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.