“I was shivering, not because of the cold, but because I was frightened at the idea of sailing out alone in this small boat to the Shiants. The halyard was slapping against the mast and the tiny waves clucked as they were caught against the underside of the hull.”

“The judge, the pianist, and workman,” he wrote, are interpreters. “Interpreters are always necessary because instructions are always incomplete.” The workman can do with his eye what the judge does with intuition and logic, what the pianist does with intuition and ear: he or she can measure with astonishing accuracy those things that can never be specified, isolate nuances that are too subtle to be described. No law book could be complete enough to handle the specifics of every individual case; no musical score could possibly convey how long each note must hang in the air, or precisely how loudly it should sound out; no boat design could determine a single, absolute outcome of every curve.

The ship swung to her moorings, and the light from the port, diffused and golden, swung across the gloom, reaching to the girl. Poor child, even in life she had never belonged down there in that dreadful place, among that crowd of older women who huddled from her, suspicious, almost animal-like, watching not her but us. She should never have been in that frightful travelling prison, delivering her to a harem in Zanzibar, to a husband she had never seen, in an island far from her home.

White yachts went sobbing and strumming past our bows and stern, their crews decked out in daffodil PVC and braided captains’ hats. The whole Solent was a crazy-paving of interlaced wakes as I did my best to thread us through the pack of charging motor cruisers, fishing parties, ferries, dinghies, yachts. The entrance to the Beaulieu River was hidden behind a bright fleet of sailboards. A big container ship, leaving Southampton Water, scattered the small fry ahead of it like a pike in a pond.
“Racing!” shouted a furious Saturday admiral from his cockpit, “We’re racing!”
“He seems cross,” my mother said.

With accelerating speed we were driven towards the point, on the other side of which the swell rose to gigantic breakers, which, hurling themselves against the rugged obstacles with thundering fury sent rumbling waterfalls of foam over the rocky ledges. Sunken rocks off the point showed their frothy fangs, thirty, twenty yards away. The tumult was deafening. Oh, how I hated then, those rocks, these breakers, those snarling fangs, threatening, sneering, evil, inevitable….

Your bunk is no retreat. You are a vagrant chunk of ice in a cocktail shaker. You hold on to the berth with your toes and the muscles of your derriere, all the time scrounging out of the way of the Chinese torture-drop coming off the over-head. (Damn that shipyard man, you told him about that leak.) You don't feel like eating, but that damned fool Cookie (showing off) has fired up the alcohol stove. The cabin slowly fills with unconsumed alcohol fumes which make your eyes smart and which go right to the pit of your stomach before his miserable scrambled egg can get there.

Turning, I saw little patches of ripples, darkening the water, spread slowly across the sea until the calm shiny areas were reduced to irregular strips on the new pattern of ruffled surface; then a faint breeze whispered in my ear and a breath of cool air caressed my naked back.
“Take in the awning,” I shouted joyously down to Bob; and swinging on to the main halyard, slid to the deck where the breeze stirring aloft was not yet felt. Life aboard exhilarated. Gerry was doing acrobatics descending the main rigging. Bob, with his credulous blue eyes wide open, and grinning from ear to ear for the first time in several days, worked furiously to clear the decks. Mattresses and pillows were tossed down the companionway.

“...to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.”
Looking deeply into the world of Herman Melville.

Bolivar, sometimes known as Porky, an experienced fisherman whose hands are large and whose plastic sandals are held together with tape, has done something stupid. To make enough money to fix it before his pursuers cut off his ears, he needs to catch fish.

I love a good map.. and these ones are next level, uncovering patterns that govern our environment and society. Its particular strength lies in its ability to show things that are hard to see, yet profoundly affect us, such as economic flows, environmental changes, and social inequalities.

You have to give Nutting credit: he lived, and ultimately died, adhering to his anti-safety credo, insisting to the end that the true purpose of ocean sailing was simply “the fun of the thing.”

They set sail from Sao Vicente, bound for Recife, on 9 December 1970, meaning they would be at sea that year for Christmas.  Vertue Carina was reaching fast in gusty conditions, with the occasional wave breaking over the deck and filling the cockpit, often soaking the washed nappies and other items they were attempting to dry in the sun. 

From the beginnings of the novel in the 17th century until the present day, the sea has provided a compelling backdrop for storytelling. Be they tales of adventure and derring-do, romance, philosophy, historical, political or geographical drama, the allure of the sea is strong.

She meets a lanky Australian engineer Graeme, with a yen to sail around the world, and together they buy HOPE a traditional wooden gaff-rigged cutter and grab adventure with both hands.

Riou set all hands to man the ship’s four pumps and ordered much of its cargo to be thrown overboard. By 8.15pm, there were two feet of water in the hold. By 10pm, with two pumps broken, it was at five feet. At times over the next thirty-six hours it seemed as though the crew was winning. On Christmas morning, they ‘fothered’ the hull, wrapping two oakum-lined sails underneath the ship to stem the flow of water. But the water carried on rising. By Boxing Day, it was at seven feet.

Back in 1952, when Ben started planning this voyage, the Royal Navy hadn’t really got into ‛adventure training’ (I imagine that most of the older officers had experienced more than enough adventure, in the previous decade), so it was a lucky chance for Ben, that the Lords of the Admiralty decided that he should be posted to New Zealand (which also happened to be the country of his birth).

Romance, courtesy, amateurism, respect.  These are all very much virtues of the early days of yachting: a time before marinas; a time when the amateur yachtsmen measured himself against those who sailed for a living; a time when the average middle-class man made it a point of honour not to have manual skills and yet, quixotically took pride in maintaining and fitting out his own craft.

In 2021, I was invited to sail on Sir James’ beautiful timber boat Nerida in a classic boat race on Sydney Harbour. Sir James had retired from competitive sailing, but came down to wish us well. He was about to turn 90, so I told him I was about to turn 60. He decided to give me some three pieces of advice for my 60’s…

This was an age before helicopter parenting became a thing, but even so, the Saunders children were given a remarkably free rein, and were often riotously exuberant. WALKABOUT's dinghy was stowed upright on the cabin top, and it was a favourite haunt of the kids,

He is the true sea-wanderer, in these hurried days, when the professional seaman sees little but ports…. and the wandering globetrotter has his soft way sped until the whole earth is fast developing-for him-into nothing but a nerve-racking kaleidoscope of which, his voyage made, he remembers little. No, give me a wandering such as Dwight Long’s and a little ship, stout as the IDLE HOUR