From tiny acorns
COVID-19 seems to have stood time on its head and dumped the calendar over the side. Far from standing still in this backwater, we have been mad busy ticking off jobs that have sat redundant during our absence at sea. Downed trees have had a one-way tussle with the chainsaw to the point that a new log store has been both built and filled. A hired digger has heaved 45 tonnes of sediment from the settling pond – so much fun. We are building raised beds for a veggie garden and are narrowing our research for a beehive. Throughout this grubbing about my mind has been occupied with ideas for our next boat.
I have also had time to reflect on past memories, such as being frightened of sharks whilst hanging on to Dad’s shearwater catamaran as a sevenyear-old. We were in Aden, the wind had picked up and he was worried about the consequences of a capsize. Or our romantic notions of a ship’s cat being dispelled mid-channel when it thought ‘bugger this’ and jumped for a clump of passing seaweed – my introduction to the challenges of man overboard.
A trend was later set by our seasick Labrador who crept below looking suicidal. We were to discover, as Dad eased his way into his sleeping bag, that it had chosen to thrown up at the bottom. Revenge can be oh so sweet, particularly when served cold.
Examples, like little acorns, were planted and then watered by experience to grow into lifesaving instincts. I remember, as a ship’s boy on a salvage tug being called to a burning gas tanker off Torquay. Two days of dangerous drama were a graphic backdrop for the raw power of leadership. The vast tanks were warming to vent gas under enormous pressure – if it blew Torquay would be no more. The deck, so hot that potatoes in an abandoned galvanised bucket of water were welcome sustenance as we readied ourselves to take on the glowing superstructure.
Or being welcomed into Guernsey by the exuberant driver of a harbour dory with only one ball. I know this for he told us so with utter disgust towards the surgeon who had just saved his life. He quickly shepherded us into a raft of yachts. It was the first time I had seen such a tidal range and he explained that it was the biggest of the year – ‘You’ll be OK here, son.’ The tide, under the guise of a tranquil night quietly abandoned our raft to stand shoulder to shoulder on the bottom.
All seemed fine, but chaos theory would have it that a butterfly wing can trigger great storms. Well, I can tell you that the theory undoubtedly applies to a bladder.
Imagine bumbling on deck after a beery night to pee like a racehorse at the start line. A belly chuckle accompanies the magnificent range. On looking up a marvellous full moon silhouettes the plethora of rigging. A reverential sigh follows the exquisite relief of pressure when suddenly, with epic noise and confusion, the whole sodding raft of yachts falls over. One Ball was very sheepish in the morning.
I also remember, as a boy, being given a chance to prove myself to a hardpartying crew on a race to Guernsey. On winning I trailed them on an epic pub crawl. Being sober, I marvelled as these ‘adults’ regressed to childish depths. By heaven, that boat smelt in the morning as I took in the phenomenon of a monumental team hangover. Being the only one able to open both eyes above a steady stomach I was quickly promoted to helm. Once round the island I was given a course to steer while the crew went for a restorative ‘nap’.
Too afraid to wake anyone I loyally focused on the compass, crossed the shipping lanes, bounced off Salcombe and followed the coast to Plymouth. The crew, woken by the calm behind the breakwater, scratched their way on deck and immediately decided that ‘this one’s a keeper’. My offshore racing career had begun and I went on to learn so much from that wonderfully talented group of characters.
Our seasick Labrador crept below looking suicidal and threw up in Dad’s sleeping bag. Revenge can be so sweet