Tarka and the Bilge

Warning. This is a bit nasty.

Shortly after I met the Dear Northerner she came and me and chumrades to Sardinia for a spot of yachting. Being a lady of delicate sensibilities and somewhat vapourish we decided to practice our nautical wit upon her and suggest that as it was a nature reserve there would be no using the heads for solids at all. Not just wipeage, but jobbies as well.

On her arrival I presented her with dutifully labelled freezer bags and six squares of Mr Andrex's shiniest and said there you go dear - this is your very own personal collection for the week.

Poor dear was so traumatised she was astonishingly constipated for a whole week. A feat she bettered in India mind you - with events coming to a grisly conclusion in a deserving Hotel in Munnar. (Another story - but it took a double Tarka Dhal and three Senokot maxis to dislodge it......)

So Her next sojourn upon the ocean wave was to require a more wholesome methodology for relief.

A plan was hatched.

Now the marine facilities are small-bore by comparison to the British Standard Bog. They tend not to account for neither the modern diet, not the fact they may be needed in a seaway.
A stance must be maintained such that one does not fall off the throne, yet ensure one doesn't feel the effects of one's remains accidentally and at the same time cope with any pitches and rolls, without falling off at the wrong time and Tarka making a break for the bilge to join his mouldering chums below the decking.

Hence was born The 'Tip and Grimace'.

Just think - using grab-rails over-head and wedging the feet against the door one can accommodate all eventualities and not have any embarrassing accidents at the same time - whilst encompassing all the actions and outcomes and grisly nature of it's failure.
For some strange reason we both found this highly amusing (her humour clearly dragged down to my schoolboy level).

The word has now morphed in to merely requiring the bath-room.

Tip and Grimace.

Kind of a ring to it too, eh? Think of it next time you are caught short in the Dog and Duck and need to void yesterday's curry.


I did say this was a nasty post.... :-)

The Chap awards!

Bit of a random one this - but the recipient is thoroughly deserving.

The Golden Pipe award goes to a Mr A. Farrugia of Winchester.

Why? I was aboard his yacht at the weekend - and he demonstrated chappiness beyond the call of duty.
when one is sailing, there is always an element of deprivation. It allows you to shed the clutter of the ordinary life and connect with the cruel mistress that is the sea. We may drink champagne and eat smoked salmon - but essentially there is an element of noble hardship that one expects with a sport that divides the chaps and the chavs.
Mr F has a 'new' boat. Truth be told the hull and rig is nearly as old as me - and the slow process of re-fitting goes on - however she is seaworthy and we took her on her maiden voyage at the weekend.
While underway a suggestion is made to take a dish of tea, on deck like good Christians - in the face of a force 7.

Mr F duly produced the tea - but in best maritime unbreakable cups and saucers.
No mugs for us, oh no. We were able to sit in the cockpit and take tea like honest men.

For this - the golden pipe award is truly well earned.

Back, from outta space

Hello again reader dear.

As you are aware I have been off the grid for a bit. A couple of day's worth of yachting about Ibiza, with some exceptionally heavy drinking and some unfortunate food. I call it unfortunate as it has made me suffer a mild dose of the bloody flux.

We are not talking hallucinations and serious griping pain - but considerable discomfort has ensued and I am restricted in not being too far away from full-bore facilities, preferably with refrigeration close to hand.

Oh, the sailing was fine enough, the scenery is absolutely staggering - but all of us who passed through the apartment taken by my chums has suffered to some extent with 'the slackening'.

This has curtailed both my time and my blogging urges. It has even prevented me from the latest phase of my radio work this evening - which is fortunate as I completely failed to either revise True Bearing calls, nor prepared my flight plan. This I shall do tonight, hopefully between bouts of suffering terribly for my travels.

The only cure I can think of is a heroic dose of the old tincture, but Tesco won't sell it to me anymore and I daren't consume more than a thousand drops. Failing that I think I need to be bled and a slime draft.

More news to follow. If you are lucky it will be followed by sports and weather.

