The true colour of the Med
Third Mate Jean keeping up the family nautical tradition
Ship's Cook and Tillerman i.e. the Third Mate's Mate
Our trusty craft with Jean being advised on parking by the ship's dog
We are blessed to have good friends who own a yacht. Now before you imagine us aboard some glitzy ocean-going sleek white, fully staffed gin palace, this is a proper sailing boat with real sails that you hoist yourself without a battery operated switch, a jib, a mainsail, a tiller and lots and lots of ropes (which I must remember to call sheets). She has a cosy cabin that will sleep four at a squeeze and not a lot by way of luxury facilities. But that's OK, because we had been invited to sail and I was tickled pink.
Last Wednesday, we chugged out of Port Camargue and launched ourselves onto an unsuspecting nautical world. Of the four of us on board, one was an expert sailor, one was in serious training, I had fiddled about with a racing dinghy years ago, and the fourth crew member was willing but relatively untried.
The wind couldn't be described as strong. The term "light" would have worked for a while, and then the word "becalmed" began to be bandied about on board. The mainsail flapped aimlessly and the jib hung like limp washing. It was time to break out the ships biscuits in order to stave off mutiny. I love sailing with men. They have no interest in plates, salads, knives and forks. Give them a hunk of bread, a chunk of sausage, a bottle of water and a thick slice of cold melon, and you've got a happy sailor.
"We're going to put the spinaker up" the Captain informed us. His eye swept around his cowering crew and fortunately landed on the young fit agile pupil. "Remember - one hand for the boat and one for yourself", and the two of them headed forward and did a lot of fiddling about with hanks of rope, short poles with funny names and massive acres of sail. I stayed at my post on the tiller while Jean moved from one side of the boat to the other, keeping some sort of balance while all the action went on at the sharp end.
A rattle of wires, a hauling of rope and a billowing of sail, and the spinaker filled with wind. The yacht reacted like a young horse being turned out into a field. I could feel the craft begin to connect with the tiller and the little pennants on the stay wires began to flap. We were moving forward and instead of the baking sun, we had a fresh breeze on our faces.
Everything connected and for a happy half hour we bowled along with the spinaker making maxium use of the weak wind, but sadly, we were headed for the port once more. I willed the wind to pick up, but it was more likely that it would die totally, and then we would be reduced to the ignominy of either getting back to shore with help from the engine, or being stuck out at sea deciding whether or not we were going to eat the dog.
I am officially hooked - I want to sail again, and soon. And this time, I hope that Mother Nature will play her part and send us a bit more wind. Maybe not the 50 knots that our Captain had once sailed in, but enough to get our pulses racing while we skim across the surface of the incredibly translucent blue Mediterannean sea.
