WHY I STILL SAIL SINGLEHANDED

Roger Fothergill

Sitting aboard my little cutter one day, I mentioned to my friend Fred that I intended making a passage across the channel to visit one of the French islands, to get something fit to eat for a change. He showed some concern.

"You'll surely take someone with you for that sort of a trip, won't you? You'd never sail all that way singlehanded?"

"Of course I'll go singlehanded, this ship is far too small for more than one person, and anyway," I went on "she has no engine, no radio transmitter, no electrics and she's gaff rigged. I'd never find anyone daft enough to sail with me; people have got over sophisticated, they just think I do things the hard way."

"Well I still think it's very risky, it's nearly a hundred miles across that channel and with a headwind all the way. You are far from young you know, you might get exhausted if the weather played up, and fall overboard or something."

"I've been sailing the seas for sixty years this year, and of the first things I learned was `one hand for the ship and one for yourself'. Don't worry about me falling overboard."

"You might fall ill, have a heart attack, something like that."

"Well of course I might get struck by lightning. If your times up you gotta go."

"People just say that sort of thing until it happens, I still think you ought to have someone with you. Why don't you take a good strong boy, someone to help you with the rough stuff. Setting the anchor, making sail, etc."

"A boy! Lord spare me from the modern boy. Idle shiftless creatures, lazy ignorant spoiled brats, never stop talking, always jigging about to pop music, and besides, they eat too much."

"Yes, well, of course that's what they call the `generation gap'. How about a good strong girl then?"

"A girl?"

"Right, a girl. I mean, come on now, I realise you're very old and all that, but you must remember girls. She could do the cooking, and keep the ship clean -- because let's face it, you live in squalor in this ship and the touch of a woman's hand is just what it needs."

"What do you mean, I live in squalor?"

"Well," his eyes roamed around, "without moving from where I sit I can see a heap of dirty old rags on the chart table."

"Dirty old rags! That's my go-ashore shirt. I always keep it there."

"You keep your go-ashore shirt on the chart table?"

"Certainly. A place for everything and everything in its place. You have to know where everything is and be able to put your hand on it at a moment's notice."

"I think that proves my point. A good hardworking girl would transform this ship, and besides, like I said before, she could do the cooking and save you the domestic chores."

"I don't know Fred, I don't trust these modern young things, they have such peculiar ideas these days, all sorts of food fads; I'd probably find myself living on bean sprouts and wheat germ or something like that. And anyway, I couldn't accommodate her, there's only one bunk on this ship."

"Well surely, don't you think you could both ..."

"No I don't, and anyway the bunk is too narrow, tossing abut in the open sea we might do each other a permanent injury. Come to think of it though, there is a hammock on board. It's never been used but I daresay she could manage with that. Supposing, that is, such an unlikely state of affairs should come to pass.

"Well it's about time it did, you really ought to have someone else with you if only for the company and cheerful conversation; stop you becoming withdrawn and inward looking; brighten up your life a bit."

"And where, may I ask, am I likely to come across such a paragon at this short notice? Because I'm sailing tomorrow."

"Well by the strangest of coincidences I have my niece staying with me out from England. She's done some sailing there and is really keen, just dying for an opportunity to get some real sailing in the Tropics. She would just love to go with you I know."

"Fred, you are a crook, and a Machiavellian schemer of the first water. I have to assume that you are fed up to the back teeth with this dreary female relative of yours -- who is doubtless a congenital moron -- and you just want to get rid of her for a few days to get a little peace."

"Not at all, you couldn't be more wrong, Sophonisba is brisk and vivacious and would be an asset to any ship's company."

"Sophonisba! Only maiden ladies of uncertain years are called Sophonisba, usually someone's elderly Aunt."

"Well Sophie is certainly a maiden lady but there's nothing uncertain about her age, she's eighteen, and far from being a moron she is due to enter University when she gets back home. She has an intelligent and enquiring mind, you'd get on together like a house on fire."

"Good Lord, I have grandchildren that age."

"Well that makes it all perfectly respectable then."

