Good news for some! If you seek solitude, you no longer need head for the trackless wastes of the Southern Ocean. A visit to the London International Boat Show will bring you all the loneliness you could possibly wish for.
Chele and I went to pay our annual homage by spending a couple of days there earlier this week. To be strictly accurate we weren’t really the only people there – a few other brave pilgrims had made it to the boatfest – but it did strike us that there were more folk manning the various stands than visitors – let alone visitors bent on buying.
And some big names were conspicuously absent. Beneteau had decided to give the party a miss, as did Plastimo, And there were others. The acknowledged footfall is 13% down on last year, when the poor attendance was blamed on the snow. No excuses this time – the weather was dry and sunny.
It’s also rumoured that a major powerboat manufacturer (I could name names but I’m sworn to silence) is withholding its final payment until it sees how fruitful its participation turns out to be. A bit like paying for a hotel room retrospectively – once it’s proved to have given you a good night’s sleep, that is. How the show organisers agreed to that I’ll never understand.
So, the question is, does the UK really want two international boat shows? Not if the public have any say in the matter it seems.
Yet for us it was a worthwhile journey. With the stands nearly empty we galloped through Shindig’s 2012 shopping list in just a few hours. Leaving plenty of time to drink alone at the Guinness stand.

In praise of the peglace

One of the most fundamental rules of cruising under sail is that you should bring nothing on to your boat that isn’t useful. Another is that the comfort and contentment of the crew is paramount. If you’re careful with your choices, usefulness and contentment can be embodied in the same object, though it takes a bit of imagination to think how this can be achieved. For example, a scrubbing brush is indisputably useful but few of us experience paroxysms of delight when wielding one. Likewise, a guitar well played can be hugely entertaining, but is pretty much useless for anything else.

Just occasionally you come across an object that embodies both qualities. The ‘peglace’  – see photo – is one such example and, I must say at once, isn’t an abbreviation for ’pearl necklace’.  A peglace can be made by following these instructions:

• Take a length of rope about one metre long
• Tie into a loop (any knot you like).
• Attach clothes pegs (clothes pins to US readers.)

The invention is not my own. I stole it from someone else. But as soon as I clapped eyes on a peglace I thought of Chele. Now Chele likes jewellery in a tasteful sort of way, and has a keen eye for quality. However, she freely admits that it’s more pleasurable than useful and I concluded from this that she feels a twinge of guilt when donning a bauble or two. So, I mused, what if I made her a peglace – the perfect compromise between adornment and utility, allowing her to feel properly turned out while doing the laundry?

I have to confess that her reaction wasn’t exactly rapturous when I presented it to her but, once she saw her reflection in a mirror, she did acknowledge that it brought a subtle charm. Indeed, you can see by her body language how pleased she became. Of course she had seen that it had more fashion potential than at first might be thought. For instance, by changing the juxtaposition of the variously coloured pegs, it could be adapted to harmoniously complement other items of one’s ensemble. Now, you can’t do that with a pearl necklace.

And, lest you think me chauvinistic, let me emphasise that a peglace is an entirely cross-gender accessory which can be worn without shame by anybody. I must admit that I haven’t worn one ashore yet but doubtless I will if I can find the right shirt to go with it.

In the meantime, I can often be seen wandering around Shindig’s deck blissfully pegging out damp clothes. After all, why should Chele have all the fun?

Health Warning! 

Topless ladies should exercise extreme caution when attaching or adjusting pegs.

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Sailing with seadogs?

I’m not sure where I stand when it comes to dogs on boats. Well, actually, I am sure where I stand when it comes to dogs on boats but I’m too polite to say anything. Until now, that is. An incident yesterday brought things into focus.  

Shindig is anchored off Nisis Koukovitsa – an islet connected to the mainland just to the east of Vonitsa by a low causeway, The shelter is good, the holding also, so it’s a snuggish place to be while thunderstorms and their attendant squalls tramp through. An aversion to getting needlessly wet means we haven’t been ashore for a couple of days but Chele advises that we’re short of tonic so we’ll have to be brave soon.

