9. It can only get better

A lot of my working life had revolved around night work, in the Army I’d done more than my fair share of night exercises and guard duties. I worked in an aluminium plant for four years, working alternating weeks of twelve-hour day shifts and twelve-hour night shifts. Of course of late I’d spent four years in the club so I was used to the night even welcoming the peace and calm of darkness. This trip was no exception, we’d started out doing four-hour watches with Diana taking over when she could but the disturbance of only four hours sleep was not conducive to good health so I decided to take over the night shift so that Peter and Diana could share the daylight hours.
The weather didn’t get any better and by the third day the wind had picked up to a force eight gale. We tried out the storm jib, a small extremely tough orange sail that was carefully designed to give us steerageway and provide a high visibility sign of a small yacht in the open ocean. Unfortunately the sail maker who had criticised every other sail maker on the planet had overlooked the fact that the attachment from the mast was nowhere near strong enough and within minutes the sail was back in its bag completely useless under the very conditions it had been designed for.
Instead we rolled in the fore sail until there was only two square meters showing. This gave us enough power to sail with but didn’t make the yacht heel over too much. The mainsail was now stowed securely and we decided to lash the mast as low as possible to prevent any damage.

There were many theories on how a yacht should be handled under these conditions but they all remain as theories until one is placed in such a situation, no two yachts are the same and every wave is a different wave.

I found that the best way of steering the yacht was to sit sideways in the cockpit with my back to the wind and waves and the steering wheel sideways on in front of me. This way I could brace myself against the wheel whenever a bigger wave hit us. I would steer the yacht down a wave face at a thirty degree angle and as the yacht raced downhill into the trough of a wave the wind would abate due to the height of it until she came back up to the top of the wave where the wind would hit again with a mighty force.
By keeping the wind on the aft quarter I found that we were going in the right direction, south where I was convinced the sun was shining and also maintained a reasonable amount of comfort under the circumstances.
The storm didn’t lose any of its venom and the hours rolled by with the constant barrage of waves pounding the yacht until she shook like a dog shaking of the rain.
Down below wasn’t a picnic either. Diana performed miracles by keeping us fed and supplied with hot drinks. We had a tiny fridge onboard that was soon running out of the prepared meals that we’d taken along for such an eventuality, so she had to cook to keep our energy levels up.
The gimballed cooker swung erratically as the yacht leapt over the waves and the gas caused the cabin to be stuffy and damp. Diana braced herself against the bulkhead of the galley and found it extremely tiring to do the normally easiest of tasks. The swinging cooker hacked at her shins and it was difficult to avoid being burnt in the process. She then had to struggle up the companionway steps to provide Peter or my self with teas and coffees; one hand on the cup, one hand on the handrails and one hand to open the hatch, yep count ‘em.
One time I stomped on the floor of the cockpit requesting a cuppa and a few minutes later she slid open the hatch only to see the biggest wave of all overtaking the back of the yacht, she sensibly dropped the cup and slammed the hatch shut before it entered the cabin, I’m still waiting for my cuppa.
I went on my watch with pockets full of chocolate bars and Viv’s mince pies we had a small thermos flask too so when I got on to the wheel I was pretty set up for the night. It was rare to see any ships so the nights were black under the storm clouds the only thing I saw was the waves breaking alongside the yacht. After hours of staring at the dimly lit wind instrument my eyes would travel over the waves only to be greeted by demons and weird images coming from the surf. At the crest of every wave the wind would force the yacht over at an angle and the sound of the waves rushing up behind us sounded like an express train intent on running us down.
We were now seven days into the journey and the wind had increased until it was constantly blowing forty knots with gusts up to fifty. The noise of the wind in the rigging was like a banshees wail and the slamming of the waves on the hull was becoming unbearable. Chamarel was designed as a bilge keeler meaning it had two keels side by side. This in itself lead me to believe that twice as much surface area lead to less sideways movement as we traversed the steep waves however it resulted in a huge slapping sound when she occasionally took off the top of the wave and it the water would gather between the keels.
Down below it sounded like someone was pounding the yacht with a huge sledgehammer. I had just finished another exhausting watch and lay in the aft cabin damp tired and wondering what the hell we were doing here when I heard a sloshing sound under the bed. I struggled to pick up the mattress and the boards under it where I was greeted by a smelly mess of water. There were several black bin liners full of clothes floating in this mess and my heart missed a beat or two.
I quickly checked behind the bed where an inspection hatch lead to the steering gear, this was also filling with water! Next check the engine compartment, which was strangely dry. I went through to the salon where Di and Ginge were securely tucked up in their bunk and picked up the inspection hatch by the chart table, there was about four inches of water in the bilges and I started to worry. I turned on the bilge pump but realised that the inlet was in the engine room so it wouldn’t pump the bilge dry at all. I racked my brains to remember where the manual pump lead to and was relieved to see a picture in my brain of it being in the lowest part of the yacht. I quickly went into the cockpit and instructed Peter to start bailing out.
“How much water do have in there?” he asked.
“Not enough to sink us but certainly enough to wonder where the hell it’s coming from” I replied.
He spent a few minutes stroking the manual pump whilst I went back down below and started looking for the leak or even leaks.
The yacht continued to shudder in this awful storm and my imagination quietly started to run riot. We were about a hundred miles offshore, no radio, nobody knew where we were and it was not very nice conditions out there to say the least.
I double checked all the hull fittings, toilet fittings and steering gear and to my surprise couldn’t find a problem with either. I realised that the engine compartment was dry because the water ran underneath it from the aft cabin to the salon. The forepeak was also dry so my dangerous imagination of us running into something was also unfounded.
We pumped, mopped and wiped until every drop of water had gone and still couldn’t find out where it was coming from to begin with. We had a few drips coming through the headliner of the salon but realised it was from where the windscreen combing hadn’t been sealed properly, an annoyance but not an emergency. My mind raced with every possible event but I finally gave up worrying until if and when it happened again.
We kept an eye on the bilges at every opportunity after that and although we did get some more water in them it wasn’t enough o start a May Day.
Eight days and still the storm threw everything at us; I sat in the cockpit on my night watch and stared at the wind instrument willing it to drop under forty knots. All of a sudden a huge wave hit the side of the yacht and I was under water! My chest pressed against the wheel and I could feel ice-cold water running into my Wellingtons. We went skidding down the side of a wave and the mast top hit into the next wave tip. I pushed back against the steering binnacle and slowly the yacht righted itself, the water that had filled the cockpit now swiftly drained out and we were back as we were. Was it me? Had I made a mistake or was it one of those freak waves that I’d read about? Whatever it was my heart pounded and my mouth tasted dry after the salt water that had filled it a few seconds ago. I looked around for anything floating in the water not sure what to expect but all was back to ‘normal’.

From then on I cringed at the sound of every wave, my whole body tense with nervous exhaustion, when would this end? And how?

I removed the canvas side dodgers as they had started to rip under this continued assault, which left me a little more exposed but better that than the awful flapping sound they had started to produce. Peter took over at daylight and I had a quick look around relieved to find no serious damage although the cable that we had fixed to side of the mast was flapping in the breeze and the main halyard seemed to have caught itself around the wrong side of the spreaders. Nothing that could be changed at the present but it was a consideration before we could raise the sails again.
I had noticed a wind shift during the early hours of the morning and went below to check our position. I stood at the chart table with Di hanging on to me whilst I checked our position on the chart. We’d taped the chart to the table as it kept falling off and the in the grey morning light we grimly surveyed our progress
.
“Well the good news is that we’re still miles away from shore, so at least we don’t have to worry in that respect. The bad news is that we’re heading back up north again.”
“How long have we been going back to where we came from?” Diana asked.
“A bit difficult to say.”
I started doing a few calculations and looked back at Diana.
“Good news is that we haven’t lost too many miles but the bad news is I can’t be too sure yet as we’ve fallen off the chart! What a bleedin’ nightmare. Are you sure you still want to do this my lovely girl, if you want, we can go back and we can try again or you can fly down. I’m so knackered and I can’t really expect you to be doing this.”
“Rubbish!” Di exclaimed, “We’ve got this far and I for one am not giving up.”

8. Biscay

The following week was a hive of activity, the last preparations were carefully made and all the paperwork that was required finally slotted into place. I received a call from Mark to say the money for the club had been transferred into my account and everybody had been paid off. We were free!

We received a letter from the Will and Sarah reporting an awful passage to Gibraltar. Will had been terribly seasick for most of the journey and it was only through the competency of his crewmember, Steve, that they had got through it unscathed.
Sarah informed us that she never wanted to sail out of sight of land again and certainly didn’t want to sail at night; a bit difficult really considering their plans were to take the yacht to the Caribbean!

We sat with Peter one evening and planned our route, we were going to take the shortest route to Gibraltar, aiming to keep at least fifty miles offshore at all times. I paid him in advance and we decided to leave on November the 19th weather permitting.

We put the final touches to Chamarel, stocked up with supplies and we were ready for the off.
Alan and Ann invited us for dinner on our last evening ashore and as we sat in the restaurant overlooking Chamarel sitting quietly in her berth, we knew we were ready. Alan and Ann presented us with a leather bound guest log “I knew you didn’t have one,” he smiled. “You bought everything else in the shop but not one of these.”
Ann gave us a tiny tin box that held a pound note “Just in case,” she laughed.
We went back to their house for a nightcap and chilled out, on what was to be our last night ashore for a couple of weeks.

The next morning we checked the weather forecast and phoned Peter, who agreed it was time to go while the weather was good.
Di’s sister Roz and her husband Derek came to see us off with the kids Biffo and Laura. They helped us with a last minute shopping spree in the local supermarket and pretty soon we made preparations to leave. A last minute visit to the fuel dock, making sure Ginge was locked in below and we headed off to the lock to await the tide. We got a little anxious as Peter hadn’t turned up but we manoeuvred our way into the lock and said our last goodbyes. Viv from the café turned up and gave us a huge box of mince pies.
“Thanks Viv but I hope we get there before Christmas,” I joked.
Joy and Andrew pulled their yacht into the lock alongside us and a small crowd gathered at the side of the lock.
A last minute thought sent Derek running for the supermarket, we’d forgotten cat litter, a potential disaster.
Peter finally arrived, charts in hand and we breathed a sigh of relief.
The lock gates opened with the usual rush of water between the powerful gates and we cast off the lines and waved goodbye as we quickly motored into the channel.
Biffo and Laura ran along the seawall waving frantically until they got to the end and then slowly disappeared from view.