Fred brought Sophie aboard the next morning, and having performed the introductions departed on his way leaving us contemplating each other with mutual suspicion.

I suggested she stow her gear below and have a look round. After a very brief absence she bounced back on deck again:

"This boat is built of WOOD!"

"Absolutely correct."

"WOOD! You can't build boats of wood!"

"Oh but you can you know, there's quite a lot of them about."

"You mean it's some new idea?"

"Quite the reverse, a very old idea. A considerable body of opinion holds that the first boat ever, was built of wood."

"What one was that?"

"The Ark, Captain Noah. Built of Gopher wood."

"What's Gopher wood?"

"Now that's a good question, and while I'm not absolutely certain of the answer, as I see it, it goes something like this: When you build a ship as big as the Ark you need plenty of help, people to fetch and carry you know -- go for this, go for that and, of course, Gopher Wood." She greeted this sally with stony silence.

"There weren't any wooden boats where I did my sailing."

"And where was that pray?"

"On a reservoir near my home, all the boats had to be built of environmentally acceptable material."

"Yes, I can see that they would have to be. However, apart from the offending material of which she is built, how does the rest of the ship strike you?"

"She's filthy."

"Perhaps she is. According to Uncle Fred she lacks the touch of a woman's hand, and he assured me that you were just dying to supply that want."

"Uncle Fred talks too much."

"Now there we are in full agreement, it'll get him into trouble one day. Well I intend sailing this afternoon, so if you would just go along to the supermarket and lay in supplies for two or three days, I'll get the ship ready for sea. We have all the basic stores on board, it's just the main items for meals for, say, three days -- we can get some more over there for the return passage." She departed.

I got the sail covers off, bent on a jib and generally squared everything away, and was pretty well all ready by the time she returned.

Sophie handed her purchases to me and I took them down below; they consisted of two parcels. When she arrived down herself I asked her what she had bought.

"That big one is bean sprouts, the smaller one wheat germ."

"Nothing else?"

"You won't need anything else, you'll find this both nutritious and filling. I've studied diet you know," she went on, "I'm entering University next year studying for a degree in Domestic Economy."

Well it didn't matter, I had a fair amount of emergency rations on board, and if sardines are not exactly my favourite diet they beat the hell out of bean sprouts.

So we sailed, and as long as we remained in the shelter of the shore and the fringe islands all went well. But out at sea we ran into something of a swell, and I also noticed more dark looking clouds up to windward than I had expected. But the wind was still only moderate, though dead ahead, and I saw no reason to alter my plans.

After a little while I realised that Sophie's opinionated comments on everything that fell within her view had slowly dried up, and her countenance, I noticed, betrayed a certain pallor, which slowly assumed a tinge of green as the afternoon advanced and the earlier sunshine gave way to a cloudy sky with occasional light squalls of rain. The wind was increasing too.

The little ship slogged on, heeling more and beginning to slam a bit now and then, with bursts of spray driving aft.

The conditions looked as if they might have come to stay, so I decided to shorten sail before it got too dark and look for better things in the morning.

I reefed the mainsail and shifted jibs, jobs perforce I attended to myself as Sophie had retired below sometime before that and had not reappeared.

I decided I had better pump out the bilge as she was sure to be making some water in these conditions. So having made all secure on deck, and trimmed the wind vane steering, I went below.

Sophie was lying in her (actually my) bunk. "So how do you like this, Sophie old thing, did you often get conditions like this on your reservoir?" She scowled at me.

I shipped the pump handle and started to pump. She looked up in alarm. "What are you doing?"

"Pumping out the water."

"You mean the boat's leaking? We're going to sink! Oh, I knew I shouldn't have sailed in a wooden boat."

"Relax, relax," I said, "she never makes more water than just enough to keep the bilges sweet. And if she does we can always caulk the seams with bean sprouts."

"You're horrid, I hate you."

"We can listen to the weather forecast, there's one about now, that'll cheer you up." I tuned in the radio receiver and the announcer's assured tones some came over the air: An upper-level low was arriving from the east, a cold front to the north-west had become stationary, a brisk easterly wind flow would persist under the influence of a weak high pressure from the north, blah, blah, blah."

