Skipper- Daily Object Writing – Mar 28 - Paul J Penton

Skipper- Daily Object Writing – Mar 28

Mar 30th, 2010 | By admin | Category: Daily Writing

Why I ever thought it would work for me I don’t know. It might have been something about overcoming my fear of water, that grey changing stuff that has unplumbed depths, or maybe it was sheer boredom, but I joined the sailing club- I was skipper of the Blue Ant- I recall now I joined ’cause my friends were in it. Despite my father being in the navy for 27 years he gave me not hint of the principles of the sail and the wind. Me and Russ – my crew would drag down the flying ant like a non-flying elephant from the clubhouse, its hull sailing through the springy bullgrass. In plimsoled shoes we crunched on the sand at the edge of Bullen-Merri rigging the beast. The varnished mast erecting itself and being pulled into place with thin metal stays. A screwdriver through the centre of the mast tightened it up- so it didn’t fall out when capsized [as happened one day!].

Somehow mum had bought me a life jacket at a clearance sale, straight out of the 50’s I reckon. It seemed to be filled with polystyrene blocks that squeaked each time I moved. In faded yellow it held me in a degree of safety until the moment we capsized – when the panic levels of being sucked into the eternal deep over came me , just about the same time as that stupid life jacket rode up over my head. It was always a shock, that moment of dunking, especially at the tail end of winter when the sky had been a congealed glug of grey clouds and the squalling winds had cut through my pimply skin. Yes, in the drink, cold cold hands welcomed me, taking my breath away, a taste of briny water, a mild panic to make sure I wasn’t getting sucked under the billowing cloud of the sail. Making sure that Russel’s head was bobbing somewhere nearby.

The circus of raising the boat then followed, both of us standing on the dorsal fin of the boat, the mast rising up like a baseball bat to hit a home run with the sly. a sodden clamber back into the boat and then the horrid wind sucking away our last strengths and hope and an admission of defeat. If only I knew how to point the sail right we’d get back to a nice steaming mug of tea.

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