The weather was still and the sea was calm as we motored into the Bristol Channel. We double-checked everything to make sure that everything was as secure as we could make it and settled into the cockpit relieved that we’d started the journey but naturally apprehensive of what was to come.
We exchanged stories with Peter who was somewhat surprised at the events that lead us to this day and it made me reflect on the past. Had I made the right decision to give up my house and business? Was I right to ask Diana to do the same? Were we going to survive the Bay of Biscay when everyone else thought we were crazy? One thing was certain; we wouldn’t know unless we tried.
The wind picked up late afternoon and we made good time down the Channel. As we hit the open sea we cut the motor and at last we were sailing.
“Well if you have any doubts,” said Peter “This is the time to voice them.”
“You’ve got to be joking,” we replied in unison. Two years planning were not going to be wasted on the first day; that was for sure.
We took our last bearings on the land before it faded out of sight and settled down to a four-hour watch routine.
The wind picked up and pretty soon we were finding it difficult going. I took over from Peter around ten o’clock in the evening and for the first time my heart started to race as I felt the full impact of what we were undertaking. We passed through the shipping lane without mishap and soon the darkness was only punctuated by the breaking waves alongside us.
The autopilot we had so carefully installed didn’t want to handle the sea that we were experiencing, so I took over the wheel and felt the difference right away. When a yacht is properly balanced under sail she will cut through the water like a knife and although the waves were getting bigger by the minute and the wind got progressively louder, I felt completely in control and started to laugh to myself. So this is what made great voyagers do what they do. My arms ached and my legs were stiffening as I grimly held onto the wheel but the sense of euphoria was overwhelming.
When Peter’s head appeared through the hatch four hours later I wanted to tell him to go back down below, I could handle this for days I was sure.
We chatted for a while and it wasn’t until he took over the wheel that I realised how tired I was. We exchanged information about the weather, sea conditions and ship sightings and reluctantly I made my way below. The quiet of the cabin was quite startling after the last few hours on deck although the slamming of the waves on the hull was far more noticeable.
Diana was tucked into her berth on the port side with the lee-cloth holding her securely in place. The red cabin light over the chart table dimly illuminated the saloon and as my eyes got used to the light I saw a pair of worried eyes peering up at me. Poor Ginge. He was settled between Di’s legs looking at me with a very serious, questioning face.
“How’s it going Boy,” Di asked as she raised her head over the lee-cloth.
I leant over and kissed her “ It’s amazing,” I whispered. “Getting a bit rough out there but she’s sailing incredibly well.”
“I can hear it’s rough,” she laughed. “Me an Ginge haven’t slept much and it’s stuffy in here.”
“You OK though?” I asked.
“I’m feeling a bit queasy but otherwise I’m OK.” She replied. “I’ve taken my seasickness tablets but I’m sure they made me feel worse. Are going to sleep now?”
“Yep, I’ll go in the aft cabin though, alright? Gimme a shout if you need anything.”
I made my way into the aft cabin and sat on the bed removing my wet weather gear. Not the easiest of things to do when the yacht’s motion was like a corkscrew so I eventually collapsed on the bed semi-clothed and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
I woke up in the dark and it took a while to realise why it appeared that somebody was pounding on my bedroom door and apparently throwing buckets of water at it.
I struggled into my wet weather gear and made my way out of the cabin. Di wasn’t in her bunk and I could just see Ginge cowering in the footlocker at the end of the berth.
I opened the hatch to see Di in the cockpit with her wet weather gear on, talking to Peter. The wind had worsened and the noise of the waves had increased.
“How’s things?” I shouted over the howling wind.
“OK but the weather’s getting worse.” Peter shouted from his place behind the wheel.
“Ok let’s take a bit of sail down and if it keeps up we’ll try the storm jib out.”
I harnessed myself to the stainless steel lifelines we’d attached to each side of the yacht and made my way to the mast.
Most of the ropes lead into the cockpit and she could easily be sailed from there but the mainsail still had to be raised and lowered from the foot of the mast. I found it difficult to keep my footing as the waves were starting to come over the side and the decks were heaving quite badly.
I took a reef in the main, which basically means lowering the sail and retying it so there’s less sail area giving resistance to the wind.
I completed the operation and made my way back into the cockpit. Di helped take in the Genoa and the yacht became more manageable.
I took over from Peter and he Di went below. Di soon came back up with hot drinks and we huddled for a while under the spray hood while the autopilot whirred away doing its job.
“You alright my lovely girl?” I asked.
“Yeah, a bit scared but it’s going OK isn’t it?”
“No problems, it’s only a little storm. It’ll most probably be over by the morning. What was it Mark used to say? Character building stuff.”
Di gave me a handful of chocolate bars and went off to find some sleep.
As the hatch closed I checked the instruments that glowed comfortably back at me. 30 knots of wind and we were heading south, looked good to me. The autopilot started to struggle so I checked my harness and moved out of the relative comfort of the spray hood.
The face strap on the hood of my jacket was scratching my face and I shoved it backwards only to be pelted by a flurry of rain that started to fall. I felt stifled by the hood but it was so cold without it that I quickly raised it over my head once more. I was reminded of my Sergeant Majors voice when we would stand on the parade ground freezing our butts off “There’s a sun up there somewhere lad.”
Back on the wheel I felt strangely at ease. It was easier to steer than to sit there being thrown about and there something positive about being in control.
The sky was beginning to lighten and the darkness turned into a cold grey morning. It was only then that the sea state became truly visible. Huge breaking waves and a long rolling swell that was so alien to me even in a movie. I watched some seabirds swoop in the distance, disappearing in the troughs of the waves reappearing as if they were emerging from the sea and then suddenly there was a thump on deck. I looked up to see the VHF aerial bounce on the deck and disappear over the side.
I looked up at the top of the mast and the wind direction instrument that it was attached to had also disappeared.I looked through the windscreen and saw a bird sat on the deck looking somewhat dazed. It appeared that it had tried to land on the top of the mast and the instruments had given way under its’ weight. We had a camera stashed under the spray hood so I took a photo as the bird looked like a hawk and the wind instrument it had destroyed was also called a hawk. If that was a sign what was it a sign of?
As the daylight increased it gave a completely different feel to the sea. Instead of concentrating on the movement of the yacht my concentration strayed to avoiding the waves, something that seemed so futile after a while so I closed my eyes and tried to sail solely by instinct. It actually worked for a while but I couldn’t hold a course too well.
As the hatch slid open, I was greeted by the wan face of Diana. Poor girl looked green. She harnessed herself on and struggled into the cockpit as another wave pitched us about, she sat down heavily.
“You alright?” I asked.
“Yeah, just feeling a bit stifled down there. The noise is keeping me awake and it’s so stuffy. Poor Ginge hasn’t moved a muscle. How are you doing?”
“I’m ok, just had a weird one,” I told her about the aerial and the bird.
“Does that mean we have no radio?” she asked.
“Well it didn’t do us any good I must admit but we’re too far away from shore for the radio to work anyway.”
Di took the wheel for a while whilst I made the drinks and by the time I’d got back in the cockpit she visibly improved with the fresh air.
I lay down while Di steered and I was heartened by the fact that she could swiftly take over and keep us on the right course.
Peter awoke a little later and we shared an hour together discussing our prospects.
Suddenly Di pointed to starboard and shouted, “Look, look dolphins!”
We stood and watched as a school of dolphins raced in and out of the waves leaping in the air as we excitedly pointed out their antics.
“Look to the pumps when the sea hog jumps,” Peter sagely exclaimed.
“What?”
“It’s sign of bad weather when you get dolphins jumping alongside,” he replied.
“Well in that case they’re a bit late, haven’t you noticed?” I said pointing out to sea.
The dolphins disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived and Di got our breakfast together. Not an easy feat when the yacht’s heeled over at 250 but we managed to eat and clear things away before collapsing into the next sleep pattern.

7. Remember Sunday

Our dreams of a sunny trip down to Spain had gone as quickly as an English summer. It was now nearing the end of October and we were still nowhere near ready to go. Our list of things to do grew longer every day but at least the pressure of finance had diminished.
I left the club to Gary’s competent management; it was part of the deal that my staff could stay on if they wanted to so at least they wouldn’t be out of a job. It would still take a few weeks for the lease to be drawn up etc. but essentially I was home free.
We drove over to Penarth to pick up our new scuba equipment and dive compressor, a huge expense altogether but something we’d enjoyed so much in Mauritius we thought it would be a wonderful thing to have onboard. I was a little surprised when the guy started up the compressor for us the first time; I’d driven bulldozers that were quieter! However he assured us that it was normal and the specifications of the unit were impressive.
Our dinghy was delivered along with the outboard engine.
We were the talk of the Marina because of it. Normally for our size boat, it was customary to use a 2 ½ to 3-meter dinghy and a small 5 to 10 horsepower outboard engine. We decide that as it was going to be our car, sport and workhorse we would upgrade the custom somewhat and we opted for a 4-meter dinghy with a 40-horsepower outboard. There wasn’t a single person who agreed with us except maybe for Alan who sold it to us. If I listed their adverse comments I’d have to write another chapter.
We rigged the unit together and took it through the lock that day. As we hit the open water it was apparent we’d made the right decision. It was Di’s baby really, paid for from the proceeds of her car. When she got behind the wheel of the remote steering her face was a sight to behold, the boat skimming over the waves at 30 knots in that crisp autumn wind, her cheeks were turning redder by the minute.
It wasn’t going to be an easy thing to manage that was for sure, we’d purchased an outboard bracket that we fixed to the stern rail but the panic soon set in when we presented the ‘Beast’ to it. The Beast weighed in at 140lbs and it was blatantly apparent that even the yacht builders had only ever considered a small engine too. We racked our brains and came up with a solution to mount a bracket on to the deck and lay the engine down so as all the weight would be distributed evenly. We rigged a strop to hang the Beast from the end of the boom for easy lifting and the system worked perfectly.
Nellie (The Inflatable) was an easier thing to stow and we simply rigged a few pad eyes to the aft deck where she could be secured and be accessible in an emergency.
We went out in Nellie as often as possible to run in the engine and even did a bit of skiing to test her out, she worked like a dream. Unfortunately I did a very stupid thing and fell of my ski and hit the water at speed. Stupid because I landed awkwardly and burst my left eardrum. This was now the third time and it was rather painful to say the least.
Murphy’s Law continually cropped up, something we were slowly becoming accustomed to. The liferaft was delivered with a damaged canister and had to be returned, the worst one was the toilet kept backing up and filled with water coming dangerously close to overflowing even while the boat was at rest, we didn’t want to consider the outcome at sea. We had paid extra to have a stainless steel holding tank fitted, which meant we could store the effluent onboard until we were far enough at sea to empty it legally and ecologically, It was this that gave us the problems and after a few changes in non return valves I sincerely hoped I had fixed the problem.
We had trouble fixing the stolen wind instrumentation and VHF aerial. They were designed to be wired up through the mast and whoever had stolen them had simply cut them off at the top of the mast, pretty easy when it’s lying down, somewhat more difficult to replace when it’s 45ft above deck on a cold morning. Di winched me to the top of the mast in the Bosuns chair and I tried to figure out how to reattached our new instruments.
I manages to ‘mouse up’ the aerial though the mast by a dropping a cord through the mast whilst Di retrieved it at he bottom and then attached it to the cable and pulled it through. The wind instrument cable proved to be impossible to pull through though and it begged a different approach.
One thing was for sure we were getting used to the process of going aloft. I would sort of half climb the mast whilst Di took the slack on the halyard (the rope that holds sails up) securing the chair. That way all I had to do was to check my weight and wait until the rope was taut so I could relax it worked like a charm and it was so much quicker and far less strenuous than trying to winch me up. I knew because that’s how Di had her first trip to the top of the mast.
Eventually we decide to fix the wind instrument cable to the side of the mast and set off on the well-worn trail to Cambrian Marine and explained our problem to Alan, as usual over a cuppa. We loved going into the chandlers, the smells of ropes and turpentine combined with Alan’s ubiquitous cigar smoke just seemed to strike a chord in our seafaring senses.
He came up with some self adhesive aluminium cable clips that would fix the cable to the side of the mast, not the most aesthetically pleasing solution but the only option left to us.
We went back and fixed them cable adding a little touch of two part adhesive to the clips as a ‘belt and braces’ measure.
That done we attached the SatNav aerial to the aft rail and we tested the systems to find, miraculously, that everything worked.