"What does it all mean?" said Sophie.

"Well, rendered into basic English, I should think it means it's going to get worse before it gets better." She turned her face to the wall and burst into tears.

The forecast, as it turned out, was wrong as usual. All that happened was that the wind backed in couple of points, and with the current on the lee bow we just about made good a course straight for our objective, which saved us several hours.

I climbed in and out of that wretched hammock several times to keep an eye on things as the night wore on, and collected a fine crop of bruises where it swung me against various projections at every heavier than normal roll. Sophie slept through it all like a babe, snoring softly the while.

By daylight the island was in plain sight, and before mid-day we were in the calmer waters of its lee side. And I have to assume that the sound of the chain running out when we reached the anchorage must have awakened my valued crew member who, as I recall, was to do the cooking and attend to the domestic side of things when not keeping me entertained with her sparkling conversation. Anyhow she was sitting up and taking notice when I went below.

"Rise and shine Sophie, we'd better get lunch over before Customs come aboard. What would you like? A little fried bean sprout with a dash of wheat germ?"

She glared at me. "I don't feel hungry, perhaps a cup of coffee."

I put the kettle on, and whilst it was boiling made myself a dish of cracker hash and herring roes. And since I am a kind-hearted person really, I purposely made a double quantity. I'd noticed her nostrils quivering.

I handed her a cup of coffee and loaded up my plate, and thinking it would be too cruel to oblige her to refuse if I suggested she had some herself, I just put the rest in front of her. "Just in case you change your mind." I said.

When I looked up after finishing my own her plate was clean and she was licking her fingers.

A boat bumped alongside and a voice hailed us. "It'll be the Customs" I said, and went up on deck.

Since two people below in my little ship might be considered a crowd, three is total congestion, so I handed my papers to the Officer whilst we were sitting in the cockpit. He then said that he must have a look below. I remained on deck and left him to it. But after a little while I heard raised voices and, if I could believe my ears, some choice expressions too. But before I could investigate the Officer re-emerged saying I could take down the Q flag and duly pushed off in his boat.

I hastened below -- "Sophie" I said, " You must not, repeat NOT, refer to a Customs Officer when in the execution of his duty, as a Twitchy-nosed rat-faced snooper. You'll have us thrown in the Bastille."

"Well he WAS a twitchy-nosed rat-faced snooper."

"Twitchy-nosed and rat-faced he may have been, an unfortunate accident of birth, but as for being a snooper, it's his job, he's paid to snoop."

Well he was French, he wouldn't understand, and anyway that's no excuse for him groping about amongst my underwear."

"He did THAT!?"

"Yes he did."

"Why didn't you scream, Id have come running, I mean I agree, there ARE limits."

"Well it didn't really call for that sort of reaction."

"Oh ..... I see; you mean the underclothes through which he was groping were not the ones you were actually wearing at the time?"

"No they were NOT. I think you are awful! I think your attitude is quite despac.... despec.... desp...."

"Despicable," I suggested.

"Thank you, yes, despicable. You have made me a butt for despisetude and scornery every since I cam aboard this boat. Did I say I hated you yesterday?"

"When under slight stress you did drop some such remark."

"Well I do, I HATE you."

"Come, come, Sophie, you mustn't go on like this, (what was it Fred said about cheerful conversation brightening up my life?), your troubles are really all over you know, after all we are here, we have arrived, and when we go back it's a straight run, wind astern, no rough stuff, and much quicker than going the other way. All we have to do now is go ashore, see the sights, possibly do some shopping, and later on we'll have the best meal that money can buy. Which is, actually, the object of the exercise."

So we went ashore, and under the influence of "Fresh fields and pastures new" Sophie finally threw off her gloom and began to take an interest in things.

A little while later whilst walking down the main drag, which at that time was fairly busy, looking at the shops and generally soaking up the local scene, Sophie suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, a curious expression crossed her face, her shoulders started to shake, tears ran down her face, she covered her face with her hands and seemed to be in some sort of a fit.