I will express my surprise, though, as in the brief interlude whilst I was off sunning myself and loafing about the White Isle - I return to find that Gordo has bottled the election, England beat Australia in the Rugby and we have even won a one day test series.

I should do these short breaks more often.

The Final Frontier

A whole ago - shortly after he purchased his Yacht - my mate 'Jet-Jaguar' proposed an adventure:

The North West Passage

Previously these attempts have ended with the crew entombed in the ice, going mad from the lead in solder in their tin cans - or worse dying from Vitamin A poisoning from eating Polar Bear liver.

It is one of those sailing adventures which has lured the brave and the bold to an icy doom.

But NOW - looks like it's a goer! Especially as SV Deep Blue has an armoured hull and is rigged for Polar operations.....

Just let me bring my own food, OK?

Drifting home to Lymington

It was indeed a pleasant weekend on the waves, despite it being utterly devoid of wind.

The boat the Scot had arranged was capacious, excessively comfortable and it basically sailed itself.

There were features aboard to which I have a religious objection in British waters - chiefly the presence of bow thrusters and a fully automated windlass operated from the binnacle.
I am sorry to report that our natural revulsion to such toys was rapidly overcome - and there was joy to be had - chiefly in seeing if we could combine an astern prop walk with a countered rudder and a bow thruster to see if we could actually make the whole boat go sideways.

We had absolute newbies aboard too - and I fear their sailing has been spoiled for such opulent luxury means that when they come to do some proper sailing they will be sorely disappointed.
The sun shone and the wine flowed freely - and as such when august company like this gathers - matters soon turn to discussions of unusual natures - particularly as the sailing was very gentle - we had time to dissemble.

One of these conversations stuck in my mind in particular - and I reflected on it on the way home.

One chap aboard was a keen windsurfer and decried the slow pace of yachting about (That's kind of the point in my mind). In particular the discussion hung around whether or not a race carried out at speeds of under 3 knots (walking pace) could actually be in anyway exciting? In some ways - he had a point. Spending a day carefully trimming a sail by an inch in either direction compared to launching skyward at 25 knots are worlds apart.

The hypothesis offered by myself was that as in life as with racing - sometimes it is that slow-burn - the long careful anticipation and chess master tactics required for a challenge like this which deliver the most satisfying excitement.

A wet and wild day where we are physically challenged is one thing - but a day where we need to maintain patient yet total focus over 6 hours when little appears to be going on is often more exhausting and more satisfying a challenge.

I believe it is in effect two different types of problem. Each problem obviously has it's own solution set: A long problem - to move slowly yet determinedly in the belief that your goal will be achieved through patient careful work and sticking with your tactics - compared the raw physical short problem of clinging to the rail in a force 9.

One is fast and furious - makes for great television and is exciting. The other - can be described as watching paint dry - yet it is still race and it is still winnable. It just takes a lot of patience.
I feel there is a parallel in the difficult problems our society face today.
We have become obsessed with the former type of 'race'. Fast, furious, quick results, glory and celebration of those involved.

Unfortunately I think that many of the problems we face as a country can't be fixed like that. We set hares to fix tortoise races - and become disappointed to the point of cynicism when the races are lost. Our culture now demands instant fixes and instant refreshment from problems. But I wonder - if it has taken 30 years for our polite society to decline - can a few quick extra laws, celebrity politicians and press conference solve it?

Long, slow problems may need long slow answers - for quick ones never quite work.
But long slow answers don't make good sound bites.

But I digress.

The sailing was pleasant - if a little crowded at the western end of the Solent - and the Needles were splendid in the early evening light.
Decided to pop in to Lymington to give our new crew a taste of venturing forth there and experience the joys of the river. Which were made ever more joyful by the presence of hot showers and cold champagne.

Ultimately well refreshed, we repaired to a rather good restaurant where we dined upon crab thermidor and fresh sardines amongst other things.

Unfortunately the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur, for once my captainly duties were discharged on return, I collapsed into my bunk only to awake fully clothed the following morning with a hangover from Hades.

The crew (bless 'em) had seen fit to remove my shoes and cover me in a sleeping bag. Mind you, they probably though I kept my banknotes in my shoes and were snaffling them for another run ashore.

