find us. Episode 036 covers this little trip. https://youtu.be/GYjxN5h4m0k

Until then, fair winds and, for goodness sake, know the word for “medicine” in every language. Trust me on this.

Heath (& Pookie, who is feeling much better, thank you Montenegrin Customs for asking)

Aboard S/V Sawasdeekat.