Home Run…

So, it came to the repatriation of Hejira to her berth in Northney Marina. On the face of it, the passage from Ocean Village in Southampton should have been straightforward, especially in the balmy Indian Summer weather at the end of September, in the event it was not without incident.

I have volunteered in the past for a very worthy charity called ‘Sailing Therapy’. I firmly believe in the ‘wellbeing’ advantages of being in, on, or even just near water, and this charity tries to offer this proximity to people in society who have problems and that are likely to benefit from a waterborne experience.  The people who are involved with this charity are absolute Saints!

It is a fact that I found helping with the charity boat profoundly difficult to deal with, but it was still significantly more rewarding and worthwhile compared to this cruise.

I will leave it to the inimitable ‘Toad’ to recount our experience. You will already be aware that he has a tendency to rampant hyperbole and exaggeration, and so it is here – again.

Peter writes:

Jerry and I set off, once more, with some fear and trepidation to Hejira, moored in Southampton.  It must be said that visiting Plymouth, Southampton, Gosport and Portsmouth would put most people off a trip to England’s South Coast but, as they tend to offer the cheapest moorings, that is Hejira’s natural habitat.

Chatting with Jerry, we recognised that a passage on Nick’s yacht is reminiscent of ‘Childbirth’ (apologies for the gender appropriation).  Each time the experience is uncomfortable, at best, painful, overly long and with NHS quality food thrown in for good measure.  Somehow, in the intervening months, all of that gets forgotten, and you sign up again.

We also recognised that, with Nick’s dwindling number of friends or ‘willing’ crew, we get called upon as a last resort, in fact, it feels like we have been press ganged into this trip and are in a psychological kidnap situation.

The trip started badly with a gas leak outside Reading that caused the cancellation of most trains at Reading, we decided to wait in the pub and take the next available train to Southampton.  Those who know Nick well, won’t be surprised to learn that he had bought an economy super-saver ticket with a pensioners and every other discount for under three quid, while Jerry and I had a First Class ‘anytime’ ticket with access to food and drink in the carriage.  As we headed to the front of the train, Nick leapt from his ‘cheap’ seat at the rear and tailgated us throughout the train.  He then sat with us and took full advantage of the sandwiches, drinks crisps and ‘goodie’ box that was mistakenly given to him, as they thought he had a similar ticket to us.  He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat!

Things took a turn for the worse for Jerry when he unpacked his bag and realised that rather than bring a towel on the trip, he had picked up a bathmat.  I also realised my usual bunk was now full of bric-a-brac, and I would be sleeping in a ‘coffin’ with no access to natural light or ventilation, and in an ‘aperture’ that Houdini would struggle to access.  This trip was going from bad to worse for both of us.

We thought a nice dinner would make everything better and headed out; Nick selected a Pan Asian restaurant, offering an expensive ‘taster’ menu, with a view of Hejira from the window so that’s where we went.  I can honestly say it is the worst Chinese I have ever had.  It must have gone straight from the freezer to the microwave, you couldn’t hear yourself think for the pinging of the kitchen appliances.  Jerry and I were ready to make a complaint and negotiate the (extortionate) price down until we realised that Nick had ‘mines swept’ all the plates and every morsel had disappeared along with our negotiating power!  The next day, a ‘dripping’ Jerry (and his bathmat), the skipper and I set off for Portsmouth with Southampton best seen in the rear-view mirror.

Once moored at Gunwharf Quays in  Portsmouth, and after a couple of beers, Nick wanted to see the Naval exhibition in Gosport including HMS Alliance; a submarine that was in service until 1973.  We paid for the guided tour which was pointless because Nick knew more about the vessel than our two guides even though they had actually worked onboard for many years whilst at sea !  The guides were Philip and Roger who pointed out just how cramped & claustrophobic the conditions were on the submarine, the size of the bunks and the limited rations available; Jerry and I told them (in lockstep) that they should try a spell on Hejira to realise just how lucky they were.  Thoroughly recommend the guided tour; just not with Nick.

Gunwharf Quays is filled with many cafes and bars, just none you’d want to eat or drink in.  After much debate, otherwise known as a full-blown argument, we headed to Tesco and with some misgivings, returned to the boat with steaks, peppercorn sauce, oven chips and their entire chocolate display.  What followed was by far the best meal I’ve ever had on board.

Jerry was sublime in the ‘kitchen’ and the steaks were flavoursome and beautifully cooked.  At this point the skipper passed out at the table and snored his way through the rest of the evening.

The next morning, after another night sleeping in my coffin, to which neither Nick or Jerry could achieve ingress or egress unless greased like a stuck pig, we set off in the direction of Northney, by now Jerry’s bathmat was little more than a soggy carpet.

After another passage under diesel and having refuelled at Sparkes Marina where it felt like Nick was looking for donations, we arrived ‘home’.  A strange train ride to Woking ensued with the train smelling of dope and Nick, once again, ensconced in First Class.  An Uber from there and back to a bed I can turn over in, a shower where I don’t risk catching a verruca, Jerry gets a bath towel and Nick is left plotting the next ‘adventure’ to who knows where and who knows why !

Will someone please remind me of this when he comes knocking !