Di was busy arranging any other documentation we would need, new passports and export and rabies certificates for Ginge, a license for the VHF radio. This amused us as it took the form of a car tax disc that we had to display in the window; we had fun imagining a governing body out at sea with high-powered binoculars. It did bring to light that we didn’t have any radio qualifications but luckily there was an instructor living in the marina who examined us one evening and issued us with a license to use VHF.

At the time there were many government systems that didn’t allow for the idea of sailing out of the UK. We almost had to educate them into seeing that sailing was a form of transport that allowed us to leave the country. Even the Customs and Excise were hazy about the VAT rules concerning yacht equipment and export. Luckily we’d done our research with this too and we breezed through that one. Basically we reserved the last hundred pounds payment to Westerlys until it was time to go, that way we avoided paying VAT on Chamarel as the rules stated you had to leave the country within a week of purchasing the yacht. Something that would have been out of the question if the weather turned against us.

We’d made quite a few friends in Swansea along with the Marina staff who were so helpful. We traded bottles of booze against medical equipment from a couple Joy and Andrew. We also traded a few laughs too although it wasn’t that funny when one evening after a couple of bottles of wine Joy slipped into the freezing water of the Marina as we were leaving to go to a restaurant. Luckily we dragged her out unscathed, handbag first!
We met a couple, Will and Sarah, who also had the same plans as us and actually wanted us to leave and sail in tandem with them. Something that was a bit pointless really as our yachts were completely different, which meant that we would soon be out of sight of each other. They left on the last day of October to the music ‘Gonna Get Along Without You Now’ blaring through the locks speakers. Our turn soon.

We had one last hiccup in that we didn’t have a third crew, which we needed to comply with our insurance policy. We’d contacted a few friends but nobody with the experience necessary was available. We had one local guy apply for the job but as I had to help him onboard due his age just for the interview we decided to keep looking. I tried some of the ‘professional’ yacht skippers from the sailing magazine adverts but didn’t get any joy.
One lady answered the phone and exclaimed “What! You want my husband to crew a 34ft yacht across The Bay of Biscay in November? You must be out of your mind,” and with that she hung up.
Hmm were we out of our minds too?
Finally we met up with Peter who was a Yachtmaster and he didn’t think we were completely crazy, two bonuses already. We agreed on a price for the trip and left it at that. There wasn’t much else we could do, as I still had to finish a few things back in Cheltenham before we could cut all ties to shore.

We were finally ready to take Chamarel out on her maiden voyage on the 4th November. Steve took us through the lock, as it was still all a very new experience for us. We’d had a storm the previous couple of days so when we got out into the bay the sea was very lumpy so we couldn’t put up the mainsail. We managed to get the Genoa out (the fore sail) and we motored around for a while. Ginge was not in his element and made a bit of a mess down below, not the best way of spending your inaugural trip, what happened to the champagne now?
Di took Chamarel back in under Steve’s supervision and managed to berth her perfectly the first time.
There was a little problem in that we’d put so much equipment onboard that Chamarel had settled into the water well below her intended waterline. “That’s not a Westerly Seahawk” the lock master laughingly exclaimed “That’s a Westerly Seaslug.”
Hurt and offended we decided to haul her out and raise the water line by repainting it a further nine inches up.

We had a flurry of visitors to the boat before we set sail, all wanting to see what we were letting ourselves in for.
My Mother and Aunt Una, Lyn’s brother Keith and his fiancé Christine, Di’s sister Roz and kids, her brother Peter and even her Mum and Dad.
When Di had first told her Mum about the boat her response was “But where are you going to keep it?”
“Ah” said Di “that’s the other thing we have to talk about.”
Her Dad was completely enamoured with Chamarel and even wanted to stowaway.
Mark arrived one day with his wife Melanie and we went out for a sail, well a motor around Swansea Bay anyhow. They stayed the night onboard back in the marina. Mark and Diana wanted to go clubbing but as you can imagine it was the last thing on my mind. They went off leaving Melanie and I to croon our way through the Beatles Book accompanied by my guitar.
We were all feeling a little hung over when they left the following morning only there was no respite for us as Lyn and our other friend Karen, turned up only an hour later.
It was a beautiful day though so we took Chamarel back out through the lock and actually managed our first sail.
Steve was out sailing with another Seahawk so we fell in alongside and had a little ‘race’, even with all our extra weight onboard Chamarel kept up alongside the similar vessel that was empty, so we were quite pleased to say the least.
Theoretically, the longer the waterline the faster the yacht. So at least we had done something right by lowering her into the water.

Saturday November the 12th and we drove back to Cheltenham together. The day had finally arrived when we would say goodbye to the club and all our friends. We met up in the wine bar and were surprised to see it packed to the gills with all our friends and clients. Di had arranged for Lyn to buy me a ‘Last Night of the Prom’ tee shirt and we started the party there and then. We all poured into the club around 11 o’clock and were amazed to find it absolutely packed to the gills.
We were quickly running out of glasses and for the first time in four years I even served behind the bar for a while. I left the door in Gary’s capable hands as the last thing I wanted that night was any hassle on the door, those days were over.
We were still kicking people out at three in the morning and when they finally disappeared, Di and I sat with the staff and did a little reminiscing over a couple of bottles of Champagne. In true tradition we threw our empty glasses into the fireplace and left to get our taxis.
We stayed at Mark’s house that evening and after a good old English breakfast we went back into the club to clear the safe out and say goodbye to Gary. He had been at my side for three years and it was tough to say our final farewells.We locked the door for the last time, November 13th Remembrance Sunday certainly a day for us to remember.

6. Going Going ....

We weren’t allowed to put her in the water until we coughed up the last payment, quite rightly so as they were aware of our intentions to sail off into the sunset and they weren’t going to risk us doing a moonlight with £50k worth of yacht.
Steve was a huge support to us and took the responsibility of allowing us onboard to live and equip the yacht whilst they waited for the final instalment. The mast had been delivered previously and lay on blocks ready for stepping. Unfortunately some vandal had removed the wind instrument and VHF aerial from the mast, which left a bit of a bad taste to the proceeding, however there was enough to think about without dwelling on the dark side of human nature.

We checked out the chandlers in the marina with a list of equipment a mile long. The first chandler blew it by trying to fob us off with things that I knew were not right for the yacht so we politely bade our farewells and went over to the second chandlers, Cambrian Marine. The difference there was amazing, an old fashioned chandlers that reeked of style and efficiency.
We introduced ourselves to the owners Alan and Ann Robson and instantly achieved an excellent working relationship.
I suggested giving him a few thousand pounds up front, in return for his good judgement and assistance, which we exchanged with flying colours, and even a healthy discount!
We wanted to equip Chamarel with the top equipment and set about compiling an inventory that was beyond the norm.
The advantage of research had given us an edge on our predecessors. The main ingredients for disaster it seemed were either cheap or faulty equipment and the lack of knowledge. Throw in a dash of utter stupidity in some cases and you may as well take a gun to your head and make a quicker job of it.
One of my favourite recipes was the couple who had bought a steel boat and left Folkestone with absolutely no knowledge of boats, or even life for that matter. After drifting hopelessly in the English Channel for days they finally ended up in a harbour where the skipper shouted “Bon Jour Monsieur” to the chap onshore, only to find out they were in Canvey Island!

So we went through our inventory with scrupulous attention to detail aided by Alan and Anne at every step of way.

June swiftly passed and Steve politely asked if there was any sign of money on the horizon. Unabashed I replied that it would only be a short time and soon he’d have his money and he’d be waving us goodbye as we sailed majestically through the lock. Realistically problems were looming on the real horizon.
My potential buyer was either getting cold feet or was trying to screw with me I wasn’t too sure at the time. What I did know was that I didn’t have the £44,000 needed to complete the sale of the yacht.
I was still running the club most weekends but found myself increasingly staying on later trying to persuade my buyer to complete the sale.
Westerlys were pressuring Steve, Steve was pressuring me and I was blowing off steam like a manic pressure cooker.
I couldn’t believe I’d got this far only to be screwed about on some stupid detail.
I approached my bank manager David and pleaded my case.
“Well Paul, I can understand your predicament but you must also see ours. You no longer have any collateral after you’ve sold your house and really the lease on the club is pretty worthless to us. The fact that you intend to sail away from the country doesn’t install a lot of confidence in anyone thinking of lending you money either.”
“Ok I can see that but surely if you lent me the money I would then own a yacht and that would be my collateral.”
“Hah, nice try but lets say we lend you this money, hours later the boat depreciates in value and you have nothing to pay us back with. I’m sorry but it’s not the way we do business. Personally, as a sailor myself I empathise with you as I can see what you want to do and admire you for it. Unfortunately I only manage the branch, I don’t own it.”
“OK David this is your last chance, are you going to lend me this money or do I have to take my business elsewhere?”
He smiled at me and briefly patted my hand. “Nice try sailor.”

So there I was up the proverbial creek without a paddle. Now what?

