Angela Rice - Adventures of a Reluctant Boating Wife

Published by Adlard Coles Nautical
an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
www.adlardcoles.com

This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Copyright Angela Rice 2013
Copyright original articles Motorboat & Yachting, IPC Media Ltd
Illustrations David Semple/Motorboat & Yachting/IPC Syndication

First published by Adlard Coles Nautical in 2013

ISBN 978-1-4081-8204-8
ePub 978-1-4081-8418-9
ePDF 978-1-4081-8420-2

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Its a slippery slope the minute some young handsome chap invites you to see his boat

A warning to any young girls out there: think twice before accepting an invitation from a handsome young man to slip down onto the pontoon to see his boat. It could prove to be a slippery slope in very many ways

When I was one such innocent invitee, I happily conjured up alluring (I flattered myself) images combining me, my new bikini and a great suntan. It didnt occur to me that see my boat might mean actually going out in the thing. Even in bad weather, or as I later came to discover especially in bad weather. But as the fateful pontoon was located in the Middle East (at the sailing club of the oil company for whom we both worked), UK weather was not at that time on the visible horizon.

In just a heartbeat or two, I found it was a case of love me, love my boat. If you, the invitee, are very, very lucky, the boat in question might be a motorised one. However, young men tend to be rather more agile, more foolish in the challenges they set themselves, and shorter of money than their latter day equivalents. So it is possible that you may come down that slithery gangway to discover a small, tilting, heaving, windpowered job. As did I.

Whats more, my (it must be admitted, exceedingly attractive) sailors formula then transmuted into love me, love my boys. Having nipped through my twenties doing dead independent career stuff, I fell for the idea of an instant family who had been growing nicely throughout the decade Id been busily not breeding. Enter two delightful 9- and 11-year-old lads whose greatest desire in life was to sail somewhere as dangerous as possible with their dashing father.

August leave came and I found myself on the West Coast of Scotland on a small, frighteningly tippy charter yacht, with three very excited boys (I include their father here). Yes, the West Coast, where you get semi-submerged rocks, tidal rips and sudden weather changes Terrifying on the good days, and Ive blanked out the others. I recall lurching across the outer reaches of the race from the Gulf of Corryvrechan in a Force 8 to cries of Can you get her to heel more/go faster Dad?; Can we put the spinnaker up, Dad?; Dad, please can?.

I was newly in love and would have in fact, clearly had followed him anywhere. However, early on in the voyage I began to realise that crew require that geometrical, spatial capability that I simply dont have. I am as confused by angles as dyslexics are by words. By the time Id worked out the wind direction, the required point of sailing, the angle of the sail, where the tiller is and where it should be we would have perished. On this occasion, however, I had no option but to helm while he navigated, this being in the days of charts below decks, not chartplotters in the cockpit. I fought against the corrugations of the race. Mantra time: Steer into the wave and away, Steer into the and As long as I dont freak out we will survive, As long as. The stomach muscles stayed obligingly tense until we reached the glorious calm in the lee of the Garvellach Islands. Then I threw up. Not so much mal de mer as peur de mer.

I comforted myself that it would all be different when this Mad Sailor husband of mine and I produced a pair of girls to balance out the boys. Family life would become a fair mix of girly and boy stuff. Inevitably, a duplicate pair of boys arrived, and my fate was sealed. The escape route from blokish activity was blockaded, and a lifetime afloat stretched threateningly in front of me. So I invented the OOCS rule One Other Competent Sailor, in addition to the Captain. Over time, this has transmuted into nabbing one or two of our four sons: breeding your own crew seems to be a popular solution among cruising couples.

Following our return to the UK many years after my initial fateful gangplank walk, I staged a small fight-back against throwing ourselves entirely at the mercy of the sea breeze. Admittedly this didnt provide a liferaft to rescue me entirely from boating, but I hoped it might turn out to be a modest improvement.

It was lust at first sight. The diddly sink, the siren call of the cream upholstery, the cool, smoky perspex doors life on the water could be fun!

It was a life-transforming revelation. But there was no blinding flash of light. Not even so much as a hand flare. It was simply the seductive lure of the dark side

We were at the Southampton Boat Show, to which I had been enticed by my husband, John, who promised a local day out with random (and not particularly nautical) add-ons: hot-tubs, shoreside fashion and even (especially?) hospitality tents. This was not the first time. I had resigned myself years ago to the sad fact that I tended to be attracted to men who sail. Maybe someone up there thought it amusing to give me an appetite for sailors, but not for sailing?