The last post this week on Aviating, I promise

Harry Hook had this one in his inimitable style - Goat sacrificed to save 757..
The original story is here in metro. Nepal Airways

Apparently the airline has a fairly sanguine approach to flight safety - borne out by the reluctance to clear out the wreckage from a previous crash at the end of the runway - a point recalled by Sigismund - as he pointed it out to his first wife on their honeymoon.

Now I have considered sacrificing many things to the weather gods to get the very best of thermals, but it normally takes the shape of one's own liver the night before (but 8 hours bottle to throttle, tho'...Ed.)
The next time I am spotted by the CFI slurping tea instead of doing my airframe inspection duties, I can claim that I am merely sacrificing the infusion to the gods, to guarantee the safety of my flight.

But - one for the flying club hangar door - for when we have finished packing the hangar (such a chore) - these chaps also celebrate in style.

Quite a barbecue!

Anyway - as a particular friend pointed out in one of her wittier moments 'If flying is Aviating - then is your Sailing 'Marinating'?'
It will be this weekend old girl. I intend to be suitable marinated.

You may recall dear reader that I been invited to hoist my broad pennant aboard the good ship 'Balooga' this weekend and the XO has sent a provisioning list. Clearly chastened by my tales of superior performance from the crew in the Aegean of late they have tried to raise their game.
On the cookery front at least, as well as in the provision of ample wine.

However:
I have a full suite of 'evolutions' prepared to put them through their paces - after all, if the First Mate and I alone can do a tail-end mooring into a crowded pitch with a force 8 cross wind and align first time and no bumps in half the time of a full boat of Italians in Patmos, then they are going to have to cut along and do better than usual.
And not just running the guns in and out either...Sailing off the mooring, night pilotage, tidal trot moorings and a Bermudan anchoring await....while I luxuriate with toasted cheese and some of that capital Madeira in my cabin.

Remember chaps: 'If it ain't raining, it ain't training'.

As Emma Hamilton said: 'Could it Possibly be...?'

Yes, I am returnéd.

A week of ploughing the sea, contemplating the wonders of the deeps, escaping the mighty Kraken and quietly pickling myself in only the very finest crown-capped retsina.
As my wits over the many years have been roundly addled by years of pharmaceutical and alcoholic abuse, I have kept a log, a journal as it were - not only of the matters maritime as one should - but also of the thoughts and observations of the environ and the crew.

They make for revealing reading as to the character of the trip.

Circumspection means that they are currently in for editing - for in their raw un-distilled and un-matured state they make for a heady brew of high adventure and even higher living - and some of the topics in their pure form may be too strong a liquor for my readership. (And I dare not risk the wrath of the First Mate who has a far better memory and who has kept an alternative, lest my delusions of grandeur soar too high).

I will publish installments as the week wears on - and I get the hamster wheel back up to speed.

In the mean time - I now have skin of the appearance of old shoe leather and everything tastes vaguely of pine disinfectant - or is it retsina...?

I may even hazard a peek at the news and general current affairs - but I fear it is as a disgusting a sight to any sea-farer as the one that beheld me on Saturday - that of the yacht I had sailed for a week being equipped with an American flag on the port crosstree the very moment I hauled down my colours. (Well-wishers will be pleased to know that their eye was truly wiped when they sought my counsel on the appropriate application of chain as an anchor warp in Aegean waters! Even my First mate was moved to join in the discourse - and she is most taciturn under such circumstances.)

But anyway - I am back. Tales of derring-do, drinking and debauchery abound.

Offline for a week

The Beloved and I are off the the Med being nautical for a week..

Hopefully she won't kill me and throw my body overboard.


Feel free to amuse yourselves!

Rum, Sodomy and the Lash

My time of late is precious and I have little of it to spend afloat, what with my Aviating commitments. I have not even been able to lurk the tents and steal egregiously from the barbecue at the Corrie at the Pimms-fest that Cowes has become..(Fowey week - much nicer)

This has caused grief among the Regular Crew.