I rang around the banks and even bought the Exchange and Mart and tried phoning some of the loan sharks on the back pages.
Did I have any collateral they would ask? No.
Did I own a property? No.
Was I willing to pay 26.8% interest? No but I was willing to throw in my Granny and a couple of goats.
“No sorry, we don’t do goats.”

Finally I hit pay dirt. One of the Barclays Bank managers sat in front of his desk twiddling his biro and finally said “Yes. I think we can help you. If you can get your papers together for next Tuesday I can review it with my board on the Wednesday.”
My shoulders, that had been around my ears for weeks, suddenly dropped in relief and it was all I could do to keep a straight face.
“There’s no problem with the paperwork. I can get it to you Monday at the latest.” I grovelled.
We shook hands for at least half an hour and I finally left him to bathe his fingers whilst I rang up Diana.
“Too easy my bestest Girl.” I exclaimed. “We got it. I’ll have to stay here for the weekend but I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
That was of course until the following Monday when the biro twiddling b*#t^rd informed me that actually it wasn’t possible and I may as well forget the whole thing.
I was furious. It took everything I had not to go back to see him and present him with a piece of my mind but instead I drove back to Swansea and took Di out for meal, accompanied by a bottle of champagne.
“I don’t get it boy, why are we celebrating defeat?”
“Because were not defeated yet. Just lost a little battle or two that’s all.”
I felt sorry for Di. I’d sort of got her into this situation and now it was nothing more than a huge hassle. Steve would constantly quiz her of my whereabouts and she would have to keep a brave face and explain that there were only a few minor details to clear up and it would soon be all over. One day the Westerly hierarchy decide to show up completely unannounced at Swansea for the day. Di had to hide below, frantically clutching Ginge to keep him quiet making sure the curtains were pulled back completely so as not to give them a clue that we were living onboard.
I apologised to her and Steve when I returned and promised to do something about it pretty damn soon. Brave words but they sounded hollow even in my head.
July came and went and we were struggling to keep our cool in August.
We would hear that people were saying “Oh Chamarel? Yes she’s seen more water on her decks than below her keel.”
“Paul and Di? Yes they were full of talk but personally I don’t think they’ll make it you know.”
“Yes Boyo, you know what its like don’t you? These yuppies think they got the money to do anything but they haven’t got a clue really.”
I was beginning to think they were right when in September I promised we would be launching Chamarel on Di’s birthday the 30th of September. I honestly thought it would all be completed by then, only to find another glitch had occurred and we were almost back at square one.
I sat with Steve one day in October and assured him that everything would work out in the end. I explained that deal was done but just needed a few final details to be sorted before I could be paid for the club. In a way I wasn’t lying but I was blatantly aware also that it wasn’t exactly the truth I was telling.
Di and I would console ourselves with the thought that all we stood to lose was the deposits on the yacht. The fact that we had nowhere to live, her business had gone and all our possessions were scattered around the country seemed like minor details.




I decide to have another crack at the bank so I arranged an appointment with David, my manager. We sat with a cup of coffee each and spoke about his upcoming promotion to a bigger branch.
“Congratulations David,” I enthused “ At least one of us will be earning lots of money.”
“Thanks Paul, look I’m sorry this hasn’t worked out. I know how much it means to you. As I said before, I only manage the branch I don’t own it. Of course if I was to lend you £45,000 just after I left, I wouldn’t be managing the branch then and that might be a different kettle of fish don’t you think?”
“Excuse me?” I sat bolt upright almost spilling my coffee.
“Well I was thinking, as long as you promise faithfully to pay it back, I’m sure it would be safely back in the banks’ hands before they could kick up a fuss, don’t you?”
“David if you’re serious I don’t know how I would be able to thank you.”
“I told you. Pay it back and don’t drop me in it. I’ve spoken to Mark and he assures me the deal will go ahead on your club. Just pay it back. Fair deal?”
I left the bank on cloud nine. I’d been with a few of my good mates in the wine bar opposite the bank before my meeting and when I came out of the bank with a jubilant smile and arms raised, I heard the cheers well up from inside the bar.
Naturally a small celebration was in order and a few bottles of champagne later we were all in good spirits. There were mixed reactions from my buddies.
“Take me with you.” Ray Shaw, my cousin in law pleaded.
“I’ll do anything, if you haven’t got room inside I’ll hang on to the keel on the way down, please take me, pleeease.”
On the other hand it was “ I suppose you’re going to become one of those boring people and just talk about boats all the time.”

I drove back to Swansea the next day we sat in Steve’s office. Di shakily wrote a cheque for the remaining £44,000 to Westerlys and I signed it through very teary eyes.
Steve asked me if I wanted to accompany him on a trip from Exeter back to Swansea on an Oceanlord, one of Westerlys flagships. Of course I jumped at the chance and that weekend we drove down south with a couple of guys to pick up the yacht.
We met up with the owner of the vessel and decide to go out and have a bite to eat and a beer before leaving on the evening tide.
Lesson number one.
Do not under any circumstances eat a good, old fashioned English meal of fish and chips, wash it down with three pints of Steam Machine Strong Lager and then think you are going too crew a yacht on a stormy night around Lands End without suffering the consequences.
It was my first and only time of being seasick and I will never, never, never, ever, do it again. Be warned.
Besides that, the trip was a buzz. I was actually beginning to like stormy weather, or at least I was gaining a respect for it, which made it more pleasurable; either way it was good for the soul. We had a good trip back up the Bristol Channel and arrived damp but safe in Port Talbot.

A few days later with Westerlys happy and us ecstatic, we arranged for Chamarel to be launched. Don’t start imagining slipways and greasy logs because it all it took was the yacht hoist to drive over, slip a couple of slings under her belly and drop her in the water. As Tom, the hoist driver, held her steady over the water, oil started to spew out of one of the hoist engines and we were lucky to get her into the water before the whole thing seized up.
Our maiden voyage to our berth was without incident and we sat onboard with a well-earned cuppa. Ginge was a little disorientated and went off for a couple of days. We frantically searched the area but couldn’t find him. Where he went we had no idea but he eventually turned up again covered in blood and smelling like a fishwife, the blood wasn’t his thank God but it was a worry.

The final straw came when I travelled back to Cheltenham. I had arranged everything as perfect as possible for the final signing of the lease.
I took the initiative and rang my prospective buyer explaining that I would be seeing him at 11 O’clock the following morning.
“I’m not sure actually Paul,” he answered, “I’m still having a bit of a problem with the last few grand.”
I shook inside until I thought I was going to throw up.
“Listen to me my friend” I softly spoke into the phone, “If you don’t turn up at Marks’ office, ready to sign, by 11 O clock tomorrow morning I will hunt you down. Do not do this to me. You’ve had months to sort this out and I will not be held out to dry by you. Are we understood?”
“Alright mate keep yer shirt on. I’ll have it sorted. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.” I replied as calmly and politely as I could muster and gently replaced the receiver. Definitely time to get out of this business I thought.

I turned up at Marks’ office early for the meeting, where I was greeted by even more bad news. I’d made Diana my partner for business reasons and Mark pointed out that her signature wasn’t on the transfer papers, so even if this guy turned up and signed the document it still wouldn’t be legal. I nearly fell through the floor what else could possibly go wrong?
“Ok, ok” I blustered, “What happens if he signs it without seeing that her signature isn’t there, then Di signs it later. Is that legal?”
“Well it’s legal but I can’t see his solicitor overlooking such a blatant discrepancy like a missing signature, the guy would have to be crazy to sign it.”
Twenty minutes later Mark and I shook hands.
“Paul, you lucky so and so. You’ve just sold your club.”

I love crazy people, don’t you?

5. Sell Up First

We started the process by selling Di’s business first, this came as a bit of a blow to her as she’d done so well setting it up. She sold her prize Chinese Military Jeep to fund the opening and she’d worked hard to make it work but as it was not the golden goose, financial sense said it had to go first.
The salon was situated in the Gloucester Leisure Centre so there was no real value in the lease, just the equipment and goodwill. We decided to make a clean break and simply handed in the keys to a very amused management.
“You mean you’re giving all this up to go and live on a boat Diana?”
“Yes but at least we’ll be sailing around the world on it” she promptly replied.
“Oh. In that case, good luck to you. Can I come too?”
We sold most of the salon equipment but not before it was first of all stored at the house, I’d still love to know what the nosey neighbours thought of us, after seeing massage couches and equipment coming in and out of the tiny house all day.

The agent I’d hired contacted me to say he had a potential buyer for the club, so the timing appeared to be in our favour. I met up with the guy in a pub that he was running. It turned out that he’d split up with his wife who had gone on to buy a similar but not as busy club and I think he wanted mine just to thumb his nose at her.
I didn’t care why he wanted it as long as he had the funds.
We sat for hours discussing the price and when asked why I wanted to sell it I told him of our plans to sell up and sail and his eyes lit up even more. “Wow that’s exactly what I plan do in the future”, he informed me. “Well it worked for me,” I said, “so no doubt it would work for you, the club is a little gold mine.”
We made plans to get our solicitors together on the deal and I left his bar a very happy boy, the plan was definitely taking shape.

The next step was to sell the house, a very simple thing to do as it was at a time when the tax for single people was reduced for first time house buyers. Our neighbours had sold their house the previous month, so I rang the same agent they had dealt with and asked if there had been any other enquiries. The agent told me there had been quite a few and he would phone back soon.
As it was coming up to April I knew that it was going to be easy.

The money we made on the house would go as a deposit for the boat, with the final payment coming from the sale of the club within the next couple of months. The rest would go into an offshore bank account and voila we had it made.
Within a day I had a buyer for the house and we set a date to move out, starting to sell everything we owned through news paper adverts, car boot sales or simply giving it to friends.
The car boot sales were fun but at the same time it was strange to be offered a fraction of the price we had paid for our things. We would get up with the birds and drive off to little Cotswold villages and towns and set up our stands. The Chinese table lamps with silk shades wouldn’t really go on the boat but surely they were worth - “Fifty pence each mate, take it or leave it.” Things that we’d scoured antique fairs for went at a fraction of the price we had paid for them. Unfortunately we couldn’t allow ourselves the luxury of refusing offers as time was of the essence.
Our final sale was at Stroud where we sold most things quite quickly except for a pile of video tapes, people didn’t seem interested in our tastes, things like the whole day of Live Aid Concert religiously taped and carefully labelled. In the end I changed the labels on the last few tapes to Snow White pornographic version, Big Boobs of Bel Air and a few other choice titles that I laughingly dreamt up. Diana was beside herself, telling me off for being bad but sure enough the raincoat brigade soon got wind of it and the tapes went like hot cakes.
We ended up with a couple of large boxes that held our clothes kitchen equipment and little else.
We had already decided on what we could and couldn’t take with us. We knew we didn’t want to just sail away with nothing to do so we bought a pile of books, not just fiction but things we could re-educate ourselves with, sailing books and almanacs of course, cookery books, language books and tapes, a heavy duty sewing machine.
Diana equipped herself with a good camera and lenses. I wanted to further my musical education so I took two guitars a keyboard, drum machine and four track recording studio.
We had every intention of making this a journey of a lifetime and we didn’t want to go on the gin and tonic route and miss most of it.

