Leaving Mel’s AirB&B early and following her helpful advice, I got the train to Portsmouth harbour. A railway official guided me to the correct exit after confirming with me which ferry I was after, and took the Gosport ferry across the water to the bus terminus. Knowing I was early and anxious not to be late, I checked with a bus driver that the E2 was routed near Fort Brockhurst. I decided that some form of breakfast was needed, as well as a sandwich lunch for later, however, it was not to be. Greggs was setting up but would only be open in 30 minutes. Pushing on, in impatience up the pedestrianised high street I was sure I’d get something and failed. At the far end I had reached the bus stop without sustenance and jumped aboard the first bus, making sure this time it was the correct one.
In my usual style I chose right instead of left and walked the long way round the block to the Brune Park Community school. The upside was finding a cycle path down a leafy tunnel as a shortcut, with the morning sun filtering through the fresh spring green, I dragged my sailing kit on wheels to the locked school gate. Others were beginning to gather with their dry bags – a dead giveaway that we would be about to share the same experience. American Mike was there with a tight group that had enjoyed Level 1 together. Names and greetings were exchanged to a steadily growing group as taxis and ubers deposited more and more trainees. Excited jabber died briefly when the gate was opened and we poured ourselves through the narrow entrance hefting our gear to stand in the sunshine to our first instructions. A fellow African, Nigerian Nnennaya (currently in Chad by way of the DRC) with an adventure penchant, including the climbing of ‘Kili’, came to my rescue and quelled my hunger-fueled bleating by sharing a tuna sandwich and biscuits with me.
The morning was spent absorbing information like naval cadets to an animated and entertaining ex-Royal Navy survival specialist. He was right, his patter of well worn jokes so bad they were good, lightened the serious nature of his lecture. Breaks for coffee and lunch managed to keep our attention. Unfortunately, lunch was feasting on a meagre selection from a nearby fuel station sandwich rack.
We were divided into two groups to begin the practical exercises in a heated indoor pool. Jumping in with inflated jackets holding nose, mouth and spectacles with one hand, and clasping that arm with the other across the jacket, to stop the feeling of decapitation when hitting the water. Double armed backstroke is the only permitted method of locomotion. With the threat of death hanging over us if we attempted to swim on our bellies. I, of course, tried to see whether it was possible, and set off on the first length, soon to discover the instructor was of course – correct! We were all sporting claustrophobic clear plastic face masks, pulled over our heads and snapped over the bottom of the inflated buoyancy chamber, there to arrest salty windswept spray being swallowed.
We further divided into ‘Oxford’ and ‘Cambridge’ teams, after performing two lengths of short and long tow with our partners, the first wrapping partner in clasped legs, the next by hooking feet under armpits to be towed across the pool. Racing each other’s team using the chained long tow crocodile technique, all using double armed backstroke, marking time with our ‘stroke’ at the back. We humiliatingly lost the race.
We swam with eyes closed and some in circles, hilarious to those of us watching, trying to get to the end of the pool. Then boarded the raft from both poolside and from the water. Packed in, 16 of us into an 8 man raft and quickly warmed up. Various tasks were set including; bailing, and looking out of a sock-like chute, all the while being thrown buckets of water at. Righting the raft was the last thing done before showering and dressing.
Ingo offered us a lift back to the Clipper training centre and kindly allowed me to leave my bulky travel bag in his car. We ran into difficulty with the harbour road and finished up being directed to a pedestrian bridge by the GPS which was set for walk routing. Backtracking, we got around soon enough to our assigned yacht Charlie Victor Seven.
Mangled Neuron 