Gerry had arranged to take ten cadets aboard one of the TSYT Challengers for a week: he needed another adult volunteer; he preferred one with some sailing experience.
Guess who had sailed a Challenger some years ago! And guess who agreed with alacrity!!
We met at 0830BST on Monday outside the school and assembled the luggage. Some of the youngsters were travelling light: a sleeping bag and a small holdall. Others had brought everything they might (or might not) need for a month on a cruise liner.
They were all lads; no lasses. This was not sexist: the layout of a Challenger is such that there must be an equal number of lads and lasses, and not enough lasses elected to go.
Lads in a group tend to go feral quite quickly; as we assembled at the bus it had already begun.
Gerry was more afraid of a 'starburst' and that he might lose cadets to all points of the compass; that, too, had already begun!
The drive to Portsmouth (ably executed by Brian) was boring. The halfway stop at a service station on the A3 was nothing special (apart from the mini-starburst!). The arrival at Gunwharf Quays was unremarkable. Chas, as ever, was cheerful and smiling when he met us, but the lads were horrified at the prospect of carrying their own kit half a mile to the boat.
But the sight of the boat was electrifying. It brought back exciting, long-forgotten memories to those of us (me!) who had sailed her before. The long, clean hull. The tall mast. The snake-pit of lines, ha'lyards, sheets and winches. The stowing of kit and allocation of bunks. The explanation of the heads. The skipper's briefing. The galley and the saloon.
We moved out of the marina about mid-afternoon and headed South down the channel. At 5q-Outer Spit South Cardinal we turned West along the Solent.
It was a lovely afternoon, calm water, little wind and a sinking sun ahead.
There were no marina spaces at Cowes and we found ourselves alongside the breakwater in the North Basin. With the tide falling the ladder became longer and longer: the cadets had hoped to run ashore, but the skipper thought the ladder too dangerous. As the Westerly breeze rose the boat was pushed away up to 2 metres from the wall, and reaching the ladder became almost impossible. The lads were not pleased. One or two had already decided that they wanted to be anywhere except on a boat.
High water on Tuesday morning made the ladder shorter, so they used the marina showers and heads and felt a little better.
The weather had deteriorated and the wind had risen, but the waves in the Solent had not yet built.
The lads were taught how to set the yankee and the staysail and we sailed Westward into the teeth of the rising gale. Half a dozen tacks later we reached Yarmouth to discover that the skipper had recorded Force 8, gusting 9, during the afternoon.
Once again we moored on the breakwater, this time within a few metres of the Ferry terminal. but this time the wind pressed the boat against the ladder and running ashore became straightforward.
Wednesday was race day. Three closely matched Challengers around a standard triangular course.
Your author hates racing. It pushes people and machines to their limit; sometimes beyond their limits. With luck the machine breaks before the people break, but the people always become aggressive. Or perhaps those who race do so because they are already, by nature, aggressive.
Your author allows that the drive to win fosters improvements in the design and construction of the machine and, possibly, in the skills, strength and fitness of the people.
The lads were bored. When racing a big yacht the skipper and mate are intense and focussed; the helmsman (in this case, your author) did his best. For the crew (the lads) it was hours of waiting punctuated by minutes of frantic hard work.
We came second.
That evening, back in Cowes, they desperately wanted to run ashore.
Thursday was a gentle day.
The afternoon and evening were devoted to the classroom. The navigator showed them around a chart of the Solent and helped them with a night pilotage plan. For the first time they were enthusiastic and excited.
The night exercise went well and the boat was sailed safely into Gunwharfs Quay.
Did the lads enjoy the trip? It was hard to tell. On the long journey home some slept and some used their smartphones.
Landlocked Sea Cadets! It makes one wonder.
We moved out of the marina about mid-afternoon and headed South down the channel. At 5q-Outer Spit South Cardinal we turned West along the Solent.
It was a lovely afternoon, calm water, little wind and a sinking sun ahead.
There were no marina spaces at Cowes and we found ourselves alongside the breakwater in the North Basin. With the tide falling the ladder became longer and longer: the cadets had hoped to run ashore, but the skipper thought the ladder too dangerous. As the Westerly breeze rose the boat was pushed away up to 2 metres from the wall, and reaching the ladder became almost impossible. The lads were not pleased. One or two had already decided that they wanted to be anywhere except on a boat.
High water on Tuesday morning made the ladder shorter, so they used the marina showers and heads and felt a little better.
The weather had deteriorated and the wind had risen, but the waves in the Solent had not yet built.
The lads were taught how to set the yankee and the staysail and we sailed Westward into the teeth of the rising gale. Half a dozen tacks later we reached Yarmouth to discover that the skipper had recorded Force 8, gusting 9, during the afternoon.
Once again we moored on the breakwater, this time within a few metres of the Ferry terminal. but this time the wind pressed the boat against the ladder and running ashore became straightforward.
Wednesday was race day. Three closely matched Challengers around a standard triangular course.
Your author hates racing. It pushes people and machines to their limit; sometimes beyond their limits. With luck the machine breaks before the people break, but the people always become aggressive. Or perhaps those who race do so because they are already, by nature, aggressive.
Your author allows that the drive to win fosters improvements in the design and construction of the machine and, possibly, in the skills, strength and fitness of the people.
The lads were bored. When racing a big yacht the skipper and mate are intense and focussed; the helmsman (in this case, your author) did his best. For the crew (the lads) it was hours of waiting punctuated by minutes of frantic hard work.
We came second.
That evening, back in Cowes, they desperately wanted to run ashore.
Thursday was a gentle day.
The afternoon and evening were devoted to the classroom. The navigator showed them around a chart of the Solent and helped them with a night pilotage plan. For the first time they were enthusiastic and excited.
The night exercise went well and the boat was sailed safely into Gunwharfs Quay.
Did the lads enjoy the trip? It was hard to tell. On the long journey home some slept and some used their smartphones.
Landlocked Sea Cadets! It makes one wonder.