'Oh Captain, you are leaving us!' cries one of my lesser spotted and rarer crew members. (Dulux, as it happens - why is she called Dulux? You know that dog in the paint adverts....?)

Even more remarkable was Scotty the Engineer promising me the earth:
'We will all line up and salute you, and wear matching uniforms with the boat name on them for you! And call you Captain all the time...'

Gloria Stitts even weighed into the debate:
'Oh will you hoist your pennant on our boat?'

How can I refuse such offers?

My message to you all is: Fear not, most loyal, desperate and misguided crew - we shall cruise the waters of the chops of the channel and harry the enemy shipping again - and I shall hoist my pennant aboard.

My fee - the usual. First go in the barrel and a double ration of salt horse.

Assistant Heads wiper fourth class reporting for duty, sah!

My South Park character

I like the hat, especially.

South Park Generator

Swooping doff of hat to the The Greek Chap

Tis to glory we steer!

I am delighted to report that the Beloved has seized her duties as First Mate on my Aegean mission with both hands. She has been poring over the Greek Waters Pilot with vim, vigour and verisimiltude.

However, she has taken over the packing of the medical chest.

Her exposure to the Good Books are limited - a cursory flick through M+C being the best she has managed so far.
Therefore my demands for Coca Leaves, 200 pints of Laudanum, Steel Bark, Blue Pill, Slime Draft, Portable Soup and a Trephine Saw have been met so far with at best her Gimlet Stare, and at worst The Steely Silence (Chills the blood like a banshee's howl, dontchyerknow.)

Even more worrying were the things suggested for 'My Own Good.' Gone was the Rhubarb cure, replaced with things like Immodium. (I mean - if I get liverish, is it not the Captain's duty to sweat and strain on his seat of ease?)
Sunblock? I mean, what on earth am I to do with SP30?
How am I to maintain my raffish weathered looks if I apply sun cream? At best Castrol GTX, at worst Zinc Oxide.

Still, revenge shall be mine when I superglue Uffa Fox into the boat CD player.

In parallel to this, She has been arranging her return of the cultural exchange by a trip to the English Lakes.I have been reviewing her notes on this and I am already planning the most nonchalent set of cufflinks to be seen in 'O'er Dale'.
Despite all the activities she has prescribed seeming rather healthy and chappy, it does give the impression of being dangerously close to requiring that modern evil 'Gore-Tex'.
Tradition when faced with this would be to take her to the local steeple and demand that I am shown the real 'North Face'.

I do have one reservation: we seem to be accompanied by a northern sounding cove called Wainwright.
I am disturbed as she is claiming that we will be 'doing some of him' - a reference I sincerely hope is not some gruesome troilistic ritual.

My First Officer, at Nautical school.

Just say No..to PBO

I will not be converting to Practical Boat Owner.
It is the Yachting equivalent of 'World of Shed'.

I need a Holiday

Blogging has been both light and of a slightly less Chappish quality of late. I put this down to the fact that the hamster wheel is threatening to come of it's runners (a source of consternation) and that I am in need of a vacation.

From this weekend I am off to the Greek Islands with the Long Suffering Beloved in tow. She has gracefully accepted the role as First Mate and Chief Muse for a whole week.
I shall either return refreshed and with tales of derring do - or she will have mutinied on day two, and my remains will be washed up on the shores of the Levant in a number of months.

If you don't hear from me in two weeks, you will know it is the latter.

Sailing Rant 2

My little heart used to skip with joy when I received my Yachtie-Porn (Yachting Monthly).
I used to pore over it with glad rapture when it came through the post and I used to disappear into the heads at home and serve my IBS as I read it from cover to cover.

But nowadays it has gone downhill .

