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 Life Aquatic 1

A busy Greek Supermarket, yesterday.

The privations of the life aquatic tends to suit a chap. One can cheerfully eschew the drawing room, unlimited real ale and access to the new chapmobile for a few weeks bobbing about on the briny, taking potshots at the French and a god-given right to drink rum for breakfast. Sodomy is optional, the lash essential.


Not the usual scumsail flotilla life for us in the Aegean, either.

Rampant individualism oft flying in the face of folk wisdom or marine training calls the day.

And it is as thus one flew out t’other week off to the Cyclades to introduce the Dear Northerner to a life on the ocean wave - a ruse to the idea that we should retire to a marine existence – sort of a pensionable version of water-world, sans avec Kevin Costner.


I have taken two prior Miss Chaps to this place with limited success. They prob don’t read this anymore which is just as well. Neither were suitably amphibious to cope.

Now there is a separate post coming about her appreciation of the marine facilities known as the ‘heads’ however it is worth reflecting previous and recent experience on the daily privations of life afloat.
Namely:  supplies.

I have known a couple of girls get through fresh water at ludicrous rate. Now, every chap knows the trick for making his pants last a month – and lets face it – most of the time one can spend the time in one’s birthday suit as there isn’t a soul about. Add to that baby shampoo to wash in the sea (it really works) and shaving the head to keep the worst of the weevils at bay then one can settle into pelagic squalor with joy.

Previous Miss chaps have tended to guzzle fresh water – but they have neglected seamanship duties normal to a fellow afloat – such as tidying up after themselves.

Dear Northerner is the complete opposite. Like a good Yorkshire lass, she is exceedingly house proud and if the boat had a front step, she would have scrubbed it. Now admittedly she had a Yorkshire taste when it came to the local food....nothing ‘dirty’ , ‘greazy’, 'garlciky' or ‘oily’. (That excludes almost all Greek food)...
But she took it upon herself to supply a level of 'tween decks cleanliness that would make an Admiral proud. However she did tend to use a lot of the valuable fresh water for this - and .....a lot of 'products'.
Now, a chap tends to sluice everything out with sea water, pump out the bilge and then set about a large Aubreyesque dinner of sea-pie, moussaka, baklava, salad, fish, baked chicken and spotted dog, washed down with ouzo, retsina, metaxa and liberal quantities of mythos.
The Greek Islands.
They are somewhat remote, pleasingly non-commercial and backward and ideal for basic comestibles. Sun baked, whitewashed Choras reveal little but tomatoes, salt fish and grizzled old widows scowling over their fly-blown laps. Sea-miles away from Blackberry reception and modern conveniences. And I might add - Tescos super store.
I had provisioned our little ship with all the kit we needed for a fortnight afloat. Undaunted I was dispatched when first we touched ashore (Skhinoussa, as it 'appens) to acquire some 'products'

It is indicative of the dear gel that I got this as a shore-going shopping list.

Rubber washing up gloves
Antibacterial wipes
Femifresh
Antiseptic gel
Floor cleaner
Toilet cleaner
Stainless steel cleaner
Washing up liquid
Tin foil
Pan scrubbers
Metal scourers
Brillo pads
Sponge cloths
Kitchen Roll
'Dinner'.

To her ongoing horror I returned with Anchovies, Ouzo and Coca-cola.

PS: Ouzo + Coke is a particularly astonishing tipple. Heartily recommend it.

The Aegean Mission Part III

Nisos Kos to Nisos Plati, 12 miles.

I have chosen to gloss over the first day at sea.

It is traditional for a few minor items to go awry and it would be ungallant of me to dwell to much on the minor items. Suffice to say First Mate and I had some opportunity to practice turning in a seaway and collecting items.
With the boat hook.

It is worth mentioning the first night however - for tired as we were, I was particularly pleased with the results.

I have commented previously that some of our Med-based cousins effect their anchoring with much in the way of shouting, hullooing and use of mobile telephones - both First Mate and I - and quite rightly - reflect upon their behaviour and wrinkled our collective noses at such nonsense.