Di was a bit sad to give up her cherished VW Sirocco but as I also sold my Golf Cabriolet she couldn’t really complain. I went out and bought an old Ford Escort estate car as our final runabout, not much compensation but a very practical purchase.
It’s strange how we go through life accumulating possessions never thinking of a day when we simply give them up.
Actually most of my childhood revolved around moving house every couple of years. I then joined the Army at fifteen and had lived in Germany for a few years returning to the UK with the proverbial suitcase and guitar in hand, so I was used to it. Di found it a little stranger than I did but then she came from a solid family who had lived in the same house for years.

Things were really starting to move in the right direction for us.
We booked another sailing course, this time with Westerly Sea School, a fitting conclusion to our sailing apprenticeship I thought. We timed it so we moved out of the house; straight into the course and straight after that we would pick up the yacht in Swansea.
We had deliberated for ages on a name for her. As my club was called the Prom I tried every combination around the name that was acceptable to the British Small Ships Register, PromOcean, InProm II and InPromtu but eventually we settled on what was really the only choice, Chamarel.

So in May that year we said goodbye to what had been our home for four years and sped off down the motorway to Port Talbot for our final sailing course.

I can honestly say I couldn’t fault the course at all. Peter our Skipper was a great instructor with a good sense of humour, the boat was well equipped and the food was superb, what more could you ask for. We didn’t sail too far but we learned a lot and came away with our latest certificates, Di a proud Day Skipper and me a Coastal Skipper.
The basis of which was that a Day Skipper was qualified to take out a medium sized yacht from a harbour and to return to the same harbour, whereas a Coastal Skipper could leave one harbour and go to another without going more than fifty miles offshore. Not exactly world girdling qualifications but you needed another 400 miles experience before you could take the next step to Yachtmaster Coastal.


So there it was that we arrived at Swansea dockyard on a Saturday afternoon in late May, full of excitement and pride to see Chamarel on the back of a huge low loader, all tied up like a huge Christmas present. We searched the yard for the driver of the truck but it turned out that he’d had no instruction to stay and had sauntered off home leaving us frustratingly clambering all over her but with no keys available to board her.
A frantic call to Steve the agent only confirmed that the driver had the keys with him and he wouldn’t return until the Monday.
Steve kindly arranged a small boat for us to stay on so we unloaded our worldly goods from the cramped car into the even more cramped boat and settled down to wait.
Not exactly the auspicious start that we’d dreamt of but at least Chamarel was in sight.

Monday couldn’t arrive fast enough.

We spent what was left of the weekend acquainting ourselves with our new surroundings; Swansea Yacht Haven without a yacht was not a Haven at all.Monday morning we sat patiently in the local café introducing ourselves to Viv the wonderful lady who ran the place. We were tucking into our breakfast when the driver arrived and we were finally given the keys. Breakfast abandoned we rushed over to her and reverently opened the hatch for the first time. We were knocked back by the stink of new fibreglass and varnish but undaunted we investigated her thoroughly before the yacht hoist trundled over and very soon Chamarel was unceremoniously plonked on the car park next to the shower block.

4. April Fool?

I signed up for the Army on April 1st.
Most of my many different jobs had started on April 1st.
I started work for Dennis on that date. We signed the lease for the club on that date. Although we couldn’t be sure, Di and I thought we had met on April 1st.
We couldn’t be sure about that date because Di told me she had tried to get into the club for the first time and I had turned her away because she wasn’t a member; something she obviously liked to remind me of occasionally! So Gary was right after all.

We arrived back at the house to be greeted by Lyn. She’d been looking after the house and our two Chow Chows, Remy and Tia. Lyn came out to see us immediately we pulled into the drive.
“Paul, I’ve got some bad news for you. Dennis died today.”
My heart sank, forget about the problems we’d had, Dennis had been my mentor and mental sparring partner for years, it was a very sad blow to hear of his death.
We entered the house and the memory of a wonderful weekend simply faded away.
I rang his wife and offered my condolences, I was at a loss what to say but she was very calm about the matter. She confirmed that I’d been a good friend to him and we should let bygones be bygones.
Of course there were things to be sorted out for her and her two grown children but she assured me that any dealings I had had with Dennis would now be resolved.

It took a while to grieve his passing but the obvious outcome was that the club would now be transferred solely into my name, which meant we could go ahead with our plans!

April 1st, not exactly planned but what a day.

Our main concern for quite a while was that we couldn’t give up the dogs and we certainly couldn’t expose them to a life on the sea. We had two cats too but at least they have a better reputation for living at sea.
Remy dog was originally my dog before I met Di, he was a faithful boy until he met Di and then somewhere along the line he turned into a one-woman cat. Remy had always had wanderlust and was forever slipping out of door only to be returned by the police or people that knew him. We used to take him to our friends house in Bournemouth and his youngest son who suffered from asthma and eczema doted on him so it came as no surprise when he asked if he could take Remy.
We were unsure of making this decision because of the boys health but miraculously his focus turned to Remy full time and his illnesses disappeared with in weeks of Remy being with him.
Sadly the decision was made for us when Tia was knocked over one fateful day so it was fated that Remy should find happiness and retire to the south coast.
We still had our two cats, Pie and Ginge, Pies’ ginger offspring.
Pie was old enough to be used to dry land and as she was a delicate little thing we decided it would be best if she stayed with Di’s sister Roz in the country.
Ginge however was Di’s baby and he simply couldn’t be left to fend for himself so we decide he would become the ships pussy.

Our plans started to go into overdrive all of a sudden. I started to look for a buyer for the club and we decided that it would be prudent to improve our sailing skills.
We signed up for sailing course with a school near Portsmouth, it turned out to be a far cry from the instruction I’d received from Plas Menaii but that only endorsed the fact that I’d started off on the right foot to begin with.
We arrived at Portsmouth on a sunny June afternoon to be greeted by an ex naval officer who was using his own yacht to teach sail courses. No doubt to supplement his pension and mooring fees.
There were three others onboard and again, the camaraderie between people who have the same desires was incredibly heart warming. Just as well, because the Skipper and his wife seemed to be out of a Monty Python sketch. The Skipper/instructor was an ex Navy Officer. His twenty years experience teaching navigation to Navy Cadets didn’t really qualify him to teach sailing in Civvy Street.
I ended up teaching Di and the others more than the Skipper himself. He would go into a panic every time he was ‘teaching’ a manoeuvre. I suppose it must be difficult to let complete strangers handle your prize yacht but surely that’s what he signed up for in the first place. I put his navigational skills to the test in which he cam out ok but as far as a people person, forget it.

However with true British Spirit we handled the week admirably, we had a little mutiny but that was mainly due to the poor Skippers wife, who sort of cooked for us.
For instance the one memorable meal when the poor man asked her; “Mmm this is nice darling, is it curry?” to which she replied “No darling it’s mince. If I’d of known you wanted curry I would have put a teaspoon of curry powder in it.”
Gourmets all over the world, take heed, there is heavy competition out there.
Sailing needs a fair bit of energy to begin with, especially when you have to constantly repeat manoeuvres until you get them right so your calorie intake needs to be pretty high.
I can still see her grimly hanging onto the biscuit barrel after allowing us one digestive each with our morning instant coffee or weak tea.
If any one out there wants to write a sailing sitcom give me bell and I can supply you with loads of subject matter.

All the same we came away from the ordeal with my Day Skippers certificate and Di achieved her Competent Crew certificate. We also had great fun with the other crew so all was not lost.

Back to the ranch and things were hotting up. I’d put out the rumour that club was for sale for a vastly inflated price, just to see if there was any sucker out there. It didn’t do any harm to let people know that I wanted some serious money for it anyway.
And why not? I had worked my butt off making it a great club. The atmosphere there was superb. I had around four hundred members, most of whom I could put a name to, so anyone approaching my door would receive a warm personal welcome.
My staff were great, we all had a fun time there. Fancy dress parties, private parties, live music and charity balls anything that made the night a little special.
I had my fair share of battles too. One thing about being a 5’ 6’’ doorman was that people were not always convinced that I was the one to turn them away!
Within the first three months I’d received a broken nose and a broken jaw to prove just that. It wasn’t all violence though; some people just assumed it was their God given right to enter.
My favourite was Lord George Dowty who arrived at the door one evening all suited and booted with his four colleagues.
He presented me with his card and told me to step aside as he was coming in. “Nice card Sir but it’s not one of mine. Unfortunately this is a members club and I’m busy this evening,” I informed him.
“I say, do you know who I am?” He asked indignantly.
“Why have you forgotten?” I replied.
I returned his card to jog his memory and quietly closed the door.

My business colleagues and friends always tried to convince me that I should have a gorilla on the door but I maintained it was my house and I would be the one who showed them in: or out!
Again, it was the Army that had taught me a few things and tenacity was certainly one of them.

The rumours that the club was for sale went around Cheltenham like wildfire. Sadly some of my best clients and friends also heard and were quite distraught with the knowledge that I was thinking of selling up. They even tried to create a co-operative to buy me out but unfortunately too many chefs would not of worked.
I soon had one guy who rose to the bait so we met up to discuss it but it turned out he was a bit of a ‘Wanna be’ and didn’t really have the bunce to buy the place.
It annoyed me really because the club really was a busy place and I was sure it was worth the asking price, I certainly didn’t have the patience for timewasters.

Undaunted I asked Mark Fabian my lawyer and great friend, to recommend an agent to find me a buyer.
With that side of it in hand, we went ahead and ordered the yacht as I was convinced I would find a buyer soon. The yacht was to be started in October and we planned to take it over the following June.

The whole process of planning and uncertainty was taking its toll though so we decided to take a break to cheer us up a bit. We were still struggling to make ends meet so I took out a loan on my mortgage to have our ‘last’ holiday. As far as the building society was concerned I would be installing double-glazing, burglar alarms and central heating but instead we opted for three weeks in Mauritius, sorry about that but you did get your money back!

