What WOULD Philias Fogg have said? If all had been going to plan I’d be in AFRICA by now, having already stepped foot in every country in The Americas and Europe. And yet, I’m spending an entire day on a boat trying to get reach one little country. I’m caked in sea-salt, my hair is dry and matted and my beard is threatening to take over my face again.
Not only that, but as I was at the helm, Captain Johnny was trying to fix the main sail into a better position when a hook twanged off and SMACKED me in the head – blood gushed, I thought I was done for – fifty miles from shore and here’s my head dripping more blood than a vampire drinks in a week.
It wasn’t too bad in the end – no stitches required – could you imagine getting stitches in your head with no aesthetic off a yacht captain using a fishing hook while the boat you’re in bobs up and down like an escaped maniac on top of your car (with your boyfriend’s head on a stick) in the choppiest waters this side of the Atlantic?
Doesn’t even bear thinking about.
Otherwise today past quite swiftly and without incident. I have to say though, I think Johnny has seen through my ‘I’ve been sailing loads of times’ blag. Sorry Hugh, I should have paid more attention in Anglesey. Now, what’s a Halyard? Isn’t that an evil version of The Doctor?
Working with Captain Johnny is a lot like working Saturday mornings at my Dad’s shop as a kid, in that he will point in a vague direction, scream at you to grab the THINGYMABOBAJIG and when you try to confirm what in fact a thingymabobajig is, he will continue to point and scream THE THINGYMABOBAJIG!! The bloody f-ing THINGY-MA-BOB-A-JIG!! IDIOT!!!!!
Tsk! At this point he’ll down tools, walk over, violently pick up random object (which in hindsight should have obviously been the Thingymabobajig), holds it in front of your face. THINGYMABOBAJIG! Moron!
Ah, happy days…
Later that night, as Captain Johnny slept and it was just me in at the helm, trying to keep a steady course against the wishes of the Gulf of Mexico, I sat there with my ipod blaring in my ears, the bright bright stars twinkling far above and the inky black of the sea all around; and as the boat bowed and pitched its way through the water I felt like a proper adventurer, one of those chaps involved in daring-do and the buckling of swashes.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.