Anyway, as yet another band of rain arrives to drench us, I poke my head out of a hatch and see a German ketch rounding up to anchor close by. They drop the hook and settle it in nicely.given the conditions. At this point you would normally expect the crew to scramble below. Not them. As the rain beats down, I watch them lower the dinghy, start the engine. Then one of them leaps in and heads for the shore with a large golden retriever poised forward, its nose pointing shorewards with eager anticipation.

One must assume that said retriever was suffering some anguish because, about halfway there, the lure of the land must have taken over. It sprang forward over the bow and into the water. Now, had my opinion been sought, I could have drawn on my technical knowledge and advised this canine cretin that doggy paddling is no match for an outboard motor. Fortunately (depending on your point of view) Herr Dogowner clearly understood the implications. With great presence of mind and panic in his eyes, he swerved violently to one side, thereby avoiding entangling dog and prop but shipping some heavy spray instead.

To avoid offence I should refrain from observing that the entanglement bit might have been an opportunity missed, but instead I simply report that both man and hound made it safely ashore.

The relief for the dog must have been exquisite because it was soon about its business, next gambolling amongst the eucalypts, sniffing their roots, lifting his leg, while his human guardian sheltered behind the thickest tree trunk he could find. I cannot be absolutely sure but I think Herr D was blessing himself that, without his dog, he would have been deprived of such magic moments. Indeed, how could huddling on an island in a thunderous downpour compare with being back on his boat, now dry and warm with the rest of the crew, cracking open the schnapps? No, no, he'd be thinking – they are the unfortunate ones – it is I that has the good luck.

Sadly for Herr D, all good things come to an end, though he could console himself that he would probably be doing it all again before nightfall. Twenty minutes or so later they were heading back to the boat, the dog taking another quick dip before shaking itself dry to add to its owner’s delight, and then slavering his thanks onto his owner's jowls.

So, it’s time for my confession. I believe there is a place for dogs but not on boats. One has to draw a line somewhere and that should be the shoreline.

Heaven help us, the way things are going it's not difficult to believe that dogs will be posting stuff on Facebook for our delectation. But I think I go too far...

Keeping Good Company

We were alone in the anchorage until Roman arrived. Yes, there were a few boats moored stern-to in the little marina but I expect his boat, Luna, at 377ft (115m) was a bit on the big size to squeeze in. Anyway, I can tell you that it’s much nicer anchored off Corfu town, under the shadow of the Venetian castle and away from the dust and traffic noise ashore. And it’s particularly nice at the end of September when the hullabaloo of the tourist season is tailing off and the whole island is breathing a collective sigh of relief.

We dropped the hook at dusk on Friday and, after a meal ashore, turned in for the night. Anyway, it’s obvious that Roman knows a good thing when he sees it because, when I emerged early the following morning, there was Luna anchored two or three hundred metres to seaward. He must have snuck in while we were asleep.

From Shindig’s cockpit I could see someone swabbing the dew from Luna’s deck but couldn’t make out whether it was Roman or not because the distance was just a tad too great. Of course, it could also have been one of Luna’s 40-odd crew members, and another possibility is that Roman wasn’t on board at all and could even be back in the UK raking the leaves from his football club’s ground in Chelsea – leaves being something of a problem at this time of year, I’m told.

But clearly we had started a trend. By lunchtime another superyacht (though, it has to be acknowledged, not quite so super as Roman’s who, for the record, has an even bigger one which he keeps for best) had arrived and Chele was beginning to wonder whether we should invite them all over to dinner, noting that it would have to be finger food because we didn’t have enough knives and forks. Frankly, I wasn’t feeling that sociable and was very relieved when she eventually recalled that we were due to be in Gouvia the following day and had some chores to be completed before we left.