We packed our bags and water skis, and soon we were flying across the world to Mauritius, like the Seychelles but with waiter service one brochure read. Sounded good to me.
We arrived at the Hotel Brabant Morne late afternoon and as the sun set on the horizon we watched a guy skiing out in the lagoon.
What a perfect location, the Indian Ocean pounding on the reef a couple of hundred yards away and beautiful calm clear water on the inside.
We were sat on the jetty watching this powerful skier. When he returned to the shore he came over to us and asked if we wanted a go, “Thanks but we’ve only just arrived after a seventeen hour flight so we’ll give it a miss, we’ll be here tomorrow though. You staying here long?”
He laughed and told us he was the manager there so yes, he would be there tomorrow. He was in training for a round the Island ski race so he would be skiing most days. His name was Jean Marc and he welcomed us wholeheartedly to his Hotel.
He introduced us to Francis the boat driver and before long we were exchanging stories over a rum punch.
We spent the next three weeks skiing, sailing and learning to scuba dive. What a place to learn, incredible clear water amazing aquatic life. We hired a car and went all around the island marvelling at its diverse cultures and scenery.
We’d arranged the trip to coincide with Di’s birthday, by then we’d made friends with all the instructors and were made to feel at home with them.
We spent Di’s birthday driving to Chamarel Falls, a natural park with a waterfall and some spectacular views. The volcanic earth there changed colour as the sun moved through the sky and it was the most impressive place we had ever been to. In the evening we watched a floorshow in the adjoining Hotel and Jean Claude ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate.
The following day we invited to try our hand at barefoot skiing, something we’d seen but never believed we could actually do our selves. They had a great system of learning. A metal pole was rigged to the side of the powerful ski boat and they put an old windsurfer in the water next to it. The principle was that you sat on the board gripping the sides of it with your feet whilst holding onto the pole, when the boat driver told you so you allowed the board to slip behind you and voila there you were walking on water at 40 knots. OK well it sounds a lot easier than it was but I managed to do it first time, which impressed me and judging by the grins on the faces in the boat, them too.
Di’s turn and I was a little worried, as it was such a strenuous thing to attempt. It gives you a clue about Di’s toughness that although the first attempt sent her flying through the air with an awful crash, she got right back up on the thing and did it on the second run.
Poor girl suffered the next day with a black eye but what a feat.
We spent most of time with Francis, the ski instructor Dominic, Mick our scuba teacher and the rest of the crew; even going back to their digs in the next lagoon. We played guitar under a full moon drinking Green Island Rum with the surf crashing in the background, it was the most amazing experience.
Of course everyone got to hear of our sailing plans and we vowed to return one day, hopefully in our own boat, we were better equipped now with a wealth of experience under our belts.

All too soon our holiday came to an end and we boarded the Jumbo en route to the UK once more. As we circled the island on take off we knew we had had a very privileged experience.
Back in the UK we had a call from Westerlys to invite us to the boatyard to see our yacht being built.
We drove down there and as we walked around the yacht watching carpenters and engineers working on her, it all seemed a little surreal. We were that excited Di took her new camera with her, except it would have been a better idea to put a film in it….

It was time to make the decision to do this thing or not.

We were convinced that we could do it; we’d spoken about little else in the last two years. One of our turning points was reading the book Sell Up And Sail, an excellent informative book that concluded with a questionnaire entitled the Ulysses Quotient.
We filled it in, avidly waiting to see if we were made of the right stuff. It asked questions of our life onshore, our business or family ties, our hobbies sports etc.
The three answers it gave were: -
A. Thank you for reading this book, keep it by your bedside and dream on.
B. There is a distinct possibility of you sailing away one day but not yet.
C. What are you waiting for?

Well I’m sure it doesn’t take a genius to work out which answer we received but it was satisfying to hear it from someone else all the same.
So that was it, we made our minds up to do it and do it we would.

3. A Decision Made

So we slept on it and by the morning my resolution was even stronger.
Diana worked in the day at her salon, which left me with plenty of time to consider my rash decision. I just couldn’t get the recent memories of sailing out of mind. I realised that is was a huge undertaking so back to the bookstores to find out who else had done it.
I found the Hiscocks’ and Francis Chichester books an exciting read, although filled with near disasters and fraught with difficulties, if they could do it why couldn’t we?
Claire Francis, Lyn and Larry Pardy, even the couple whose boat had sunk and they ended up 117 days adrift didn’t stop my daydreaming of a life on the ocean wave.
Adlard Coles heavy weather sailing books, you name it, if it had sailing as a subject; I read it. I tried to imagine every eventuality and still wasn’t put off this incredible idea.
Of course as usual, financing such a project reared its ugly head time after time and if we were to do it then we’d better start talking hard cash. We sat down and worked out our yearly expenses; mortgage repayments, rates, cars, phone bills, holidays etc. all taken into consideration. I was amazed by how many expenses that we took for granted on land would become superfluous by living on a boat. I figured we could live at half the price on the sea if we planned it correctly.

My club partner Dennis, was an ex accountant and had taught me everything I knew about running a business. I wasn’t a rich man at all; I’d been working twelve hours a day seven days a week running his off license for two years.
I’d tried to persuade Dennis to buy the club for months as the owner was getting too long in the tooth to keep it going and he wanted out.
Dennis and I sat down and worked out the finances for it but the asking price for a short lease was way over priced and Dennis told me to forget it.
Lo and behold six months later the lease for the club came up for grabs when the former owner was suddenly declared bankrupt.
As he’d owed money to the off license, Dennis and I went to a creditors meeting, only to find out that the guy had formed a limited company and we could whistle for our few hundred pounds.
We sat around the table disheartened and ready to leave, when the landlords’ agent leaned over to me and said “You look like a good business man, why don’t you take over the lease of the club so that my client can make up for his losses? You can have it free of charge, all I want for my client is that he gets some rent coming in.”
I sat there in my one and only suit and tie and of course agreed with him wholeheartedly. Did I really look like a businessman?
Trying to keep my cool I answered “Well Sir, it’s not actually what I had in mind when we came here but the offer warrants some thought. Can I give you a call tomorrow?”
My heart was pounding too much to say anything else and with that we left, shaking hands all round.

“Did you hear that Den’?” I asked as we closed the door behind us.
“I bloody well did mate.” He cackled, rubbing his little accountant hands together.
“It beats the crap out of the hundred grand the old bastard wanted to sell it for originally.”

I couldn’t believe it and rightly so because the next day the agent told me he’d reconsidered and was thinking of putting the club on the market. My dream of free ownership was shattered as quickly as it appeared. There was only one thing to do, go out and get drunk. I went off to the local wine bar and poured out my story to Mike the wine bars’ owner, whilst he poured me a glass of wine.
“So why don’t you just offer him a few grand for the lease?” he said.
“Basically because I have enough to pay for my drinks and that’s the limit of my finances Michael. Of course I could ask Dennis for it but then I wouldn’t be his partner, just another bloody manager.”
“Well you could offer the agent some money anyway and see what happens, no?”
“Hmm you have a point. He doesn’t know I’m skint does he?”

I stayed awake most of the night mulling the idea over in my head and bright and early the next morning phoned the agent.
“Good morning Mr Mews. I’ve been thinking this club thing over and I can offer you ten thousand pounds for the lease but it would have to start afresh. What do you think?”
I could hardly hold the phone steady as he took a few seconds to reply.
“Well Mr Miller, I think that would be acceptable. Come to my office tomorrow and we shall draw up the necessary papers. Congratulations.”
My head was spinning, now what would I do?
I phoned Dennis up and told him if he still wanted the club I could arrange it but it would cost him ten grand to be my fifty fifty partner.
“Of course we would have to borrow some money to renovate the place but what do you think?” I asked.
“Too bloody right mate.” He replied immediately.
“Lets go for it.”

So, using Dennis’ £10k and my newfound wily business skills I arranged a new lease. With the banks money I put a small team together and we turned the once defunct club into a going concern in six intensive working weeks.
The club was a successful venture but it was a tough business to be in. I was the doorman and manager whilst Dennis kept the accounts and supplied us with booze from his wine shipping company and off licenses.
Two years into the venture he decided he’d had enough as he had financial problems with his new wine company. He informed me he wanted to sell the club and call it quits. I was devastated.
I had a hundred percent mortgage on my one up one down terraced house and little else in the bank, now what was I to do?

Not to be outdone I organised a bank loan through one of the local breweries and offered Dennis a tidy sum to buy his half of the club, which he accepted. However for some unknown reason he then decided to renege on the deal and so we went from being best friends and business partners one minute to arch enemies the next.

This completely upset the apple cart. My dreams of the future started to fade pretty quickly as every day bought a new problem of ownership. Luckily I had a great friend and ally as my solicitor and between us we slowly started to change the situation into my favour.
Still the matter was unsettled but things would change I was sure of it.
The months rolled by and we kept the dream alive by visiting boat shows and marinas looking for the perfect vessel to sail away in. I scoured the for sale adverts in every sailing magazine I could get my hands on. We drove down to the south coast at every opportunity to tour around the marinas checking prices on used boats. We had decided on a possible budget for our venture but it was becoming increasingly apparent that we needed a miracle to achieve our goal and if we were going to have our miracle why not have a big one?
Early January and we travelled up to the Earls Court Boat Show to spend the day drooling over the latest shiny yachts on offer. As we walked with the flow of people we entered the exhibition centre and there she was. We held hands and stared up at the most beautiful sight.
A 34ft Westerly Seahawk.
We joined the queue of people and giggled nervously as we approached the steps leading up to this magnificent yacht.
“Are you sure we can afford a new boat?” Di asked.
“Well not today but there’s no harm on looking is there?” I replied.

We took off our shoes and reverently climbed into the new smelling yacht. We poked and prodded the interior checked out the aft owner suite with full headroom and generally got very excited.
The Westerly salesman sat with us for a while and explained the need for a decision to made to purchase this fine yacht as only a limited number were being produced over the next twelve months.
“If you want, I can take a deposit now that will put you on the owners list.”
“Well we’re not sure yet as we have other boats to consider.” I lied.
“What sort of deposit are you looking for?” I asked.
“Five hundred pounds would book a new build for you if you’re seriously interested,” he replied.
Di and I looked at each other and in a fit of madness I took out my chequebook and scribbled out a cheque.
“There you go. Now what happens?”
“Give me your details and we can arrange a test sail at the next Plymouth Boat Show. If you’re still interested by then we can put your name on the next yacht that comes out of the yard.”
My lips were stretched in a smile so big that I found it hard to sip the glass of champagne he offered us.
Di and I left the yacht and entered back into the throng of people not really believing what we’d just done.
Di was beside herself. On one hand she thought I was crazy but on the other hand she knew I was; well a little anyway.
“How are we going to afford this Boy?” She asked me.
“Haven’t a clue but it felt right so let’s go for it, all we can lose is five hundred quid and at least we get a sail down in Plymouth.”

