On Saturday All at sea – and caught by the Covid bug

WE were careful for two years, staying put in our Exmoor valley for months on end, generally keeping clear of Covid as best we could. Not scared, but a little wary and, I like to think, pretty sensible.

We had our jabs with enthusiasm and tried, without putting too much effort into it, to avoid contracting the virus. After all, avoidance is a luxury countryfolk can easily afford – isolation is the name of the game out inthe-sticks.

Then we went abroad on holiday for the first time in 26 months. Three days later there was the sore throat. A few hours after that, there were the two red bars on the test-kit.

“Blimey! I’ve got Covid!” is what I whispered in a hoarse voice aboard our friend’s boat. Within hours, all four of us who’d travelled out from England had gone down – strangely, our friend the skipper didn’t, but then he’d just had his fourth blast of vaccine.

Were we ill? Not really. Not enough to ruin our holiday. Nowhere near it, in fact. Nothing a few paracetamol and a tot of rum wouldn’t put right. Don’t get me wrong, the version of Covid we contracted was not exactly pleasant. I’d rather have done without it, especially on my worse day when we were beating against a Force 7 under sail and I was draped lifelessly across the leaning decks like that poor shipwrecked sailor in Winslow Homer’s famous painting, The Gulf Stream.

Had I been at home, I’d have curled up on a sofa and read a book. However, I would not have taken to my bed. It was nowhere near that bad.

The next day I was much better and soon the test-kit was showing I was clear almost a whole fortnight before I had to fly back to the UK. Added to that, we were living at sea aboard my friend’s boat, so isolating over there was not exactly a chore either.

So… Been there and got the T-shirt. But I’ll say this about Omicron, or whatever variety it was that I managed to catch: its aftermath or hangover was far worse than the bug itself.

As I say, our daily tests showed we were clear in just under a week. I am assuming they were correct but, despite that welcome single red bar, we then endured an entire fortnight of unpleasant, woozy, fuggy-headedness.

And since I’ve been home I’ve talked to quite a few people who’ve experienced the same Covid hangover in recent months. It’s easy to meet Covid victims in West Somerset where I live – day after day it has boasted the highest infection rates in the country. And everyone agrees that the aftermath – the rather discombobulating fuggy-head and profound weariness – is the worst thing about it.

It’s hard to describe. There’s a vague sense of vertigo and nausea. If you turn your head too quickly, it seems to keep on spinning. You get the feeling that walking, talking or even thinking, is something you are doing in a slightly poisonous seamist. Not particularly bad or alarming, but enough to make you think you wouldn’t want it again in a hurry.

On the other hand, if suffering to this slight degree is the cost of freedom; if leading a normal life means catching this low-level bug once or twice a year, then I’d have no difficulty in settling for the deal. I have had common colds which have been far worse.

I’m fairly certain as to how we succumbed, by the way… The plane across the Atlantic had just had topnotch new air filters fitted, so I am pretty sure we didn’t pick it up on the fight.

But when we reached the hurricane-damaged airport at the other end a number of airliners had arrived at the same time and we were herded into a huge shed with thousands of others, zig-zagging in tight crowed lines through the Covid and passport control points. There was no air conditioning and the queuing took well over an hour.

I said to my wife: “If we are ever going to catch Covid, this is where we are going to get it.”

And we did.

My only moan was that my worst day coincided with the most active 24 hours of our trip. We saw pods of dolphin and even humpback whales as we beat against heavy seas – but hanging on for dear life I could not stir an ounce of enthusiasm. As voluntary ship’s cook, I was tasked with barbecuing a load of fish on the decks of the yawing, bouncing, yacht once we’d reached what should have been a sheltered bay. I duly delivered, but couldn’t eat a thing myself.

At which point I poured a large rum and turned in early.

But I got away with it lightly and I regard myself as fortunate. Most readers, like me, will have known people who were quite ill with Covid and many of us will know someone who died.

Now we must pray this low level form of the virus will be the one that dominates. If it is, most of us can live with the occasional bout of discomfort. It’s just something else to watch out for and get used to in this dangerous world.

‘If leading a normal life means catching a low-level bug once or twice a year, I’ll take it’