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Fraser Trevor Fraser Trevor Author
Title: Excerpts from an exciting new book on addiction out shortly RECOVERY OUTLAW
Author: Fraser Trevor
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Fraser Trevor new book out shortly excerpts from  " RECOVERY OUTLAW " The light morning Spanish sun dappled onto the dese...
Harbor in Puerto Banus, Costa del Sol, Spain, ...
Fraser Trevor new book out shortly excerpts from " RECOVERY OUTLAW "

The light morning Spanish sun dappled onto the deserted rock strewn beach. laying transfixed by its welcoming glow. The thought came to me that I was alone far from England in a strange country. The distant sounds of early morning traffic drifted down the beach as a crumpled newspaper gently was blown towards me it drifted aimlessly down the beach and blew into the water. Picking myself up the deep scar tissue around my middle twisted and contorted clutching my side walking down the shoreline.

 I glanced at the shiny fluttering paper it was in English. Scooping all the pages up. I left them to dry under some stones spreading out the pages one by one like a gigantic sign. It was an expat newspaper. Interested I glanced at the newsprint. Reading the uninteresting local news. The main story caught my eye remarking that the British were complaining about the extradition laws with Spain and there inability to extradite a growing band of criminals that had moved to Costa del Sol or the Costa del Crime as some wag had christian-ed it. There was a letter in response from some members of the expat community that read layoff our criminals.

I became uneasy I still had the option to return to the United Kingdom. I had not crossed the line I was on a short holiday. I deluded myself. The increasing realisation that this was a rationalisation and not a fact unsettled me further.

My eyes alighted on the personal section ladies offering various mature entertainments. One advert stood out it was a small lineage advert for Alcoholics Anonymous it was that there was a meeting in Fuenigirola.Walking up the beach, reaching into the backpack I took out the map. I was near Gibraltar, this was a long drive up the coast to Fuengirola but I needed a meeting. The last few weeks had been stress inducing the trip across the channel the journey threw France to meet up with my Mother. The spur of the minute decisions my head was just catching up.I glanced at the old Bentley what a faithful workhorse she had become, she had never missed a beat and relaxing into her warm cowhide seats had been a pure pleasure a stress relaxant. It would be easy to say I had had a nervous breakdown that the constant unremitting pressure had finally blown my fuses, but that I thought was far from the truth.

The twelve steps had changed my priorities. I had begun to see the futility of my life a small degree of sanity had started to move into a totally chaotic lifestyle. An accountant had once asked me how I ran a multimillion-pound business. I said on a case of scotch. He said up the dose its not working. I chose not to take his advice, but stopped the case of scotch my only manager. The result from this decision was another bad decision resulting in this stretch of rocky beach in Spain. Alone, abandoned by myself but with a little hope in a program that nobody here new anything about. Yes this could be described as pure insanity. I resolved to make the meeting something told me that my precarious future was wrapped up in that meeting .

My new home was a luxury motor yacht in Puerto Banus. Metallic sounds coupled with harsh Spanish calls of the early morning cleaning lorry echoed across the water. Splashing oars had become the days awakening call. Gently the boats stern nudged the white harbour berthing number. The gangplank was always kept just above the harbour wall, so when anyone decided to embark we instantly would become aware of an intruder.

Puerto Banus in the 80s had become a hedonistic playground for the world’s jet setters. This was not an ordinary playground this was a playground with a touch of the old wild west. The smells that wafted on the morning breeze were worldlier. The acrid vomit, stale urine and tourist detritus assaulted the nostrils with their pungent odours as the morning sun gained in ferocity over the garish shop fronted Marina.
“Permission to come on board.” The disjointed voice called. The plank crashed on to the dock the vibrations shooting threw the structure of the boat.
Craning around the cabin door I strove to identify the voice. The incongorous sight of the bright red bandana wound round the top of his head quickly identified my friend Donald. The old paint stained pots containing arrays of brushes plonked onto the veneered deck. With an inward sigh of relief I remembered asking him to repaint the flying bridge.
“Have you a brew on yet Mate” he said the sun wrinkled face splitting into a crooked grin.
“Heard the news.”
“What news”
He paused for dramatic effect for Donald had become the sage of Banus. A reputation as the mouth of Banus probably the first English Spanish information superhighway. For in the early 80s there was a lack of English television a dearth of real news  Bringing information gleaned from a night time of foraging Banuses many bars and nightclubs had a certain cache and opened doors. He was in the Know.
“ Well “ I asked again
“Spain’s just signed the extradition treaty with England”
Stopping I mused for a minute.
“Interesting.” I rejoined
“Everyone’s Leaving.”
I pretended as if this nugget of information had been of little interest to me, realising that I would have to spend the day on supervising Donald’s painting. The last thing I needed was to become another item of news on his ever-increasing news information highway of which no one new the next recipient of his largess?? This left me with difficult decisions. The whistle of the kettle awakened me from these daydreams.
“Milk and Sugar.”
“Yes to both” he sounded nonplussed by my casual question
“What are you going to do.” The smile had left his face and a look of intense concentration replaced it.
“ Well “ I said what do you advice.
Throwing the ball neatly back into his court, hoping that he would engage in advice giving another one of Donald’s foibles forgetting quiet conveniently about me.