She reminded me that up to this point she hadn’t been sailing herself yet.
“What happens if I don’t like it or I get seasick or whatever?”
“It was you that got me into this to begin with my lovely girl, of course you’ll love it.”

In the meantime poor Dennis had been diagnosed with cancer. He’d never been a fit guy to begin with. He would go into coughing fits that used to scare the hell out of me. Mainly due, no doubt, to the drum of cigars he used to carry around with him. I could never understand why he had to smoke a cigar while he shaved in the morning.
His wife phoned and asked if we could settle our affairs, something I was longing to do but still he had some unknown reason for keeping the feud going. It was proving to be a long hard battle but I had kept my side of the bargain and I had nothing to feel guilty about.
We met at his house one morning but as he couldn’t or wouldn’t give me a reason for his actions I left, completely exasperated by his behaviour.

A month or so later Di and I went down to Portsmouth to see an old friend Gerry who was a petty officer on HMS Ulysses. They were getting ready to go off to the Gulf and invited us to their going away party onboard. At the same time Westerleys had contacted us and asked if we wanted go to the Plymouth Boat Show to have a trial sail on a Seahawk. Of course we jumped at the chance. It seemed quite fortuitous to be doing the two things on the same weekend.

The party was fun; the matelots were in fine patriotic from, showing us around the ship with pride. I felt a bit out of place considering what we were planning to do the next day, knowing that the boys had completely different plans.

We woke up bright an early the following day and even had time to visit HMS Victory for a sightseeing trip.
We arrived at the boat show too early to meet up with Steve, the Westerly salesman, so we decided to take a ‘grockle’ boat ride around the Plymouth Sound. As it was a nice day we went up on the top deck of the boat and sat there admiring the view as we pulled out of the harbour. As the boat swung around I noticed a very odd couple stood on the shore staring at us intently. A very tall gypsy lady in a black shawl with a huge gold earring stood holding the hand of a dwarf.
I nudged Di “Skim my blims Di, look over there, witches an’ dwarfs, is that an omen or what?”
“Don’t stare Boy, it’s rude!”
Rude or not they kept eye contact with me until we moved slowly out of sight. By the way ‘skim my blims’ was one of our daft phrases that we used, as you does, doesn’t yoon? Well ween did anyway.
We cruised around the Sound, taking in the sights watching the submarines, frigates and supply ships, all with a full compliment of flags flying in the breeze. I’m sure war wasn’t that colourful in the Army.
The trip lasted about forty minutes or so and as we turned back into the harbour, my ‘witch and dwarf’ were still in the same place.
“Don’t you think that’s really a bit spooky girl,” I asked Di.
“I shall have to look it up when we get home,” she replied.
Di and I were very much into horoscopes and the like, not just the daily paper stuff but Chinese horoscopes, biorhythms, psychic phenomena etc. I was also a great believer in self-hypnosis too, something I’d practised in my Army days and still kept up with.
I’d had a near death experience as a child and again at sixteen so the working of the mind fascinated me. It helped me with everything I did, especially when it came to learning new subjects, Di used to say “You been up in the loft again?” after my meditations.
However it was time for a real world experience so we went off in search of Steve and the boat of our dreams.
It was sunny day with a fresh breeze so it was a perfect day for a sail. Steve had bought his friend Peter with him so we were quite happy, and relieved, that these two experienced sailors would Show us the ropes. They quickly readied the boat and we motored off, back into the Sound.
My sailing course had been a year ago and I was racking my brain for sensible questions and comments, without showing that I was really a bit of a ‘rookie’.
Peter went forward and hoisted the mainsail as Di and just grinned at each other. Once Peter had returned into the cockpit and the engine turned off the yacht heeled over and she cut gracefully through the water.
“Well Boyo, do you want to have a go?” Steve asked.
I was nervous as hell as this was a yacht with a steering wheel not a rudder like the Plas Menaii one. I took the wheel and after a little while soon got the hang of it. I had mixed feelings about the whole escapade. The yacht seemed huge from what I was used to, much higher due to the cabin below our feet, so that when the yacht heeled over I felt as if I would fall over.
Di took the wheel for a time and judging by the beatific smile on her face she had no qualms about my ideas now.
As we sailed back into the harbour I knew I had to have one of these incredible yachts, the job was on!
We tied up on the quayside and Steve opened a bottle of Champagne, he must have carried a supply with him wherever he went!
“So what do think Boyo? Do you like her? If you do, there’s three coming out of the yard this year. If you want one, we can arrange which one has your number on it.”
I explained our predicament to Steve and we decided it would be better to leave it until I knew what was happening with the club. After all, the only way we were going to afford the yacht was if a miracle happened.
He understood my situation and we agreed that I could order the last yacht of the year to be produced and if I changed my mind I could cancel it, although I would lose my deposit. I suppose he had to fund the Champagne somehow.
So we left in good spirits and promised to let him know our progress.
Back in the car we sped up the motorway back to Cheltenham. It was obvious that Di now had the bug too. She had the same sort of verbal diarrhoea that I’d had when I came back from Anglesey.
We relived the sail trial a dozen times in the car; it was all I could do to keep my concentration on the road.
“So what do you think of your witches and dwarfs now then Boy?”
“It was sign my lovely girl, it was a sign.”
I looked at my watch to check our progress and then it hit me.
“Do you realise what the date is today?” I asked.
“Oh my God it’s April the first!” She replied looking at her watch.
“I’ve only just realised it myself. Now if that’s not a sign I don’t know what is.”

When we first met I told Di that for the last sixteen years, important, even life changing things happened to me on or around April 1st.
Not All Fools Day for me, no sir.

2. Ibiza First Stop

Di’s friends Nola and her husband Ted, showed us the quiet bars and restaurant in the area and the evenings were spent regaling them of our high sea adventures.
Port Des Torrent has a great restaurant called The Magon. A family business owned and run by Juan and Liz. At the time he’d just closed a nightclub in the basement of the restaurant, The Heart Break Hotel; quite famous in it’s day due to Juan’s good management and his London based partners musical connections.
We were amazed when Juan asked us if we wanted to go out with him the next day on his little boat.
Even more amazed when he turned with a roaring ‘cigarette’ type speedboat emblazoned with ‘Heart Break Hotel’ down the sides of it in huge pink letters.
We were the envy of the beach as roared into the bay and nudged the boat up to the rocks and we stepped on like film stars.

Hmm how could I get my club to afford this sort of lifestyle?

As we sped out of the bay his partners wife, all tanned and all naked appeared on the horizon driving ‘Heart Break Two’, posey or what?
To top it all Juan asked Di if she wanted to ski. Talk about a dog with two tails. She was over the side like a flash, mono ski on and a grin that dazzled the both of us more than sun on the water.
I’m not sure who was more excited. Di at the end of the rope crossing the wake like a pro, or me and Juan grinning from ear to ear as we watched her.

I couldn’t believe that in one short week I’d gone from a complete landlubber into a ‘seasoned’ water sports expert, well almost! I did have an attempt at water skiing too but the short-lived success of getting up on two skis definitely didn’t prepare me for the rigours of mono skiing. It did raise my respect for Diana, that was for sure.

We arrived back in Cheltenham fit, tanned and with a different outlook on life. I kept up the guitar playing, I definitely needed the practise but my weekends started to take on a new meaning. I bought a couple of new boards for the both of us and we took every opportunity, rain or shine, to flaunt our skills on the lakes.

The club still took up most of my time and Diana’s Beauty Salon in Gloucester was getting busy by the day, so although we were both successful in our own way, the call of the water was also very strong indeed. We talked about buying a lease on one of the gravel pits next to where we used to windsurf with the idea of starting a water ski school. I had it all planned but as the deal started to get closer, I looked at the lake with my practised engineers eye and found it had been surveyed wrong; a quick row out in a skiff I tested the depth with a pole and confirmed my suspicions. I quickly abandoned the project.
We took a couple of holidays to Malta in a water sports complex and tried our hand at jet skis, small catamarans and dinghy sailing as well as improving our windsurfing and skiing.

Before my newfound interests, Diana had been with some friends to Plas Menaii, an adventure holiday centre in Anglesey. So we decided to travel up there with some of her business colleagues on a long weekend. We had a riotous time, lots of boozing with the mind numbing cold of the Menaii Straits sobering us up the following mornings.
There was a noticeable ‘us and them’ situation there, with the yachties in one bar and the windsurfing/skiing crowd in the other.
Never the twain shall meet.
It reminded of the stories of Francis Chichester I’d heard of when I was a kid, white trousers, Breton caps and Gin and tonics for the yachties. Colourful logos on our trendy clothes and depth chargers (a tot of Pernod or such, in a glass, sunken into a pint of beer or lager) for us.
Range Rovers, BMW’s and Jaguars for them and Ford Escorts and Volkswagens for us.

And then it happened!

Back home in Cheltenham we were sat in bed one Sunday morning reading the newspapers, when Diana told me she was going on a trip to Paris, visiting some of the famous make up laboratories and fashion houses.
“How long will you be gone for?”
“It’s only a three day trip, I’m sure you can manage without me for that long,” she smiled.
“Hmm not too sure about that. What’s a boy supposed to do when you’re gone?”
“You’ll be OK but I won’t go if you’re going to miss me too much.”
“That’s alright I’ll just sulk for a few days, you go and enjoy yourself. No go on I’ll be OK. No honest I will.”
Feigning a more than a little sadness I thumbed through my very first Yachting Monthly magazine and saw an advert for Plas Menaii Sailing Courses.
“Ok then, if you’re going to Paris I’m going sailing.”
“What? You can’t go without a girl!”
“Wanna bet?”
With that I picked up the phone and my credit card and booked a Competent Crew, four day sailing course.
“You little bugger, you can’t!”
“Just done it. That’ll teach you to leave me, pout pout.”

I couldn’t believe it myself; I didn’t have a flat cap or a BMW let alone deck shoes and a blue jumper. Besides that I didn’t know one end of a yacht from another. I couldn’t even remember seeing one in my life, except for the Gypsy Moth IV, Francis Chichester’s famous little yacht, that had been parked outside of Cheltenham Police Station when I was about twelve years old.
However as I said, six years in the Army didn’t render me completely incompetent so I bought a few books on navigation and sailing techniques, bought every sailing magazine I could lay my hands on and before I knew it I was boarding the train to Anglesey.

A couple of weeks later there I was being briefed in the very bar we’d been looking into only months previously. Of course this time I was one of them.