5 pages of news - but nothing new......(even the article on Drinking and Sailing seemed strangely familiar)
3 Columns from the usual columnists - Libby Purves turning hers into the Sailing equivalent of watch with Mother, (though in this case half the article is about a box of fog, and doesn't seem terribly original...but her closing argument, I buy)
Nigel Calder on about sea-sickness remedies (which Libby wrote about two months ago) and Tom Cunliffe about why he is brilliant. (No change there, then)
3 pages on Dinghy explorations - Swallows and Amazons revisited.
A couple of articles on long distance cruising....vaguely readable ('No shit, there we were, thought we were gonna die'... or 'Oh The Majesty of what I have beheld')
1 article on cutter rigs with a scant 6 columns of copy....little about the dynamics or what it would do to your insurance.
The requisite article from Rod Heikel
2 boat reviews - which are slightly too toadyish to the manufacturers
A couple of bog standard reviews (Which lifejacket/flares/compass/bucket..)

The sailing skills is a rehash of the same articles they always publish.

The reviews are no different to any article you get in any geek-mag from Running shoes weekly or Lightbulbs monthly. (Fluorescent tubes - we try the best!)

The rest? Page after page of standard chandlery adverts, with a couple of pages at the back on Classifieds, which we all read online anyway.

There is more to this noble sport than this. We all rant to each other about the best restaurants in this Haven or that, the gouging of marina fees, the scant regard for hygiene that anyone who has used the showers at Cowes Yacht Haven will have suffered or the threat to red diesel.
We postulate on training techniques, which school is good, etc.
We fulminate at the standards of seamanship exhibited in harbour and on the water.
We then Shudder at the water quality on the Medina.
We complain about the quality of beer in the many hostelries - and the standard of welcome given to people who should be their stock-in trade.
Observe the wildlife - or lack of it - and talk about the threat to our oceans and hazards to navigation.

Where are these written up?

Chaps - if you are reading this - time to raise the game. Time to get your teeth into the issues that affect us part of the 3.5 Million water sports participants.

We want to see the south coast marina monopoly challenged, poor service and rip-off sailing confronted, Government disdain campaigned against at the highest level and the RYA taken to serious task about it's general cosiness with the powers that be.
We need articles that reflect the experience of all of us, not the same people all the time collecting their £500 fee for another 'what I did on my Holiday you paid for'.

In the mean time, sorry chaps - your mag is now formulaic and tired.
I have cancelled my subscription.

UPDATE: Have re-read the article about cutter rigs and it is actually quite good -shame about the rest of the mag......

For none are so free as the sons of the waves?

This chap, dear reader, has a very strong streak of libertarianism in his veins. I detest Big Government interfering with my life and spreading it's evil tendrils of legislation into my life.
As you know I take part in two sports which are currently out of the reach of the Nanny state. Gliding - which the Campaign Against Aviation doesn't touch (regulated by the British Gliding Association) and Sailing.

Sailing is what my rant of today is all about.

It is currently (still) my god given right as a free Englishman and subject of her Maj to take to the water in any personal vessel I choose and sail where I want to. I need no permission, ticket, licence or examination to do so. If I wish, I can go and drown myself. The chief rescue organisation is a charity RNLI (to whom I lend my financial and one day physical support).

The onus on safety is a personal one. I am not obliged to wear a Lifejacket, crash helmet or even waterproof clothing. One's awareness of the fact that the high seas are a dangerous place means that there is a natural selection process at work. Should I wish to be able to carry out the sport with a modicum of personal safety or comfort, then the onus is entirely on me to seek out competence training. Again, this is administered by another charity - who also receives money off me The RYA.

The small overlap we have with the world of legislation and government is in buoyage.
But even then, one doesn't get their photograph taken for passing a port hand marker to starboard. The onus is on you to be aware, awake, know what you are doing and know where you are - so that if you chose to leave the 'Jack In The Box' to port on the way up the Lymington river - it is your fault and your fault alone that you spend the rest of the afternoon waiting for the tide to lift you off that rather spectacular mud bank. An Ignominy that no amount of cheerful bonhomie or two water grog will quench.

It is self controlled, and regulated. Peer pressure of standards of behaviour mean a stern look from the Harbour master if your crew are rowdy is as sufficient a reproach as the pressure of a drunken attempt at mooring costing your GPS antenna, next door's pushpit rail and the capital crime of damaging the paintwork - committed in front of an entire marina laughing at your feeble skills.

