But I am brave. I am bold. I make it to the pub when I really, really need to. I know, right?

What I’ve also been doing a lot of recently is missing the great outdoors and, specifically, going out on my boat. And I want none of those “she’s all posh and loaded, she’s got a yacht” type comments: this yacht cost us less than a battered campervan to buy and is considerably cheaper to maintain. Having said that she still sleeps four (pixies/3-year old humans/GI Joes) and has proper excretary and cooking facilities. A quick primer:

• Make: Kingfisher
• Length: 22′ foot LOA (length overall)
• Built: 1976
• Berthed: Emsworth, Chichester Harbour
• General characteristics: built like a brick shit-house; will never win any races; owned by me since 2004; deeply loved.
• Name: Santa Teresa de Jesus (not something I would ever name a boat, but there it is*).

My wee boat. Let me show you it:

This photo was in the online advert and was the first I ever saw of the boat. I was instantly taken by the fact that she looked like she’d just crawled out of the primordial ooze, ready to evolve into a bus.

I last went sailing in September and miss it terribly. It’s the best way I’ve found for relaxing. For realz. Unlike Yoga, during which you get moments of calm punctuated by stretches of your mind cartwheeling around such inspiring issues as did I turn the heating down, I’m sure I missed the Encona off the shopping list, does my bum look big in these Thai Yoga pants, oh my God will my boobs fall out of this top when I do a headstand? When you’re on the water land-based worries seem to melt away, as if terra firma and its concerns belong to some alternate dimension. Quite disconcerting. Having said that, there are plenty of water-based worries to keep you shitting bricks occupied. A small selection follows: high winds; no wind; running out of loo paper; speed-freak container ships; speed-freak dinghy sailors; fishermen; fisherwomen; mud banks while sailing in fog; mud banks anywhere, at any time; dragging anchor while below doing, um, things; mermaids; seasickness; engine failure in the middle of busy shipping lanes; props getting fouled on unmarked lobster pot lines; rudder failure; running out of coffee. The only one I’ve yet to experience is that last one, and frankly, it’s the only one I’m pretty sure I couldn’t deal with.

But enough of that. Let’s have a wee salty dog story to show how much fun sailing can be.

A couple of years ago Andy and I were motoring into Yarmouth, a small but busy harbour on the north coast of the Isle of Wight, having been forced to take shelter from a increasing Force 6 wind. I was soaked, freezing and sore from battling the sails on the foredeck and we were both dog-tired from a long, hard journey from Dorset. The engine was on and the sails were finally stowed, not neatly, but well enough that they wouldn’t take an eye out if a particularly strong gust happened upon us. We crawled past Yarmouth harbour entrance and its ferry berthing area, and into the mouth of the packed marina. The whistling of the rigging of hundreds of yachts brought to mind a banshee rave. A banshee rave with the volume turned up to 11.

We’d nearly reached the end of our pontoon and I was dangling over the side all ready with the fore line, fantasising about dipping the tip of my finger into the creamy head of my first velvety pint of Guinness, putting it to my lips and sucking off the…(enough already with the beer porn – ed.), when things went a little too quiet from the back of the boat. I looked back to see Andrew’s bum sticking up in the air as he desperately tried to restart the dead engine. Again and again he pulled the starter. No good. Off came the engine cover and he went to work with whatever tools were to hand, namely one oil-stained rubber glove, an empty can of coke and a bungee. I stayed at the prow and kept a nervous look out.

I’d noticed fairly quickly that the wind was pushing us backwards out of the marina and into the path of the ferry, which had started its own engines. A quick glance up at the barnacle-studded concrete ferry dock assured me that all the pasengers were on board and it wouldn’t be long before the ship set sail. Black diesel smoke poured from the exhaust. The ship’s engines roared. Its horn blew. I shat.

However hard he tried, Andrew could not get the engine started and we were drifting closer to the ferry, which by now was juddering menacingly. I picked up an old boathook and waved it feebly in the general direction of the ship, whose white steel flank was now towering above us, arse-clenchingly close. Would I be able to fend off from it with my little wooden stick? Before I could be driven to the brink of madness by the obvious answer to this question, I noticed two black harbourmaster launches steaming out of the marina towards us. The ferry bellowed and began to back out. Andrew painted the air blue with pirate curses. I prayed to Cthulu. Suddenly the two little boats were alongside, and had both made fast to us, one to starboard, the other at the bow. They gunned their engines and slid us out of danger. I pried my fingers one by one from the side wires and broke into an impromptu rendition of The Sound Of Music.

It wasn’t long before we were safely tied up in the marina. One the of harbourmaster launches had disappeared silently before I could say anything, so I gasped and spluttered my thanks to the second weathered old fella. He smiled wryly, ran a huge hand through his salt-spiked hair and rumbled “It’s not a problem madam. We thought your predicament was most amusing, but only like to watch people struggle for so long”.

Oh, we laughed.

So you see, that’s why I love sai…oh. Bugger. That was the wrong story.

*I once saw a small motorboat called, and I shit you not, Cirrhosis of the River. That’s all I have to say about that really, because I think no further words are needed.