I thought our Ibiza holiday had changed my way of life but I was definitely not prepared for the way that sailing would change me. I loved it. We were shown around the yacht that dark, damp evening and as soon as I set foot on her I knew I had entered the Promised Land. It seemed that my very existence had been geared up solely for this moment.
Yes I could tie knots, yes I knew how to work a VHF radio, yes I knew all about diesel engines, yes I knew the principles of sailing, yes I knew the basics of navigation. What were we waiting for? Lets go.
We left the quayside the next morning under the expert supervision of John Mills, a real salty old seadog. We were taught the names of every item on the boat, how to plot a course, how to work out tides, how to manage sails, how to lower and raise the anchor. The first time I took over the rudder was like a revelation, all the windsurfing techniques came to the fore but I was dry and sat down.
I was quickly labelled the teachers pet by the rest of the crew but I didn’t care I wanted to learn it all, we all got along famously, each of us with something in common, the desire to sail.
Poor John didn’t know what hit him. My constant questions would of annoyed most people but he took it all in his stride.

Our first voyage was a couple miles up river running with an eight knot tide, the most amazing experience. The boat was only moving five knots but combined with the tide we were making thirteen knots over the ground. Awe inspiring to have all that power beneath your keel but the thrill of it all overcame any fear.
We moored up that night alongside the nearest pub, what a way to live. We planned our next day over dinner and a few pints; the constant banter between new acquaintances all linked with the same desire was something that I held very dear.
Waking up with the rising tide at six o’clock did nothing to dampen our enthusiasm, as we pushed off into the morning calm the lessons learnt from the previous day all came together and we sailed into the open sea for the first time.
I loved the fact that we took all day to reach a few miles up the coast, no stress, no rush, just the wind in our sails and the sea beneath us seemed the most natural thing in the world.
Our route planning took us across the channel to the Isle of Man, an eight-hour trip that culminated in a landfall just before dark. The thrill of arriving at our first island under sail was something never to be forgotten, beats the hell out of a manic trip up a motorway only to arrive somewhere tired and stressed out.
The Isle of Man was the perfect location too; it was like stepping back in time. Ancient harbours and even more ancient villages seemed a lifetime away from the bustle of the normal life I was used to. As we ate breakfast in the cockpit the next morning a sea lion popped his head up behind the yacht looking for scraps of food, not the sort of thing I saw in my little cul de sac in Cheltenham.
Unfortunately all good things come to end and after a calm uneventful voyage back to Anglesey we found ourselves saying our goodbyes promising to write and wishing each other fine sailing.
“John,” I asked, “before I go, what do you reckon? Do I have what it takes to go further with this sailing stuff? I really want to have a go at sailing round the world, or part of it anyway.”
For the first time that week he took of his Breton cap and scratched his balding head.
“Well, I can honestly say that I’ve never had as many questions fired at me in such a short time,” he laughed.
“I see no reason at all why you shouldn’t be able to. If you think my instruction has given you that much confidence, then I’m sure you will do well.”
I arrived back in Cheltenham with my brain on fire and my mouth in over drive. Di and our best friend and ace windsurfer Lyn, picked me up from the train station and after a quick shower and change we headed off to my club.
I listened to Di’s tales of Paris but I couldn’t stop thinking about my own trip.
“What do you reckon lovely girl? Do you fancy selling everything to go and live on a boat?”
I certainly wasn’t prepared for her answer but one look in her eyes told me she was equally excited as I was.
“Well I think we’d better sleep on it first but if your asking, I’m going with you.”I certainly wasn’t prepared for her answer but one look in her eyes told me she was equally excited as I was.

1. Not a Sailors Background

I was never ‘into’ the water. I’d had some bad experiences over the years. I’d learnt to swim as a child but it was always a difficult thing to come to terms with.
I’d been thrown in the deep end of the local swim baths when I was six, nearly drowning me in the process and I’d burst both eardrums when I was sixteen, whilst diving of the rocks in Malta; something that left me with a fear of water that I’d never quite gotten rid of. That is until I met Diana.
I was thirty-two when we first met, a partner in a small but successful nightclub in Cheltenham and my idea of relaxation was to sit at home with my guitar and pass the time with my feet firmly on dry land.
I’d opened my club a year previously on June 6th the anniversary of D Day, strangely enough two days after Diana had started her beauty salon, completely unknown to me, ten miles away in Gloucester. Our relationship started after I saw her walk in a wine bar one evening with friends. I was stood at the bar with my manager Gary when this vision of loveliness floated by. The vision smiled, waved and then drifted out of sight leaving me love struck and wanting more.
”Whooaa did you see her Gaz?”
“Oh yeah that’s Di, you know ‘er, she’s bin down the club a few times.”
“I‘ve never seen her and trust me I know I would remember her, “ I replied.
“Aah that’s '‘cos you never let her in, you pratt!”
“Rubbish I’m telling you I’ve never seen her before.”
‘She’ came to the door that night and after I charged her the entry fee, (I might have been love struck but business was business,) we struck up a conversation and hit it off immediately.
Diana was different; a beautiful twenty six year old go-getter, she windsurfed, water-skied and would regale me with tales of her water baby activities.
Of course me being a macho nightclub owner I couldn’t bring myself to tell her of my innate fear of the water, so I just shrugged it off by saying I wasn’t interested at all in her silly water sports.
She would spend her weekends and every other opportunity going to the gravel pits outside Cirencester pursuing her love of the water and I would sit strumming my guitar until my fingers blistered.
We didn’t see much of each other initially, although she moved in with me pretty soon, hers was a morning start and I wouldn’t get home until at least four am. She would come down to the club on a Friday and Saturday night with friends but even then I was working and she didn’t really like to be with me at the door too much. It was OK when the initial rush was over but I would have at least a hundred clients ringing the doorbell within the first hour of opening, in itself not a problem but I also had to sift through the people to weed out drunks and non-members, some nights not so easy as others. There would be the odd altercation at he door but at least it would stop there and rarely did I have any trouble inside.
The only day we would have together was a Sunday if the weather stopped her from windsurfing, in which case we would enjoy a relaxing lunch in a Hotel or country pub, only to return home and flake out in front of a video.
Things started to change when we visited a good friend of mine on the south coast near Bournemouth.
We strapped her wind surfer on to the top of the car and headed off down south.
Wary of the water I might have been but I’d spent six years in the Royal Engineers and there wasn’t much I didn’t know about knots and lashings, so I would end up setting up her board, while she changed into her wet suit or steamer. I envied the way she would step right up onto the thing and off she would go into the sun. I would sit on the bank secretly wishing I could be alongside her.

After the initial trial and error of my first business I was now into the second year and organised enough to be able to take my first holiday.
Diana had some great friends who holidayed in Ibiza and so a few months into our relationship we decided to take a week off and booked an apartment close to them in Port Des Torrent, just outside of San Antonio.
It was a quiet little bay with a beautiful family style beach with just a couple of small bars and restaurants in the adjoining village.
After the first night boozing session with Ted, Nola, Neil and Tonia, we ended up on the beach the following morning and did the typical tourist bit. English newspapers and magazines at the ready we found our patch on the hot sand and soaked up the morning sun.

For all of ten minutes.

“Oh look! They’re windsurfing over there,” Di pointed out a small rocky outcrop with some bamboo sunshades and a few boards.
I used every excuse in the book to avoid going over there but two minutes later we were introducing ourselves to Luciano and Margaret at the ‘school’.
We hired a couple of boards and a few minutes later my private hell began.
As usual Di stepped elegantly on her board and off she went leaving me floundering in the water, desperately trying to get to grips with the monster.
I’d watched enough of Di’s antics to appreciate the theory of it but the practise was proving to be a little harder to achieve.
After scraped shins, sore arms, stubbed toes and a repeated dunking I actually managed to stay on the board long enough to get my first buzz of windsurfing. The wind picked up and I was off.
Unfortunately even Di’s shouted instruction wasn’t enough to teach me how to turn the damned thing around so before I knew it I was halfway out of the bay, heading for Gibraltar, or so it seemed.
Finally the crunch came and I fell off and couldn’t get back on the thing for love nor money.
“Just sit on it and I’ll go and get help.” Di shouted as she went in search of assistance, leaving me grimly hanging on to the board on the high seas, drifting ever further from my beloved terra firma.
I sat on the bucking monster and waited for the cavalry to arrive, realising for the first time that I was way out of my depth but strangely at least unafraid.
Twenty minutes later Luciano turned up with a dinghy to tow me back to the shore.
“I’m sorry my friend. I didn’t realise you couldn’t windsurf properly. If you want I could give you a few lessons.”
I had to admit I’d enjoyed the few seconds of my first sailing trip so I readily agreed and he started his instruction. On dry land with a simulator, much better idea; theory I could deal with.
Luciano was a great instructor, I suppose Di could of taught me but you know what it’s like, the ‘never teach your wife to drive a car’ syndrome.

After an hour or so I was back in the water, this time on the end of a long line! By the end of day I was set free and I was tacking like I’d lived on the thing for years.
Forget the beach loungers and the newspapers I was hooked. I was a windsurfer.
Luciano and Margaret quickly became friends and we were invited to end the day with a few beers and a BBQ on rocks.
As Luciano started to get kitted up in a wetsuit and flippers he asked if I wanted to come along and catch some fish for the meal.
I eyed up the lead weights he was putting around his waist and became more than a little anxious.
“I’m sorry” he said “but I only have one dive belt and spear gun but if you can hold the net bag for me it would make life a lot easier,” he declared.
Relieved that I wouldn’t have to go underwater, I agreed and slipped into his spare wetsuit. At least I had some buoyancy and it was obvious I was with someone who knew his stuff.
I loved it, following him while he repeatedly dove under water returning with a fish on the end of the spear. It was the first time I’d been snorkelling in clear water and just to see him dive to six or seven meters was quite a thrill. I told him so over a few beers that evening.
I also owned up to my fear of water because of my eardrum experience.
“You mean you didn’t equalise the pressure in your ears when you went under?” Luciano asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Well every time you go under water you should hold your nose through the mask and blow until your ears pop. That way you stop the pain in your ears by filling up the cavities with air, this stops the water pressure affecting them.”
To me this was like a bolt of lightning out of the blue. How could it be? Thirty two years old and nobody had taught me this one simple procedure?
We talked and drank long into the night and I felt like I’d been reborn.

The following day we were back on the rocks. I tried out Luciano’s theory and lo and behold I could finally go underwater without pain or fear, incredible.
My windsurfing skills picked up rapidly and I was like a kid with a new toy. If I wasn’t skimming over the water I was diving underneath it. How cool was that?