tome
Well-Known Member
Been a bit busy of late, but here's a brief synopsis of my day.
I cocked up from well before the start. In fact, it was about 2 weeks ago and I was 3 sheets to the wind when I apparently agreed to skipper a Bavaria 38 on behalf of a novice sailor who was total stranger 5 minutes previously. As I returned, slumped in the back seat of a taxi to my boat, I knew something had gone wrong that evening but my troubled mind couldn’t narrow it down to any specific event. I dismissed it to the ‘oh well’ lazarette of my memory where it joined my ample debris collection.
Meantime, I bumped into an old friend I hadn’t seen for years and we fell into easy conversation with much laughter and talk of old times. He was entering his boat, a Victoria 34 he’d rescued from the beach at Cherbourg in the race. He was looking for strong competent crew. This ruled me out on two counts, so I felt safe to empower him with some tactical advice. This so enthralled him that he signed me up on the spot.
Come the race, and I was a bit tardy on deck for the early start. Didn’t matter as the race had been postponed, but it set a nerve twitching in my skipper and he was cool thereafter towards me, blaming me for his poor start.
It was a classic port/starboard tack situation when the Bavaria came across our bow. By this time, I was disillusioned with the whole race so when our soured skipper tetchily demanded who had right of way I told him we had, as port tack. As the Bavaria crossed, the lardy skipper assumed a familiarity. It was my recent acquaintance Ernst Himmelberger and I almost made it down below before he spotted me.
In truth, I cannot blame him for his anger and he went off in a fuming rage, perhaps not helped by my jocularity. The last I saw of him, he was shaking his fist at all and sundry.
We didn’t do too badly, but the atmosphere on board never recovered. On approaching the declaration barge on board our Aliki we noticed a hell of a queue. There was no way we’d make it back in time for a pint. Until we spotted a Dehler with a load of poofters in surgical underwear mincing their way in. This was to be my finest moment, and I rammed the throttle full ahead and aimed at their bow. Sure enough, they peeled off meekly and we were through. Ten minutes later, we were in the Corinthian with a warm beer in hand.
Hell of a day, how did you lot make out?
I cocked up from well before the start. In fact, it was about 2 weeks ago and I was 3 sheets to the wind when I apparently agreed to skipper a Bavaria 38 on behalf of a novice sailor who was total stranger 5 minutes previously. As I returned, slumped in the back seat of a taxi to my boat, I knew something had gone wrong that evening but my troubled mind couldn’t narrow it down to any specific event. I dismissed it to the ‘oh well’ lazarette of my memory where it joined my ample debris collection.
Meantime, I bumped into an old friend I hadn’t seen for years and we fell into easy conversation with much laughter and talk of old times. He was entering his boat, a Victoria 34 he’d rescued from the beach at Cherbourg in the race. He was looking for strong competent crew. This ruled me out on two counts, so I felt safe to empower him with some tactical advice. This so enthralled him that he signed me up on the spot.
Come the race, and I was a bit tardy on deck for the early start. Didn’t matter as the race had been postponed, but it set a nerve twitching in my skipper and he was cool thereafter towards me, blaming me for his poor start.
It was a classic port/starboard tack situation when the Bavaria came across our bow. By this time, I was disillusioned with the whole race so when our soured skipper tetchily demanded who had right of way I told him we had, as port tack. As the Bavaria crossed, the lardy skipper assumed a familiarity. It was my recent acquaintance Ernst Himmelberger and I almost made it down below before he spotted me.
In truth, I cannot blame him for his anger and he went off in a fuming rage, perhaps not helped by my jocularity. The last I saw of him, he was shaking his fist at all and sundry.
We didn’t do too badly, but the atmosphere on board never recovered. On approaching the declaration barge on board our Aliki we noticed a hell of a queue. There was no way we’d make it back in time for a pint. Until we spotted a Dehler with a load of poofters in surgical underwear mincing their way in. This was to be my finest moment, and I rammed the throttle full ahead and aimed at their bow. Sure enough, they peeled off meekly and we were through. Ten minutes later, we were in the Corinthian with a warm beer in hand.
Hell of a day, how did you lot make out?
