Yesterday morning dawned clear and somewhat chilly with a thin layer of frost covering the grass that Ian had mown the previous day having just returned from Germany. The job was unfinished as the ride-on mower had spluttered to its death for want of fuel. Frankie our sheep shaggy spaniel, absent of all colour had been outdoors and with a soaking undercarriage had attracted the freshly cut grass to adhere like bright green hair extensions to his belly afterwards to be deposited all over the house. The grass severed of its life force does not desiccate in the weak watery sun as it might on the hot, dry highveld of South Africa, instead staying green for weeks.
These same cool conditions are a pleasure to exercise in and later on the beach walkway behind the dunes I merged paths with a school teacher walking a monster dog shackled to her wrist with links the size of an anchor chain. ‘What kind of dog is that?’ asked I, to which she replied. ‘American Bull Terrier.’ She walked him three times a day on a well behaved slack chain with him effortlessly swaggering along on oscillating broad shoulders. Irresponsible dog owners with mischievous, free-running, snack-sized, taunting, yapping dogs were completely ignored as she gently soothed him with her soft cooing words on their convergent approaches. This dog never once broke his purposeful, steadfast stride ignoring all comers.
She had taught a brief while at a school in Lusikisiki Transkei and had sponsored a young 14 year old’s schooling and university education. Admirable sacrifice for a poorly paid teacher. I found it endearing that she was still in touch with this now successful young mother. Our paths split as we reached Talacre with her continuing on past the Gas works and me headed home.
These walks allow me to consider the training and race. Will I be fit enough? Can I really do this? Will I make it all the way round? Will I be hurt? How will I feel? Will it really be so cold and wet? Will we be broached? Will we be knocked down? Will we be dismasted? Will we crash gybe? Will I be washed overboard? Will we run aground or run into unlit fishing nets, boats or pirates? Could we win? People say that I’m inspirational and masochistic doing something so amazing. In my ignorance and naivety it doesn’t feel remotely this way to me. I’m just realising a ten year old’s boyhood dream.
The changes I will make for Level 2 will be to separately pack less gear into discrete dry bags such that everything has a known place to be instantly found. Organisation is my new motto. The ‘wet notes’ I shall attempt to learn by heart in order to avoid mistakes and get fit, get fit, get fit. I look forward to a new crew and dread getting back into a swimming pool for the liferaft training after nearly 20 years of abstinence. I’m keen to see what continuous day-and-night sailing the channel on watch will be like, sleeping and working at an angle.
Ruthie has told her young school class she knows a pirate that is sailing round the world. When they ask what work I do she tells them ‘Nothing, he is a pirate, so that’s what he does.’
Mangled Neuron 