Which really for Roman is a terrible shame, for now he will never know how truly scrumptious are her devilled eggs and jalapeño cornbread. Although we could arrange to meet up in Antibes next summer, I suppose.

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It’s a small world – or is it?

It’s amazing what you find floating about when you’re cruising. And, if that thing contains someone you know and haven’t seen for several years, it’s tempting to say something along the lines of: “I’ll be darned. Isn’t it a small world!”

Well, you wouldn’t say that to Philip Corridan because he knows that it isn’t a small world. And the reason he knows that is because he’s sailed around it – most of the time single-handed. What’s more he did so in the now 45 year-old Mk.1 Iroquois catamaran you see in the photograph here. At that time, Alleda – to give a cat her name – was rigged sloop-wise as per the original design, with the side-by-side junk rig being a relatively recent innovation.

But the new rig gives some insight into the nature of the skipper. Ask him of his background and he’ll tell you he’s a mathematician “from the grubbier side of mathematics”.  Press him into how grubby and you discover he worked with Colin Chapman on the design of Lotus cars, which doesn’t actually sound very grubby at all. Enviable, maybe. Grubby, no.

Hardly surprising then, that with a life spent involved with structural and aerodynamic innovation, in boating terms nothing remains unmodified for long. So, what next lies in store for Alleda? I suspect that your guess is as good as mine.

I first got to know Philip back 1990s when I was working for Practical Boat Owner magazine. My records show that he contributed 23 articles during that period and all of them were excellent. Editors tend to rate material in terms of how much toil they need to bring them up to scratch. I can tell you that editing Phil’s stuff was painless – something I was able to tell him personally when our paths crossed less than a week ago

Nice bloke. Give him a wave if you see him. You’ll find it’s amazing what you find floating about. And some are much more amazing than others.

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Just the three of us

We have a mouse. Or rather the mouse has us. Since we haven’t been alongside since we left Messolonghi about a month ago, it can only be concluded that it swam out to us, liked what it saw, and climbed up the anchor chain. Quite why we were honoured by her (Chele claims ‘his’) patronage, we’re not quite sure, but after a week of her/his spectacular incontinence and destructive habit of shredding paper we’re out to get it.

But how? Chele, being a Texan, thought a portable grenade launcher might be useful but, unfortunately, they don’t sell them at Lidl. Then we heard of ‘mouse glue’. Of course, being a boatbuilder, my path and those of glues have crossed more than once. But most glues (in the trade we call them ‘adhesives’, it sounds more technical) start off sticky and then cure into a benign and handleable substance. Not mouse glue, I learned. Once sticky, always sticky. The modus operandi is to leave dollops of the stuff, spread on disposable sheets and baited with tempting edibles (see photo) in the anticipated path of said mouse and hope she/he treads in with all four feet. Once trodden, we were given to understand, there is no escape.

To be frank, I half thought we were being wound up and that George, the local chandler in Nidri, would clutch his ribs and roll about on the floor when we asked for mouse glue. But, no. He was very Greek about it. He treated my enquiry with the utmost seriousness, disappeared into the Dickensian, unlit grotto of his shop, and emerged clutching a toothpaste tube type dispenser. Solemnly, and in exchange for three euros, he handed it over. In his expression was just a glint of forboding.

Fast forward five days. George’s unease proved well-founded. Blithely anticipating early triumph, we started off with just a couple of strategically placed sticky platters. Result negative. Cranking up the action, we then laid a veritable minefield of traps, dotted around the boat – all located in places the wretched rodent was known to have visited.

The first capture was unexpected. Shambling loo-wards in the middle of the night, I absentmindedly trod in a trap. This was followed by a joyous period, hopping around as might an Inuit who'd lost a snow-shoe. Perhaps half-an-hour then sped by while I struggled to remove the disgusting stuff from between my toes, now become fused like a walrus's flipper. Alas, fortune's tide was not running in our direction.The next day a playful puff of wind entered via the hatch and blew some notes I was jotting smack into another trap we had laid beneath the chart table. I would like to record how unhilarious I thought it all was.