The traditions of the sport have been so deeply entrenched that they have outlived the current concept of democracy - after all we have had a Navy since Alfred burnt the cakes - and these waters run deep. Blood is the same salinity as sea water, we sons of the waves stand by our traditions of behaviour, honour and care for one's self. The epitome of a society freed from the yoke of state legislation.

Sea faring Libertarians - if you will. Sail and let sail.

OK - to make a vessel work requires leadership - but it is a contract entered voluntarily - and to make it work requires more self discipline than anything else - we need each other's mutual skills to make the thing work. Ask any racing crew who is the most important member of the crew - and they will all answer that it is everyone but them.

There is a cloud on the horizon, scudding towards us like a line squall.

We live under a very illiberal government. The regards 'us' as dangerous. Our views and behaviours are a threat to their approach to running our lives.

The fact we are aspirational enough to carry out the dream to work hard to earn a slot on a vessel - either by accumulating wealth enough to buy the smallest bilge bucket - or by working up the skills to earn a slot on a race crew….

We represent all the things they hate.

We are self reliant, self disciplined, aspirational and require no law to show respect to our fellow sea farers.

We must therefore be stopped.

The full pernicious forces of the Nanny State are being turned on us. The legislative Guns Of Navarone are being trained on us, while the vile officers of this movement load the shells and powder to batter us into their ways.

As the interweb's heir to David Niven (don’t laugh) this Chap needs to draw the attention to my audience to the first triffidesque tendril, the ranging shot from Nanny to our way of life.

They are a cunning foe. They use the full armoury of the Left on us.

The poisoned apple? Their trojan horse?

Good Old Health and Safety

It is for our safety. The Safety of others. How can we argue with that? Well buried within the lines - there are dark forces demanding the very things we fear.
The old chestnut of creating a problem, then being seen to crack down on it is the other tactic.

Drinking and Sailing .

Hold on, you cry, all they are suggesting is that you chaps shouldn't be pissed on the water. Well, by and large we aren't.

Is it for our safety?
Well, the Marine Accident Invesitgation Board only reported about 24 fatalities on leisure craft for 2006-2007 - out of half a million users. Less than half of those were alcohol related
(Link via RYA website)

Even RoSPA and the Coastguard say:

"The members agreed that the current statistics that were available from MCA, SEAREM and INREM were all unreliable as a source for accident statistics for watersports." -
Source

So - we have a problem that doesn't exist. So why legislate against us?

I have a theory - this is a perfect reason to enforce compulsory licensing of craft and the testing and licensing of their skippers.

Why? If you have pulled someone over for drinking, the sanction will be to take a way a licence. You can't imppund the vessel - it probably doesn't even belong to them.

Right now we don’t need one - as I mentioned before the sort of person who takes up sailing is the sort of person who wants to know about it and is prepared to learn.

So, cue government issued sailing licenses and tests and permits (with test centres etc) as well as water-fund licenses. The sea will be nationalised….how long until charging a tax on mooring or anchoring in British waters?
All To be paid for, by us - the sailing public. Yet another stealth tax.

'No, no,' you say - 'they can't mean that - there must be another sanction'…. Well - here is what they are saying:

The Act also enables the Secretary of State to designate additional classes of people as 'marine officials' with the power to detain a vessel if they reasonably suspect that a person who is or may be aboard the vessel is committing, or has committed, an offence, pending the arrival of a uniformed constable to administer a preliminary test. - Stephen Ladyboy

Hmmmm…..bit of hole in this - most boats are rented, making that a form of piracy. Red Herring I reckon.
But in there was another sinister line.

'Marine Officials'.
A waterborne police force with powers to stop and check, take you off your yacht and off to the rozzers for a breath test?

So - will they tow your vessel? Will they know how to sail? What about your crew?

Anyway - have a read of what the Chaps at the RYA have to say.
http://www.rya.org.uk/NewsAndEvents/newsroom/news/drinkqanda.htm


But what of the motive behind this? More people die changing their duvets (probably) than have booze related accidents on the Solent alone. Good sense and self preservation take care of that.
Well, we are currently out of their reach - what better way to crowbar their way into our lives than under the pretext of our safety?

