(Picture by Karen van Rensburg)
We’ve got a boat, a yacht, a saily thing, and a bloody huge massive responsibility. Her name is Mahalo which means thank you in Hawaiian, which is fitting because all I’ve been saying to people all week is thank you. To say I’m bricking myself is an understatement. I know the pointy end from the flat end just about and I know the flappy bits are sails. As far as all the other terminology goes, it could be Martian. I nearly punched John when he said we were going to spend the day checking for seacocks, I thought he was taking the piss. I envisioned him standing stark bollock naked in a cabin and asking me to come look for a seacock, but no, apparently that’s a real thing. Somewhat like ‘The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy’ where all ‘hoopy froods’ know where their towel is, all good sailors know where their seacocks are and most importantly there needs to be a bung too. I might be laying my ignorance on with a trowel here but I really cannot stress enough how sodding scary it is to know that each time we go sailing out into the blue, the only thing keeping us alive is the protective embrace of Mahalo and until yesterday my only experience of anything boatish had been three ferry trips (where I threw up my intestines), a narrow boat holiday, a few days out with friends on their motorboats (I threw up the remainder of my intestines and quite possibly some lung too), floating on an airbed and I once owned a rowing machine. How Holly and Fred are going to adapt to the life of salty sea dogs I have no idea. I envisage all three of us up at the pointy end vomiting and howling in self-pity. John on the other hand is as happy as a wank addict in a sex shop and I’m just going to have to trust Pirate Captain John for my education on all things yachting.
It may seem that I have sex on the brain because of all this talk of seacocks and sex shops* but it is in fact quite the opposite. It’s high season here on Antigua; we get cruise ships docking in St John’s daily, sometimes up to four of them. Each ship is a floating multinational city full of eager travellers all busting to find a beach, strip off and feel the sugar sand between their socks and sandals, known to me as The SAS Brigade. The SAS I can deal with, they walk up and down the beach covered from head to toe in Marks and Spencer’s finest cruising clothes collection, sunhat, black out shades and enough sunscreen to prevent even one ounce of vitamin D getting through to their skin. No, those gentle skin cancer conscious folks are not the issue; it’s the other sort, the ‘I’m going to drop my shorts and push my dangly old cock in your face’ types to whom I object. There’s nothing like the sight of a big hairy pair of bollocks or a Granny fanny being thrust in your face on a beach to put you right off sex for a while. I’m all for freeing the nipple; tits, boobies, gazongas, jubly bags of fun, whatever you want to call them are not a sexual organ but a flaccid cock (or not so flaccid on one occasion) is quite a violation especially on a public, non-nudist beach. There’s nothing stopping cruise travellers or anyone else for that matter, undressing and changing into swimming clothes discreetly. Hell’s teeth, John is a very body confident man but even he draws the line at waving his tackle around in public, we can exclude the naked Wii-fit hoola-hooping incident one Sunday morning in our living room, at least that was in the privacy of our own home and I did have net curtains at the time. So that’s a little plea from me, and I am so non-prudish, please please if you’re going to strip off on a non-nudist beach don’t be foisting your flaps, scrotum or foreskin at poor unsuspecting beach bums. I nearly dropped the book I was reading and there’s no telling what sort of incident that could have caused**.
Back to Mahalo and away from genitals. She’s a lovely yacht. She’s a 1986 Wauquiez Centurion; 40 foot of beautifully nurtured vessel. I may be ignorant of all things floating but even an uneducated eye can see she has stunning lines. I’m not ashamed to admit I slept on board last night even though she was tied up to our dock. Every creak and groan in the unusually high winds could not stop her from lulling me into one of the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. I don’t know if yachts absorb energy? Maybe that’s too hippy-dippy even for me, but the sense of love and care Mahalo has experienced radiates out of every inch of her gleaming teak interior. Thank you Delwyn and Tom for allowing us to buy her from you, and we will do our very best for her. Of course we have to thank Karen and Michael for dealing with the brokering too. We were hand held from start to finish by Lighthouse Yachting here in Antigua, right down to getting a lovely big hug from Karen when I broke down in tears of joy and awe when we received the keys to Mahalo. I cry lots but I think it might be a shock to some people when this big strapping six-foot woman blubs like a baby, which I do at every opportunity. Of course if you remind me of this I will punch your lights out.
We’ve met a lot of people who told us the same thing; that living on Antigua without a boat is only half a life. To experience life and the island to it’s fullest you need to get on the water and live life in three hundred and sixty degrees. Whilst that side of it is very true, Mahalo also opens up the world to meet other people, not just cruisers but to visit other islands and experience their culture, food, society and language. We have been blessed with so many wonderful gifts since moving to Antigua, by which I mean the gifts of friendship, kindness and knowledge. Somedays we meet new people, some days we meet no people and we lock ourselves in our little bubble which extends no further than villa to beach and back again and that’s what is so lovely, we have that choice and I will no longer spend time apologising for the privilege we have that affords those choices; I spent a long time feeling very guilty about moving here and living the life we do, I think that feeling of privilege guilt makes sense? I could give everything away, go live in a cave, paint myself purple and pray to the universe for an end to poverty, hunger and world peace, but fuck it, I’m not going to do that. It’s going to take a lot more than a cave dwelling purple hippy asking the universe for help to sort out the mess of global politics right now. John, the dogs and me are going to enjoy our fruits so there! Not once in my childhood did I think I’d live outside of our village, let alone the UK and the idea of owning a yacht? Fuck off, only posh twats do that! Well I’m not a posh twat I’m just one lucky, awestruck woman.
*A good title for an album that, if any of you lovely readers are musically minded, I look forward to seeing an album released with that name some day, maybe, ahhhh hush your tutting and sighing, you never know.
** Brian Moore’s second autobiography ‘Beware of the Dog’. He writes how he played rugby; fierce, brutal, raw.