Dalmatia 101

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written and contributed by Liz and Ali Warr

“Right guys, this next bit is going to be a bit tricky so I just need to explain to you all how it works cos I need you all to help”.

In a touching display of faith and courage, Skipper Ben is going to trust his crew of merry buffoons to help him moor a quarter of a million pound yacht. It seems this involves going in backwards, into a small gap between two other people’s doubtless none too cheap yachts. Ah.

“So, Raymes, Doug, you take short lines from the stern, Liz we need the fenders all off, Ali you need the boat hook and you take the line the guy passes you up to the bows quick as you can and get the tension on. I’ll cut the engine, the guys moor us up, I nudge forward, we make it all fast, job done. All clear?”

Mm. “Doug..short fenders..make Liz fast…cut the tension…something something…job done?”

“Er, nooo. Shall I run through it again?”. Please.

Let the games begin.

We creep past the first yacht, whose distinctly portly Italian owner eyes us suspiciously. Round go the bows bringing us parallel. And back we begin to nudge backwards. The skipper looks a tad tense.

I scoop the line with the boat hook and then realise to my horror that I’m stuck holding it on the wrong side of the stanchions holding up the awning. I’m going to have to pass it round, hop down behind and round the wheel and back to the side where I have a free run up to the bows. A great idea if only I had arms eight feet long. Liz sees this and grabs the line from me.

At this stage you need a little background. Below deck, with Mrs Skipper, is Baby Bea, a perfect angel approaching the potty training stage of life. In the cockpit for the last few days, therefore, there has been a bright little pink potty, ready for action. Now I have often read in novels that before manoeuvres or action, the order is given to clear the decks. In our haste to hang out the Dougs and give a short line to the fenders, we have forgotten to do this.

At around this point The Shouting starts. To starboard, Italiano Grosso is getting vocal about his paintwork. To port, loud instructions are booming out…in German. Something has gone wrong with the lines at the back. “Avanti! Avanti!” bellows Grosso, “Nein, nein! Keepen Sie Komming!” to starboard. I’m sensing this isn’t going very well. The Skipper looks a tad tenser. Hand on throttle. A bead of sweat forming on his brow. His face is stony, jaw set, as if to say: “We shall get the women and children off first, who knows, they may make it the three yards to shore. But I’m staying here at my post and going down with my ship.” Noble.

With the clashing choruses of Puccini and Wagner in the background and Rayma vainly shouting over the top for what on earth they’re on about, all hell has officially broken loose in the stern. I leap athletically into action - that line needs to be up in the bows immediately. Landing with my left foot neatly in the middle of a coiled rope and my right foot firmly in the potty and I go arse over tit, legs cartwheeling over the wheel. You can bet that never happened to Nelson. I lurch up to the bow, get the rope on the cleat and look back to see Kapitan Osterreich ashore, howling at me and making wild downward motions with his arms. He’s hardly bowing in awe at our smooth mooring, whatoneearthisheonabout???! “Belegen, belegen!” “Nononononoooo, avanti avanti!!”

Now I only speak a little German and Italian and I really don’t speak boat, but it is becoming abundantly clear that our European colleagues are giving not just me but the Skipper and unfortunate shipmates in the stern wildly contradictory as well as extremely loud advice. And the Italian is becoming rather colourful. This is not helping concentration or stress levels.

Skipper gives the order - in English, very helpfully - to drop the lines. We’re pulling out to have another go. We’re also being boarded by a party of Austrians in alarmingly small tight swiming trunks. Irritatingly they all step deftly over the potty. Clearly they’ve done this before. We creep backwards again. A steady stream of German instructions and cigarette smoke float, equally pointlessly, past my face and five sweaty further minutes of stress, embarrassment and torrents of Italian abuse later, we’re finally moored.

Sailing: so restful.

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