Alarmed, I put my arm around her shoulders and steered her into a convenient shop doorway. "What's the matter Sophie, are you ill?" She didn't seem able to speak, but shook her head and finally, after further struggles, blurted out: "Go for wood, Gopher wood!" and collapsed into gales of laughter till she had to cling to me for support.

Looking around, I was horrified to observe that quite a crowd had collected, one of whom, electing himself spokesman, stepped forward: "Ze Mademoiselle, she is malade?"

"No, no, it's not that, it's just a joke I told her."

"Ah oui, ze English joke," he raised his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, Formidable." He looked at her with sympathy. "La pauvre petite." And explaining the situation to the bystanders he walked away shaking his head.

After muttering amongst themselves for some time, and directing reproachful glances in my direction, the crowd finally dispersed.

After a few more snorts and gurgles Sophie finally collected herself. "You kill me, you really do."

"It's me that's going to be killed, if you go on like this I'm going to be lynched by the mob."

We filled in our time in various pursuits, and a little after dark I steered for a restaurant close to the waterfront, where a polite and smartly dressed character welcomed us as we entered the dining room.

"Bon soir, Antoine" I said, shaking him by the hand, "Comme ca va mon vieux?"

"Ca va bien, m'sieur." He led us to the best table, with a view out over the waters of the anchorage lying peacefully under a star-dusted sky, handed us the menu and withdrew.

Sophie seemed impressed. "You know him then, you've been here before?"

"Never saw him in my life, this is the first time I was ever here."

"But you spoke to him by name, and shook hands with him."

"You should be more observant, my dear. There was a large sign outside this establishment advising all and sundry that this is `Chez Antoine'. So who else could that possibly be but Antoine himself? And how many strangers do you think pass through that door every year for him to be able to remember them all? He just sees in us people who must have been here before, presumably enjoyed ourselves to the point of remembering his name; so we get VIP treatment."

"But supposing it wasn't him, suppose he was ill or something, or away on business and that person was, say, the head waiter just standing in for him."

"Better still, far better, the head waiter would be delighted to be mistaken for the proprietor, it would make his day, he'll lavish all his attention on us. It's a `no lose' situation, they don't come one's way very often so you should take full advantage of them."

She mulled this over for some time but didn't seem entirely convinced, and anyway her mind was on more important matters and the subject did not divert her attention from the main business of the evening. The Consomm' Julienne was quickly followed by Moule Mariniere which in turn gave place to Agneau Roti, and judging from the speed with which each course was dispatched I began to suspect that the dietary advantages of bean sprouts and wheat germ suffered a knock that night from which I doubted if they would ever recover. The bottle of Graves Superior disappeared with alarming rapidity, likewise the Chateau Neuf du Pape which I had ordered to accompany the entree. I was not put to the trouble of offering Sophie more wine, she just reached out and kept her glass topped up.

"I must say I love this wine stuff," she said, when she had reached the stage of spooning dollops of creme au rhum over her Gateau chemin de fer Britannique, "Couldn't we have some more?"

"It wouldn't go with your sweet," I said, a view evidently shared by Antoine, who arrived at this juncture with two glasses of liqueur -- with the compliments of the establishment.

"Ooh, that was super," said Sophie, "why do they have to serve it in such small glasses?" She gave a hiccup, and tried to turn it into a giggle; the combined results of which were not entirely successful. She giggled again and sat back in her chair, a hazy look in her eyes, her face wreathed in smiles.

Time to go, I thought, and quickly too. Having settled the reckoning I drew Sophie's arm firmly through mine and made for the door, which was opened by Antoine (if it was Antoine), who bowed us out with polite wishes for a safe journey and a happy return. Sophie waved her disengaged arm in vague mystic gestures, as of one bestowing a benediction.

Once outside she evinced a marked determination to sit down on the pavement. I took a turn around her with my arm and set a course for the dinghy dock. An action which was not -- as some readers might suppose -- the burgeoning of an April/December attachment, just a seamanlike precaution against the otherwise near certainty of her falling flat on her face.

