A helping hand

We were on our second snifter at a table on the after deck when the denizens of the boat outside me clattered into their cockpit, started up a smoky diesel and went below again. It was, I suppose, inevitable that the malodorous exhaust outlet was directly to windward of us. We put up with it for five minutes, then the old lady set down her glass of rum. She looked at her son and, without a word, they climbed onto my yacht, found the malefactor’s lines and threw them off. As the boat drifted away the dumbfounded owner came on deck.

‘Your engine was running, we assumed you were off,’ called the aviator. ‘We just gave you a hand.’

Was this disproportionate? I don’t think so. The weather was quiet, there was no traffic and the boat was not drifting into danger. By taking direct action, my hosts avoided what could have turned into a confrontation. The antisocial skipper may well have thought us lunatics, but perhaps he got the message that charging