The Extradition treaty signed between Spain and he United Kingdom at first made little difference to the Banus bandits as they had entered Spain previous to the new treaty, and resided close to or in Puerto Banus. Yet the growth of hashish smuggling from Morocco, backed by robbery money from London gangs had become threatening to the Spanish state.
Police forces decided to cooperate threw the Madrid Embassy and a comprehensive paid informer network increased there knowledge of the criminal underworld that centred on Puerto Banus.

Sometimes decision making with a lack of reliable facts enters into the gamblers world of spinning the dice of  being blown by destiny rather than logic.So within twenty four hours such a decision had been made to move from Puerto Banus. But where to go. One of my new found friends was moored close by. An interesting man of some thirty stones with an attractive Birmingham accent his birth had been clouded by the thalidomide scandal resulting in that one of his hands was attached to his shoulder. His wife was of similar proportions and they had a converted a naval boat as their home.They lived  a semi normal seaborne life and I knew little about them.  Except that he was a professional sea captain. Most of us on the berths rarely talked of our past life due to the network of police informers that frequented the bars and brothels of the port. We were a close nit community and Roy was the exception someone you could talk quite openly about a wide range of subjects. Roy laughed at our amateur seamanship and at the antics of the crazy crew. I asked wether he could captain the ship to Gibraltar.
Roy looked over what he described quite rightly as a floating gin palace. Yet his practiced eye noted that she had been built by one of Italy's most famous boat designers and was equipped with two enormous diesel engines.
“She,ll need servicing, my crew will do that.”
“What about money.”
“Ive never driven a fast boat like that before she's an italian through breed”
“I need to go to Gib myself” he mused
“ Its a bit of fun.” He laughed
“ Tell me your boat it doesn't sit right in the water its stern heavy, what are you carrying.”
“ Nothing she is as I bought her.”
“Have you looked.” 
“Where.” Naively I said
“ In the bilges under the cabin floor.”
I looked in complete amazement at him. He grinned back.
“Lets go see what your carrying before the Gib customs do.”
Roy whistled down the dock his crew one irish and the other sicilian appeared.
‘’ Were off to Gib. She needs a full service and we need to inspect the bilges.”
This is my first mate he's called Buckle,salt of the earth irish salmon fisherman.
“Give her a rummage below decks, she's not quite right, something funny about how she sits in the water.”
Without another word they disappeared below decks, a toolkit was sent for. Then Roy ordered that the boat be cleared.
The sound of rummaging splashes curses and grunts issued from a hatch that had appeared in the deck.
More curses then an irish voice said.
“This boat back end is made of biscuit boxes, biscuit boxes.”
Roy looked puzzled and disappeared below decks.A hand motioned me to look threw the hatch and yes the stern of the boat had badly painted biscuit boxes holding it together. But it was not the biscuit boxes that I was looking at it was the wooden crates that had been stacked in the stern with stencilled markings on the sides. I gazed at the boxes in shock they looked military.
“What are they.”
“Don't know but Im as sure as hell going to find out.”
He stopped for a minute then turning towards me he said.” With your permission.”
I was fascinated and then realised that we were on open view.
“Open that box first and keep it under the hatch.”
We glanced at each other, realising at the same time that we were putting ourselves at risk.To late Buckle was forcing off the top off the box the rusted screws screaming and groaning as they were torn from the wood.

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