Getting her into the dinghy without swamping it was as nothing compared to the business of getting her over the ship's rail once we arrived alongside, for by that time she had passed out cold. I finally had to resort to a bowline on the bight and the throat halyard before I got her safely on deck; after which I manhandled her down below and flopped her into the bunk. She gave one long happy sigh, turned on her side, and in two minutes her gentle snores, interspersed with occasional louder snorts, echoed fore and aft.

The following morning after another disturbed night in that wretched hammock, I arose before the sun was up. I wanted to get to my home port before nightfall, and with a good fair wind we could do it if we got an early start.

I went on deck, hoisted the main, shortened in on the chain, set the jib and broke out the anchor when it came aback. In no time we were clear of the headland, and freeing sheets for a wind over the quarter I trimmed the wind vane and returned to the cabin.

The noise occasioned by getting underway had wakened the sleeping beauty. Her return to consciousness was accompanied by a heavy groan, and then a scream as the light hit her eyes. "I feel terrible" she moaned, "I'm ill, you must get me a doctor. I think I'm dying. I've never felt like this before.'

"Well I don't suppose you ever drank so much before, for a beginner you did pretty well last night. All that's the matter with you is a severe case of Boozer's Gloom."

"Nonsense, I was perfectly all right last night."

"Last night, dear, you were Titus Andronicus."

"Titus Andronicus, what do you mean, Titus Andronicus?"

"Don't try puzzling it out now, I realise you are not at your best -- it'll come to you in a day or two, it's Latin for drunk as a skunk. Do you recall just exactly how you got to bed last night?

She opened her mouth, but after a moment's thought shut it again. "Well you should have stopped me."

"Stopped you! I couldn't prize your hand off the bottle." I started to make myself some breakfast. "For you" I said, "I prescribe two lightly boiled aspirins and a cup of tea. To be repeated every three hours till the reeling goes away." She fell back on her pillow, clutching her head and moaning.

But youth is nothing if not relisient. By mid-day she had thrown off her hangover and even toyed with some food I had prepared.

After lunch the high land of our objective was in plain sight, and it was evident that we should be home in good time. Sophie asked if it would be all right for her to lie out on the coachroof top and sunbathe. "Sure" I said, "take some cushions up with you." She went below and returned in a dazzlingly brief bikini and made herself comfortable.

The ship was sailing herself nicely, we were on course, all prospects seemed fair, so I retired below to read a book and ease my aged joints on the bunk which was now available to me for the first time since our departure.

I had just got well into my book when I noticed something drop into the cockpit. Looking out I saw it was her bra. Going into the cabin again I tapped on the deckhead just under where she was lying, "Be careful you don't get too much sun. Don't forget we're in the Tropics -- the sun's rays are much more dangerous here than in England." She made some reply or other and I went back to my book.

I think I must have dozed a little, for when I looked at the clock I realised that the afternoon was well advanced and we were approaching the fringe islands. I thought a cup of tea was indicated, and when the kettle boiled called to Sophie to come down from her perch.

"Hand me my bra please," she said, and I tossed it up to her. There followed a yelp of pain.

"What's the matter?" I asked. She jumped down into the cockpit holding her bra in one hand and revealing a Flamingo pink body which gave off palpable waves of heat. For the first time in our association she seemed a trifle discomposed.

"I can't wear my bra" she said, making futile efforts to cover hear nakedness with her other hand. "I'm too sore."

"Well I told you to be careful and not overdo the sunbathing, I specifically warned you. You're an idiot!"

"But what shall I do?" she wailed.

"Do, you can't do anything, you've obviously been an idiot from birth."

"No, I mean about my clothes, I couldn't possibly put even a T-shirt on, it would be agony."

"Well you'll just have to do without, I'm always naked from the waist up, you shouldn't mind. But how you ever hope to get that degree in Flower Arranging when you can't follow simple instructions beats me."

"I am studying for a degree in Domestic Economy, not FLOWER ARRANGING!" She stamped her foot, an action which imparted a fascinating wobble to the two most suffering parts of her anatomy. Becoming aware of this she hastily turned her back to me and carried on the conversation over her right shoulder. "Don't you have some sun-tan oil, or lotion, or something I could put on it?"