We are British, sons of the waves and as such better than these johnnies - for it is by our standards that one judges 'a high notion of seamanship'.

With this burden of responsibility weighing upon us, we hove into view of our first proper anchorage.

'Nisos Plati, Good holding weed and sand, anchor in 5-10 metres' says Dear Roderick.

There was in residence already a large Gin Palace, in the middle distance a large 50' in Italian colours, some other yachts including a Frenchman plus a bum-boat at the small church quay in the bay. A few goats for company ashore.


As any yachtsman will tell you anchoring or mooring is stressful not necessarily because they are difficult to achieve, but because everyone is watching and judging you.



We had better get it right first time for an audience was there - gins in hand, binoculars trained ready to suck teeth and shake heads at the slightest slip.


One boon - as is typical for the waters in this part - they are spirit clear and we could easily survey the bottom and pick a suitable patch of sand to lay our ground tackle.


We idled the boat in at half a knot with First Mate peering over the pullpit for just the right patch. She chose well, for on her call I knocked us gently astern while she lay down the cable - putting a third of it down.

The cable laid out and astern we chugged until we jerked nose down satisfactorily and swung gently either side of the cable.

We both held our breath. Slowly, the boat took the tension on the chain and we eased up to wind. Unconsciously we both selected different transits ashore and watched for dragging.

We had not only bitten cleanly, but bitten first time. A third of our 60 metre chain and a clean bite in 7 meters.

Text book.
The First mate had clearly been hiding her skills under a bushel. Clean anchoring and using transits no less.

A swim down afterwards revealed an image straight out of the RYA Dayskipper book - anchor cleanly in the sand, with a clean catenary of chain.

Not only were we able to feel smug about our skills - but it augured well for the week - for ahead lay the sternest test yet - Patmos!

Patmos - a complex entrance, narrow moorings in front of jeering crowds, contrary winds and a part of the Aegean where the Meltemi blows it's hardest. To top it all, the glass was dropping slowly - it was going to come on to blow.

But tonight we could rest easy, for soon we had gins in our hands and the entertainment of an American catamaran attempting that which we had achieved - but oh so gratifyingly -with somewhat less success....... and a free light show from the perseids to boot.

Next Installment: Episode IV - A lesson in The Weather Gauge and our second brush with the Kriegsmarine.

The Aegean Mission Part II (a)

An observer's guide to Yacht hiring in the Dodecanese - how to spot nationalities…...

No 1. British Yachtsman
Normally a couple or two couples, with loads of sunblock.
Under provision on food, over provision on beer.
Tend to sail a little over reefed.
Give plenty of swing room in anchorages and lays ground tackle with care.
Approaches stern-to moorings with discretion, care and at a walking pace and deploys lines with accuracy.
Observes inshore etiquette to the letter, including lowering of colours at sunset.

No 2. French Yachtsman
Lone elderly man made of tan shoe leather.
Load no food other than sea-weed, but flagons of rot gut wine on the foredeck.
Sails carry no reefing points, as the lines tangle around the solar panels.
Anchor with the minimum amount of chain, lays ground tackle with a shrug
Never moor stern to, instead anchor in the roads to glare at other boats
What etiquette?

No 3. Italian Yachtsman
18 people on board in speedoes and bikinis, all talking on their mobile phones.
Spend two hours arguing in the supermarkets with ten trolleys of food and then clear out the shop of retsina, while talking on their mobile phones.
Sail massively over pressed at all times with entire deck talking on their mobile phones.
Deposit sixty metres of chain in 5 metres of water, then swing wildly, over everyone else's anchors, while talking on their mobile phones.
Moor stern-to in a place too small for a mirror dinghy at full astern, involving the entire crew arguing over how it should be done. Repeated three times - with mobile phone breaks.
No flag etiquette.
Time in harbour spent hiring scooters and talking on their mobile phones.

The Aegean Mission part II

I never lose the sense of anticipatory romance from arriving at an airport in the dead of a scorched night and having to walk across fuel spattered tarmac.


