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The Wedginald's
So as is routine at this time of year - the Wedge had us drive down to Plyms to do some bitch work on his yacht. This involves finding some skanky old paint (anti-foul actually) and slapping it on the "Seraph's" underside - I think they call it hull. Fortunately, the weather was with us, so it wa'n't too painful.
Sailing up the River
Having done all of Wedge's bitch work, while he claimed to be busy saving the world with Nuclear Submarine Safety Procedures (unfortunately that's true - well I don't think he's actually saved the world yet, but his day will come), we topped and tailed the Seraph ready for its annual wetting. The trip up the river dart (I've guessed at that name, well more like made it up, so please no emails) when described to esteemed local seafarers (oh yeah, there's loads of them around) usually brings about the reaction "good luck" coupled with what starts out as a cheeky smirk but soon crescendo's into a full-on belly laugh, the sort that would make Brian Blessed proud. Needless to say (I'm gonna say it anyway) this was due to be our
second d*ck mission of the day - but to my mind, bloody great fun, as I had no responsibility whatsoever.
We got the low down off the guys about to sail out in front of us, who happened to be a couple of lovely posh chaps, with top-tips galore (as to how to avoid grounding the bad lad every 30 yards). The moment we got the Seraph on the water I screamed out (unfortunately still within hearing distance of the lovely poshers) "Hurry up lads and we can slipstream them goons" - pointing at the lovely helpful poshers. Needless to say, Wedge and Steve fell about laughing, while I ducked and pointed at Steve a lot.
Anyhoo, we managed to make it out to the current before we realised we'd lost the map, "that'll be Millie that will," exclaimed Wedge (yeah, blame it on the defenceless 2 year old). We harboured on (I'm proud of that one) and made it al the way to the bridge (approx 50 yds) before we began to falter. "I can't remember which arch we're supposed to go through, Steve pick a number from 1-4," said Wedge. Apparently, Wedge learnt all these advanced
navigation techniques on his Yacht Master course. We gambled with "1." We made it under the arch (height was not a factor, depth was) but within 30 yards our cruising speed (about 2 knots) had diminished to zero knots. I fought like a tiger to keep a straight face, which involved me looking like an 8 year old about to kiss his moustached gran, but then the shoulders started popping and the stomach started wobbling (even more than usual) until I practically spat out laughter into the skippers face. "Sorry Matt" I said, or maybe I just apologised in my head though. Matt (skipper) held his nerve and said something like "don't worry lads it's 2 hours till high tide." Bloody, marvelous, we're gonna have to wait here for 2 hours I thought.
I took control. "Right men, everyone to starboard - skipper crank up the throttle!" Naturally, my suggestion was greeted with disdain and looks that read something like "grow up you donkey raping sh*t eater." I got the message.
Anyway, within minutes we were away again - only another 2 miles to go. So, I took over depth-sounder duties. Oh yeah, did i not mention we'd
got a depth sounder (giving us readings of the river bed depth, to the nearest 10cm). Yeah, skipper had failed to tell us that too. So anyway, we trolled on whilst I read out numbers (dunno if anyone was actually listening) like "2.2, 2.1, 2.0, 1.8, 1.6, yep its getting shallow, 1.4, 1.2 - lads, lads, 1.0... 1.2, 1.3, 1.6 etc etc." until soon, Wedges cunning and guile had navigated us safely through the most treacherous stretch of river in the UK mainland.
Within the hour (well before it had turned pitch black) we managed to moor-up down river - at the permanent mooring and we could rest for the night. Well, paddle back to land and go and get us selves some fish and chips.
The Giraffe's Maiden Voyage: Well Maiden 2009 Voyage
So, led by Captain Ginge we ventured down river to whatever perils the vast Atlantic Ocean would bring. With Steve & Matt coping admirably, within minutes I was bored (and hungry of course), so I headed below deck to make some sandwiches and flip the kettle on. The pecking order now clearly established, I passed the time by trawling my fishing line over
the stern of the boat (that's the back for all you townies) in the hope that there were some hungry fish capable of swimming at about 50 knots. Ok, so we were probably only doing about 10 knots, but with the weight of my lure it felt much faster.
Realising this sailing lark is pretty dull unless you are at the helm I demanded that I take over. Initially I don't think they heard me, so I repeated my demands until they finally caved about 40 minutes later, at which point we were now safely back inside the breakwater. Actually, this was the most dangerous bit as there's a lot more traffic there, including the Brittany Ferry, which we managed to avoid without the captain having to sound his warning horn. A feat that Matt & Steve were not able to achieve the last time they met the big fezza.
Anyway, I took over and had a great time tacking back up the river (under very tight supervision, and the occasional bit of ridicule obviously). Finally, I'd got my sea wings (or is it legs, or webbed feet?). Anyway, Wedge exclaimed that I was a great sailor -
I took this as a reference to my sexuality so punched him in his ginger face.
Until next time...
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