After we moved into Campo de Rosas, my dad was still at war with the architect, Bordoi—burning through money trying to fix the disaster that was our “new” home. Meanwhile, Brionie, our beloved family yacht, had returned to her berth in Cannes.
But the cash flow wasn’t what it used to be.
There was no income from Stella Nova anymore, and we were living off capital. So my dad decided it was time to sell Brionie. He drove his red BMW sports car onto the ferry and headed to France to meet the potential buyer.
While he was there, the car—parked on the quay—got nicked. Then used in a diamond heist. Then chased by the police. And finally, it caught fire and exploded.
That was the end of the BMW, and soon after, the end of Brionie for us.
My dad came back—probably via Denmark or Germany—with a new car, an Audi. It wasn’t the BMW, but it was still classy enough. What we didn’t have anymore was a boat.
Enter Serena. A modest little cabin cruiser berthed at Club Náutico. She had a single inboard engine and topped out at about seven knots if she really tried. We used her for gentle cruises to Arenal or down to Portals Vells, but it was obvious—even to Briony and me—that we needed something with a bit more punch.
That’s when we found Bag-Off-Trix.
A 35-foot Kris Kraft cabin cruiser, owned by an American who’d filled it with gadgets and gimmicks—hence the name. Except the signwriter got it wrong, so the back of the boat read: Bag Off Trix. And that’s how it stayed.
She became our summer home.
We kept her moored at Santa Ponça, a perfect little harbour with a natural bay and a yacht club that felt like something off a postcard. There was a 10 or 15 metre cliff at the entrance, and I’d spend hours diving off the boat, climbing up the rocks, and jumping off again until I was shivering and red-eyed from saltwater.
Most summer days, we’d pack the car, drive to Santa Ponça, and cruise the coastline—east to Portals Vells, west to Paguera, Camp de Mar, Andratx. But the best place was one we called Hole in the Wall—a tiny natural harbour carved into the cliffs.
Getting in was tight. I’d stand on the bow, watching the sea floor through that crazy-clear water, calling out directions while my dad steered around the shallows. Inside, there was a villa, reachable only by dirt road, which would later show up in the Agatha Christie film Evil Under the Sun. It’s gone now, flattened when they turned the place into a nature reserve. But back then, it felt like ours.
One day at Hole in the Wall, I was off snorkelling with my speargun. I was really into freediving then—hunting octopus, which my mum would cook into this amazing Mauritian curry. But that day, about ten minutes into my dive, nature hit back. Fast.
My dad had one hard rule: No one shits on the boat. He hated unblocking the loo, especially when it meant elbow-deep in other people’s decisions. So I scrambled ashore, into the pine forest.
And that’s when I saw it. Sticking out of the crumbly sandstone, just in front of me—an ammonite fossil, the size of a dinner plate. Like it had been sitting there for millions of years, waiting for some sunburned idiot with a biological emergency to notice it.
I pulled it loose, carried it back to the boat, and kept it for years. Not exactly a planned excavation, but one of my better finds. Proof that sometimes, something decent can come out of a crap situation.
Those boat days were magic. I got serious about freediving—dropping 20 or 30 metres on a single breath, using the anchor chain as a guide. I was maybe ten or eleven at the time. There wasn’t much left to see in the water—Mallorca had already been pretty well fished out—but the octopus were still around, and I had this rule: if you kill something, you eat it.
(That rule still stands, though My Octopus Teacher gave me some issues. The guilt is there now.)
On the way home, we’d often stop in Son Rapinya for Eskimo Pies. My dad would’ve spent most of the day scanning the beaches with binoculars—ostensibly watching for changes in the weather, but mostly just checking out topless sunbathers. At the time, I didn’t really get it. Later... yeah, I got it