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The Skipper has a tale to tell...
Twenty two years ago I decided to introduce my son and daughter to the great reason for being on this
planet. The sea. Not for splashing in or for diving in, skiing on or parascending over
but, simply, to sail.
Without elaborating, relations with my wife, at that moment, were stretched to the point of no return
but, for once, I put my foot down and insisted on having my own way.
Being of the mind that it is difficult, if not downright impossible, to teach a relative to drive, I reckoned teaching a person to sail might fall into the same category of endeavour.
Thinking that it may just be a shrewd idea, I decided to rent a boat through a sail training organisation and have my children initiated in the basics of sailing by
a 'professional'.
Before I continue, and this magazine is inundated with huffing and puffing blue, and white, ensign wavers, I must point out to the reader that this was more than twenty years ago and things have doubtless changed since then...
So it was that, on a bluff October day, 12 year-old Emma Charlotte, her brother, James Daniel Horatio, aged 10, and myself, arrived in my tired old Bentley at Emsworth.
We were met by a blue-blazered degenerate, reeking of gin - Gordons, as it happened - whom we shall call 'Captain' Berty Hogwash since I do not remember his name and he probably wouldn't want me to.
This character blundered about his dear old premises, showing us and the other five 'trainees' our rooms.
It was inferred that, once 'settled in', we should meet him in his bar to discuss the following day's program, after which he wove his way towards the staircase and slurred "Shee yoo le.. le later".
My daughter Emma said "Daddy, I really don't think we will see him later because....I think he's drunk!" James agreed with his sister.
Having unpacked we trooped downstairs but, upon arriving in the bar, we found nobody there to serve drinks. Espying one of those bells, with a plunger mounted in the top, that one can depress with a satisfying slap and elicit a crisp 'ping', I duly rang it and 'Captain Hogwash's wife wandered into the bar to ask what was the matter?
We indicated the fact that a drink would be nice and that we had been told to expect a meeting with our skipper. After studying the ceiling, for a good twenty seconds, the good lady advised us to help ourselves at the bar and be sure to write down what we had had in the 'Honour Book.'
As for the Captain, he would definitely be unavailable until tomorrow. Emma and James exchanged knowing looks.
The following morning, after an enormous, fat-riddled and delicious, breakfast, we were ordered to the bar by a very flushed Captain Berty Hogwash, drenched in Old Spice. He wore a blazer that fitted him rather too tightly, the pockets of which he patted insistently as he ran through the day's planned events.
As he muttered about not having to teach people to sail, it being a vocation, his wife lurched through the door and said "Berty, don't forget, we have to go to the services club to-night. Don't be late."
Our skipper scowled at us and said "Let's go". The time was 8.30a.m. Our short walk to the skipper's jetty, a 'three-oil-drums-and-six-planks' affair was a hoot! Our 'Berty' was not drunk. He was plastered! I am an expert in these things and I am telling you 'Berty' was way past drunk.
Catching Emma or James's eye was to be avoided as, any time I did, their heavenward glances set me off chuckling. Our skipper instructed two girls to row us out to the Rival 39. It was soon apparent that, left to the two girls, we had more chance of being attacked by Vikings than of getting to the Rival.
A large young man volunteered to row us all to the boat and manouvered himself into the right position to do just that.The boat was a substantial skiff and, rowed by our hero, we made the Rival in very little time and the nine of us, including the skipper, clambered aboard.
The skiff was made fast to the Riva'ls permanent mooring and we chugged away from Emsworth, our skipper pointing southward to a distant point ahead and mumbling something about cardinal bouys.
Turning to enquire as to what we were supposed to be observing, I was just in time to see 'Berty' tucking a slender hip flask into his blazer pocket. Looking more closely, now, I recognised a similar outline in the other pocket.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand 'Captain Hogwash' now spluttered "Open that deck locker! Let's see how your rope handling is! You, girl, yes you! Undo and flake that line!"
The girl nearest to me, nervously obeyed and then looked to the skipper who said,"Now put it back as you found it"
The young woman promptly responded, using her elbow and hand to ensure that the loops were even and soon it was done, looking neat and orderly. She then noticed the reddening face of Captain Hogwash, turning crimson with rage. "What?" she asked.
"You", he roared, "Are a member of my crew, not a wretched washer-woman! Here, take the helm". He grabbed the line, shook it out and coiled the rope, as crisp as you like. "Like that, girl, like that! Everyone of you remember and, if you can't do it, practice until you can. Now, in that locker are some short ends. Take 'em out and tie a bowline."
The irrascibility of our Captain amused us - we were obvously interfering with his drinking schedule. His intake of 'Gordons' had sunk below an acceptable (to him) level and, unfortunately, at no time were all of us so involved in bowlines as not to be asking him questions. There was no way he could get in a surreptitious swig.
The remainder of the morning was spent under instruction from the skipper, and very pleasantly spent too. The Rival was quick and responsive, if a little cramped, but it was a beautiful day and the packed lunch, supplied by 'Muriel Hogwash' was a splendid affair. Large loaves of French bread were liberally coated with garlic butter. There was a whole ham and a huge salad, with quite the most delicious dressing in a plastic bottle.
The wine was a bit of a let-down though. Muriel had sent us off with two 1.5 litre bottles of 'Englishmans Folly' or Beaujolais Nouveau.
The French must laugh until their sides ache, at the rigours the British go through to be first to get the undrinkable stuff to England each year.
The food was consumed at record speed, more as a result of the fresh sea air than any real effort expended.The Skipper was offered a paper cup full of wine. He wisely declined, saying that there was only enough for us and that he would wash his lunch down with a 'snifter'. Giving us all a martyr's smile, he took a serious swig from one of his hip flasks, culminating in a wall-to-wall grin and a shout. "Lets get sailing!"
The afternoon was most pleasant and our well-oiled skipper was civility itself. "You lot will do! You may call me Berty!" James and Emma were both really enjoying themselves and had come to find the company of our Captain great fun.
All was well with the world as we surged up the Solent. At that moment, I noticed how low on the horizon the sun was and remembered the skipper's promise to get back early. If we turned back now we would, I reckoned, be back at about seven or eight.
Berty must have read my thoughts, as he shouted "Ready about!" We tied up to the buoy at ten minutes past eight and we all clambered into the skiff. "Muriel's not going to like this." Berty muttered, as the skiff was swiftly sculled to the jetty. As we approached the house Emma nudged me and said "Daddy, we'd better be ready to duck".
We all trooped into the kitchen where, apart from a huge bowl of pasta on the kitchen table, for our supper, the place was empty.
James heard music coming from the 'saloon', so we stayed put. Emma put the kettle on and Berty strode off towards the 'saloon.
'We couldn't help overhearing a slurred voice telling Berty "We've missed our...hic!... cocktails at the club, so I thought I would have mine...hic!...here.".
This was the first day of two hysterical weeks in the company of Berty and Muriel Hogwash. In the next issue of
MarineZine I'll tell you about meeting the skipper's offspring....
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