The old captain whose charts weren’t honoured in the new harbour
A captain who had crossed every sea he could name sailed into a harbour he didn’t know. He knew tides, reefs, weather that turned in an hour — thirty years of it, all in the charts rolled under his arm. At the harbour office they were perfectly polite, and perfectly firm: his charts, however beautiful, weren’t the ones this port recognised. Not here.
He bristled at first — as if the sea itself had changed shape at the harbour wall. It hadn’t. The skill was his and no one doubted it. What the port asked was smaller and stranger: bring your knowledge to our chart-house, let them copy it onto paper stamped with the local seal, and you may sail as freely as any captain born here. Same hands on the wheel. A different stamp on the page.
He did it in a morning, grumbling, and was out on the water by noon — charting the same waters he always had, now with a chart no harbourmaster could wave him back over.
Your driving licence is that chart. Spain isn’t questioning whether you can drive — you plainly can. It’s asking you to swap the stamp: exchange the foreign permit for the Spanish one, same skill, new seal. Do it in time and you keep your keys without a second thought.