Jetways are great, but you get a sense of the real achievement of the engineering you have encountered when you descend the steps and glance back to giant turbines, red strobes and hard hatted erks scurrying around the belly of the beast in which you flew.


It connects you with the reality of it - and as an aviator one's self, you feel the connection between yourself (who is used to wire controls and propellers) and the chap perched 50 feet above you in a white shirt with a clipboard in his cockpit.


In someways it helps for those who fly not well to have the experience sanitised. Jetways and soft lighting removes one far from the harsh reality of flaps, ailerons and landing gear.


Sanitisation, though is vital when one is to be whisked away from chav-city-luggage handling to one's Yacht.


It is far better to be carried off far from the madding chavs in their charter airline finery, then to cope with public transport at 4 am in a foreign clime.


And thus we found ourselves in the back of a car that awaited our arrival.

Cheeky chappy cabby he was, having had Bill Clinton, Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston in the back of his cab.

Yachtie heaven was a short slink away. The First Mate and I grinned with anticipation while the strange banter wafted over our heads.

And so to SY Athena.

My First Mate has clearly be brought up with noble austerity, for she was suitable impressed by the yacht. I found her a little on the small side (Last time I was here, I rented a Dreadnought) and listing to starboard - but the Cream Leather sofas, cooling fans and Ice box worked their magic and soon we were established aboard.

One needs no reminding at this juncture, that a boat grows a foot shorter everyday.

The first day is always handover. The Boat chap (In this case an ex-KriegsMarine Petty Officer) comes along and runs through the controls with us, indicates the location of various items of kit aboard, goes over the sailing ropes and ticks off an inventory.

We met shook hands firmly and we exchanged knowing looks.

'Where do you sail Herr D--?'

'English Channel, old boy.'

'Ach, you know they say there is no seamanship East of Gibraltar!'

'Indeed, one must watch out for rogue Italians!'

'Jah! We understand each other!'

The check out took five minutes. Being a nautical cove, he clearly saw the cut of my jib and that of the studious first mate and reckoned we were right seamen. (In the non-gender specific sense of the word)

Now - a quick reflection - when one hires a boat in the UK, the owner comes aboard and counts the teaspoons. One gets charged for every chip, scratch and scuff on the plates.

In Greece they understand the commercial realities, and treat one with some respect. In other words, he didn't count the teaspoons, which considering his Teutonic nature was rather gratifying. When one has handed over the thick end of a thousand Euros in cash, a ten cent spoon or fifty cent wine glass does not break the bank.

Like the UK, Greece has a glut of charter boats. The difference is, in Greece, they treat me as a customer who has chosen their business. In the UK, one gets treated as a nuisance who should be punished for the smallest transgression of cutlery.

Renting a boat in blighty is somewhat akin to taking rooms off one of those sorts of 'landladies' who seemed to exist in the 1950s. They come along afterwards and check the pillows for stains. There may be more boats than crew in the Solent, but while they are largely run as tax sinks to escape Gordo's thievery, we will scant see the likes of service I enjoy from my chums in Greece.

It is afterall cheaper to fly to Greece and hire a boat for week than it is to do it from Scotland.

PS: I have a photo of the barky, but she's going to require upload and editing.

The Aegean Mission - Part I

Every Journey, they say begins with the first step.

Ours was a faltering, drunken and yet dignified saunter to the Gate.

I took the liberty prior to starting the trip to ensure that the journey was to be as comfortable as possible. To that end I had procured access to the Business Lounge in Gatwick.

'Why bother?' I hear you ask.....

Well - we could only acquire flights on a charter airline.

This meant we were to be delayed by about three hours.

Therefore - what better to soothe away the ills of public transport than an unlimited free bar, with pretzels.

I calculated we spent the cost of the facility in mixers alone before we had completed the first hour's delay.

Value for money was achieved when they had to change the gin bottle.

It is a shame that they no longer call you for flights at Gatwick anymore. There is a certain something to reclining heavily imbided in nectar awaiting your name to be read out along with words like:

'Final Call' or,

'Your flight is waiting'.

More to follow soon.....