Us 'rich' yachties are a prime target for legislation. With legislation comes us handing more money over to the government to employ busy-bodies to come and tell us what to do.
It is a way of levying stealth taxes on us, and if we complain - we can easily be lableled as 'rich' and they can stoke the fires of resentment against us.
But what else to come?

Compulsory lifejackets? More standards and inspections…….

Compulsory lifelines and jackstays? Again - standards and inspections…...

Full Commercial DfT standardisation of every vessel - think of all the extra public employees!

Inspectors, visitors and scrutineers - all to be paid for by us - the so called Have Yachts. The bitter nannyists must be licking their reptilian lips in delight at all of this.

Lets get things straight - most yachties are like me. We scrimp and save so we can access a boat. Not all of us are footballers (They have scumseekers anyway). Our boats are shared amongst many and are slavishly kept going well past their sell by dates out of love. You can go sailing for under a grand a year.

Ultimately - this represents another attempt to shift of our liberty into the hands of the state. We can only go out and play if Nanny licenses us to do so. And then we must play to her rules.

Interestingly, the legislation is also rather poorly thought out. It is full of holes - meaning it will be open to abuse. In all sorts of amusing ways.

"I am satisfied that in bringing in an alcohol limit for non-professional mariners and in setting the exclusion limit at 7 metres and 7 knots we are providing the best balance between improving safety and avoiding unnecessary regulation.
Stephen Ladyboy at it again.

Interesting that a 5 metre RIB with a 200hp motor is exempt, yet an 8 metre unpowered skiff is not. Which is more likely to be a risk?

How will they determine length and Maximum speed?

Anyway - feast your eyes on the background.

http://www.rya.org.uk/General/Issues/alcohol.htm


Final thought - and this alone demonstrates that the landlubber who dreamt this up is the very worst form of window-licking mouth breather:

Jet skis will not be included in the regulations for now because the Court of Appeal has ruled that jet skis are not ships and are not therefore within the scope of the existing legislation I intend to consult on extending the legislation to them in due course."

You would have thought that the most annoying and unsociable things on the water would have been targeted, wouldn't you.

Despair shall drive me to my tincture.

A rambling post about sailing

We stared out of the windows out of the World of Pie at the sheeting rain on Friday night. A black dog haunted myself, the Commodore and my chum Arch Chap and co-conspirator in much of my Chappy endeavours.

An autumnal slick of rain and spray filled the night sky - this was November in July.
We were supposed to be striving with a full crew to blood, glory and treasure to sink, burn or take as a prize the fleet of bloated galleys departing the Isle of Blight to cross the chops of the channel down to Weymouth.

We were supposed to be racing.

I shall avoid the details, but we lost a full third of our crew even before first muster - one for work reasons - the other for a reason so awful - he could not be expected to deliver his duty and compliments to his slot aboard.
Our fourth and remaining crew member arrived to find us in ale and decided she should join us.
Now, we are normally chaps of resolution - we can certainly serve out the equipment aboard with only four of us - but we had complications stacking up like writs from your tailor for payment.

Firstly - crew member number four - whilst a Chappess and more than capable of handing, reefing and steering confessed to being of a somewhat more delicate disposition than normal. She too had seen our forecast.

Second, the forecast - to make it back to home port to get me to the hamster wheel on Monday we had to chase a tidal gate known as 'The Anvil'.
This meant we needed to slip at the sort of hour one is normally only just getting warmed up in a lock-in at the Belgravia gaming tables.

This meant sailing in watches - or in this case - two handed. Not a prospect we relished especially when one looked at what they met chaps were offering.

The forecast for this time was 'alarming'.

Selsey Bill to Lyme Regis SW veering W later 5-7 Occ 8, heavy rain. Rough to Very Rough.
In non yachtie speak - Blowing a full gale - with a following sea of waves 4-meters high.
We concluded by pint four, that we would rather be in here cowering in ignominy, than out there in a blue funk faced with the horrors forecast.