"Good Lord, Sophie, I've lived in the Tropics since before you were born, I haven't needed that sort of thing for years. You could try butter of course; or how about cooking oil?" She rejected these helpful suggestions and retired below to be out of the sun.

We were now in home waters again, and I headed for the principal port for the purpose of entering the ship when, having reached the anchorage, I got sail off and let go the anchor.

"You don't need me to go to the Customs do you?" asked Sophie.

"Not to the Customs, but you will certainly have to go to the Immigration Office, otherwise they'll think I am running illegal aliens and they'll throw us both in the slammer. They're very strict these days.

"But I can't wear any clothes! What am I going to do?"

"Couldn't you pad out your bras with something really soft, like cotton wool, for example?"

"Yes I could, but I just bet you haven't got any cotton wool on board, or not enough anyway, it would take heaps."

She was right of course -- we both became lost in thought in an Endeavour to think of some solution to the problem. One which, I freely admit, had never faced me before in all my seafaring experience.

Thinking over everything that there was in the ship that might serve, something soft, resilient, springy, a sudden idea came to me. I caught Sophie's eye and received a responding gleam -- two minds with but a single thought, we spoke with one voice: "Bean sprouts!" Just the very thing, perhaps enclosed in a soft paper tissue, a sort of collision mat, you known.

"Let me help you" I said, "if you offer up the bean sprouts I could hold....".

"Thank you" said Sophie, "but I can manage perfectly well on my own." She went below and proceeded to put the plan into operation in order to array herself for the trip ashore.

After some little while she declared herself ready. "Actually, you know" she said, looking at herself in the mirror in the cabin, "I think it really does something for me; what do you think?" She stepped into the cockpit.

"Stone me, Sophie you look absolutely stunning!" Her former youthful figure had now taken on a truly voluptuous aspect with the help of her `improved' Junoesque endowments. "If that doesn't knock 'em in the Old Kent Road I don't know what will. But do you really need all that quantity?"

"Yes I do, I'd use more only there isn't any left."

"Well I never thought very highly of the stuff, but it's certainly come to a glorious end. In fact two glorious ends."

As we descended into the dinghy Sophie inadvertently brushed up against the boarding ladder and emitted a squeak of pain. "Be careful Sophie" I said, "and when you get ashore navigate with extreme caution, you'll find all your tolerances have changed by several inches."

There was the usual busy scene when we reached the quayside, but Sophie's appearance brought everything to a standstill. Looks of wonder amounting to awe followed our course to the Immigration Office. Being in my home port several people were of course known to me, and an old acquaintance caught my arm as we walked by: "Who's the dolly?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper.

"My crew," I said.

"Your CREW! Strewth! How d'you get away with it? I mean at your time of life. There ought to be a law."

Pausing only to remind him that envy is one of the seven deadly sins, I hurried after Sophie as I wanted to be on hand when we reached the Immigration Office. You never know, she might have leant over the counter in a moment of forgetfulness and done herself an injury.

But all went well, and when we emerged into the street again we were faced with quite a crowd; the word had spread of course, and our return to the quayside was something in the nature of a triumphal procession. And that damned girl revelled in it all as to the manner born. She even acknowledged the crowd with that slack-wrist-upwards wave adopted by our Royal Family on state occasions -- at the drop of a hat they would have burst into cheers.

We dropped down into my base anchorage as evening fell, and after a night's sleep the worst of the sting from her sunburn had evidently diminished, because her outline had assumed its accustomed limits by the time Fred came to pick her up. I noticed she didn't rush into his arms however.

"Hello Uncle Fred, we've had such a marvellous time, I wouldn't have missed it for anything. We had a terrible gale on the way over, we had to pump for hours, we nearly sank. And such a wonderful time in the French island, gorgeous food, and just wait till you see my sun tan.... Their voices faded away.

I pulled off my shirt and threw it on the chart table, fell onto the bunk and put my feet up. Those words of the poet ran through my mind:

`Peace, perfect peace,

With loved ones FAR away.'

I reckon that chap knew what he was talking about.

(5336 words)