Anyone who has worked with me knows that the day when my sailing magazine “Yachting Monthly” is delivered, is the day that I lose twenty minutes productivity, as I can’t resist having that first quick look through its pages right then right there. YM is full of new boat and gear reviews, skippers tips, cruising experience write ups, and on the last page, a regular column called “Confessions”, where yachties ‘fess up to their mistakes. I’ve decided to try writing my own “Confessions” column...
Before I’d even left sunny Mirdiff, I tried baking bread, for those future long spells away from Spinneys. My first loaf had a consistency such that Helen suggested that I could take it as a spare anchor. That’s not kind.
A confession on Bernard’s behalf; he also moulded a second spare anchor enroute to the Maldives. He blamed it on the gas running out. The real confession comes when I went to use the oven two weeks later and noticed... that he’d left the gas turned on. Luckily there is an automatic safety valve, preventing me turning Aroha into a mushroom cloud next time I put the kettle on.
I’ve heard many a time of sailors on night watch swerving wildly to hitting the moon or some other celestial body. I didn’t swerve, but do admit to reaching for the binoculars to study a faint, distant light off our starboard beam, being... earth’s very own moon.
During night watches, I’ve also cleverly identified several times the reflection of our own bow lights, reflected in the curve of the stainless steel pulpit: “Christ, we’re heading towards something with a red and a green light on it!!” Oh yeah, that’d be the front of the boat....
The tuk tuk drivers in Galle were so timid that after a misunderstanding on my part, I succeeded in negotiating a fare UP to almost two times the requested fare (as Helen was kind enough to point out). The final fare was about USD1.40, so it wasn’t too painful a mistake...
When we first cleared into Galle harbour, we moored alongside a floating pontoon. It wasn’t ideal- both wind and surge were on our beam. Our agent suggested we move to an alternative location on the other side of the harbour, and took me there on the back of his bike for a look. I looked at the wall, the fixing points for the mooring lines, thought about how the boat would rise and fall against the wall with the tide. “It’s very busy here. Is there good security?” I asked. My agent gestured towards two security posts each about fifty metres away. One was manned by port security with a twelve gauge shotgun, the other by navy personnel with a submachine gun. His look was slightly apologetic, inquisitive as to whether this is the level of yacht-protection I’m accustomed to. “Yeah, that’ll do.”
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