When Lord Muck surprised me with an early Valentine’s present – a five-day sailing course in Gibraltar, I was over the moon. With only a couple of days to prepare, I spent the time wisely – hitting the shops for the perfect nautical wardrobe. We’re talking Breton stripes, crisp white cropped trousers, and pretty deck shoes. A surefire investment as they’d get so much use once I had learned to sail and we were sipping Mai Tais on deck, sailing around the world to Tahiti.
However, from the moment I stepped onto the 48-foot yacht and nearly fell to my death off the passerelle (a glorified gangplank) I realised sailing was not going to be as easy as I had imagined. The yacht was so cramped it appeared to be designed for marines, not mortals. The skipper bore a striking resemblance to Captain Bligh. And I quickly discovered that “ducking” wasn’t optional – it was a survival skill. By day two, my poor head had suffered so many bumps from the boom – whose sole purpose in life appeared to be to decapitate me – that I started to wish I had Fletcher Christian on board to save me. Or at least make me a Mai Tai.
Lord Muck, naturally, took to sailing like a duck to water. I, however, spent most of the time floundering like a fish out of it. I couldn’t tell port from starboard and thought the tiller was some sort of fancy serving spoon. Knots? Don’t get me started. The “bowline” might as well have been a riddle in ancient Greek. Every time I tied one, it somehow ended up resembling a small child’s spaghetti art project. Captain Bligh II looked on, clearly wishing he was back in 1789 when flogging was allowed.
And then there was the issue of my stomach. The Straits of Gibraltar, it turns out, are not forgiving to those of us without sea legs. I spent an alarming amount of time leaning over the rail, turning green, while Lord Muck patted my back sympathetically. Meanwhile, my hair transformed into an electrified bird’s nest – a shocking state which to be fair, probably deserved to be punished by a keelhauling.
By day three, my optimism had well and truly drowned. After failing yet again to steer without going completely off course, I burst into tears. “I can’t do this; I want to go home!” I wailed. Lord Muck, bless him, was endlessly patient. “You’re doing great, darling,” he said, though his sideways glance at Captain Bligh II suggested otherwise.
By the end of the course, my shipmates had all mastered the dark arts of tacking, gybing, and docking. Me? I had mastered the art of staying out of the way.
As we disembarked, I have never been happier to touch solid ground. Lord Muck, on the other hand, seemed genuinely bereft. I could see his dreams of a round-the-world voyage slipping further away with every step we took down the gangplank. Right up until the moment I saw the good captain hand him his card: “You just give me a call if you fancy joining my crew. Got a trip leaving from the West Indies to Tahiti next month”. At which point, I watched in amusement as Lord Muck picked up his pace and legged it down the dock. Seems I wasn’t the only one terrified of Captain Bligh II…
Postcards from Andalucía, Lady Muck Style
By Catherine Saunders / Read more at www.ladymuck.style