Democracy reigned and we voted to scratch the race.

With the pressures of racing off our mind, we set our heads straight for a loon about the Solent.
Now, Arch Chap has not been float for a couple of years and his influence on the barky has been sadly lacking.

His influence is largely on myself and the demeanour of the boat - rapidly transforming it from fragrant racing yacht to foul tub smelling strongly of recycled curry and goats. However - he means well and despite ongoing scatalogical references, it is all done in the 'best possible taste'.

Our Dear Lady Honorary chap soon smoked this and was able to present a humorous outlook on affairs. A chirpy bonhomie, even.

This was to be eroded so suddenly and with such vigour that I feared for her fortitude - and her spirit was so sapped that she was hampered in her duties the following day.

The events that caused the mental disturbance occurred in the Saloon - a communal sleeping area - as it were.

A parenthesis:

A misconception that many have of yachts, is that they are vessels of luxury.
The reality? Try and imagine a caravan with the electrics of a Skoda and the furnishings of a 1973 Mk2 Ford Cortina and you get close to it. With a hand pump toilet.
They smell of Sea water, diesel, urine and seagull poo.
Now - many Chappesses wrinkle their noses at such privations and are never seen again - this is why I salute any fragrant or high minded young filly who sails. They can take such privations with fortitude and they are oft to see off a challenge from the French or the like with alacrity.
Such 'gels' are made of stern stuff - and two generations ago would have been on the veranda with a Martin-henry seeing off the natives. (I think nowadays one might be a blogger of some note)

So what caused the turn of fortunes you ask?

It was the Commodore and the Arch chap's snoring.

A harmonic not unlike pigs trying to sing the halleluiah chorus to an air-raid siren is the closest we come to describing it.

They complement one another to form a continual tone similar to the cutting of stone….. And when they snore together the resonant harmonics make the hatches rattle and one's ears pop.

The result?

When we arose and shone, she appeared pinched, worn and troubled. Lines cut into her visage like the Corinth Canal and she had the haunted look of one who has faced phantoms and ghouls.
Needless to say - her spirit was broken. The horrors had clearly filled her head with most terrible visions - and her wits had been discombobulated such that she could barely sit upon the rail and balance the boat.

We took a simple decision.
We shall eat a hearty breakfast, potter about in the lee of the Island, moor up for some luncheon then repair to our favourite hostelry for fortification then a stiff curry - and so rest with the hatches ajar, lest we slide further into a silage like aroma.

The mooring was a fine exercise in some advanced seamanship for which I was forced to congratulate even myself (cross-tide ferry gliding donthcyerknow) and luncheon stood us until tea time of cake and biscuits and ale.

Cowes greeted us with congestion and we were forced to establish a cat's cradle of mooing lines in the second harbour. I am delighted to report that we provided no spectacle in the Internationally renowned hobby of 'watching other people make a hash of their moorings'.
I brought the barky in and gently kissed it alongside a visiting Frenchman, no doubt spying.

Ale soon ensued, and a thumping good curry.
One to write about no less.
News which delighted our ears was that two thirds of the race fleet retired due to heavy weather citing gear failures aplenty - spars and sailcloth carried before the winds.
We congratulated ourselves on our wisdom, wit, choice of curry house and all round greatness and settled to a night of rich loamy aroma and autumnal marbling smells - while the gale howled and the rain beat a tattoo on the coach roof.

Our Dear Lady Fourth Crew member took a wise option and slept in the forepeak - with double bulkheads and ear plus.

Hubris before nemesis, as always in this column.

06.30
Annoyingly chirpy chap leaps aboard bashes his halloos and requests and requires we move the boat so he and his papa can catch the tide home.

Fiend. My sweetest dreams of home comforts and a dear friend shattered by the grey chill and a witless grin of the interloper.

The rest of the evolutions are technical, involve warping out of the basin and a reluctant sail home in the early morning gloom.

One crumb if comfort.

In our efforts, we woke the entire marina up, especially the Frenchman next to us.
We congratulated our selves on our efforts, and set off for home with vim, vigour and verisimilitude.