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?