I have to say, the tally isn't encouraging. So far we've caught a number of wasps, flies, spiders and other unwelcome guests, but any sight of a mouse, spread-eagled and captive, eager to move on towards that great cheese in the sky, still eludes us. Most curiously of all, the glue appears to have taken on a sort of sinister mobility, encroaching outwards, almost imperceptibly, like some glittering and slightly scary lava flow. Who will it get first, we muse – the mouse or us?

For perhaps this is the ultimate joke. We’ll be stuck here forever while Maritime Mouse invites all her/his kin and pals to take up residence on Shindig. Maybe even now, one of them is studying for his Coastal Skipper qualification.

So, please take this seriously. If there are no further posts on this blog, don't hesitate. Assume the worst and alert the authorities.

"Oh, a wave on the ocean life, tra-la...!"

What could be more companionable? There you are, sailing along (or motoring for this is the Med) and you pass another vessel. A hand is raised in salute and a responding wave answers the courtesy, a gesture of friendliness between mariners.

But not always. We recently visited Vonitsa, an attractive if somewhat jumbled settlement in the Gulf of Amvrakia, overshadowed by a Venetian citadel that sits above the town itself. As we approached the anchorage we passed a French trawler yacht of the general type known as Grand Banks, though presumably this refers to the Grand Banks of Taiwan, not Nova Scotia. Two figures – him and her, quite young – sat on the after deck, drinks beside them as one might in the early evening.

I gave them a cheerful wave. Nothing. Not the slightest response. The figures stared across the gap as we swung slowly around their stern. Stone faced and certainly not in the mood to communicate, even by semaphore. Then, ashore a little later, we found ourselves occupying a nearby table at the same waterside restaurant. I offered a slight nod of recognition and, again, got the Easter Island head treatment.

All of which reminded me of a conversation I had with a German sailor some years ago. We were discussing the matter of waving and had agreed that, in cementing the bonds between sailors, it was generally to be encouraged. As we explored the various issues, the discussion began to get technical. It seemed to us clear that people fell into different types. Some were instigators – that’s to say ‘wavers’ – and others were responders – that’s to say ‘wavees’, eager to participate but not to break the ice, somewhat like a youth at a party hoping a certain girl will speak to him. Then, of course, there were some who did neither, either too proud, private, embarrassed or antisocial to participate.

Somewhere along the line my companion had put forward his belief that any proclivity to wave – either in the active or passive role – ran at least partially along national lines. He believed that the Brits were surprisingly eager in their wavings, puppyish even, the Dutch courteous but restrained, the Scandinavians relaxed and the Italians too busy struggling to tame their projectiles to lift a hand from the controls – except perhaps to adjust the rake of their sunglasses. The Germans, he believed, had the balance exactly right and were an exemplar to all.

‘But…’ he reflected, ‘It is important to persist. There was this time when Greta and I were overtaking a French boat. We were doing only about a quarter of a knot faster than them so it took many minutes to pass, during which time we stayed only a hundred metres or so apart. I waved to them but they didn’t wave back. I waited a few minutes then waved again. I knew they saw me because they were staring across the water. One even fetched some binoculars.’

He sipped his beer and sighed. ‘I don’t know why but I saw it as a challenge. Every time one of them glanced in my direction, I waved. Greta told me I should stop but I couldn’t. ‘Later that evening, with the boat in the marina, I spotted the same people walking down the dock … so I waved to them. The next thing I knew, this man was striding towards me. He looked very angry. “Why are you always waving at us?” he wanted to know. “Every time we look around, there you are waving! Why is this so?”’

Another sip and a long pause. ‘So, I told them' said Klaus. 'The reason I wave to everyone is because I don’t want other sailors to think I am French.’