To the readers of boating magazines, the life of the marine journalist looks a bit like one long holiday. It’s true that you get paid to write about boating and that as a lifestyle, it ain’t bad.
But after a few years the dedicated marine journo starts to collect a few interesting “lessons” and will experience less than ideal situations. I thought that this month might be an opportunity to look at a just a few of the speed bumps and chicanes I’ve encountered in a career of 20 years writing about other people’s boats.
There are moments where you just want to crack up but find yourself stifling the laughs under great pressure. One of the most memorable of these was doing a boat test with the late Denis Ganley, well known designer of steel yachts, and the owner of one of his new designs. They were dropping me off on one of the harbour buoys (Rough Rock, in fact) which in those days were a catamaran arrangement of floats with a wooden platform on top – they were loved by us boating journos for taking photos of test boats.
Denis decided we would sail alongside, ease the genoa sheets and slow down enough for me to step onto the platform – but things went awry when the sheets snagged in the two triangles atop the mark, sheeted in the genoa and the powered up yacht boat took off with Rough Rock Buoy in tow. Until the buoy’s anchor chain took up and the buoy and boat became one in a huge clanging graunch, putting a huge dent in the boat’s side and scouring the paint down to the metal.
The rest of that boat test was like going out to dinner with a couple after a huge fight - the owner just looked one way, scowling, Denis looked the other way, scowling and neither talked to each other.
Dear Readers it takes me all my courage to admit to the next story. Southampton Boat Show, circa 1980. Following severe over indulgence at the Guinness Stand (they always had a much-frequented Guinness stand at the pommy boat shows) we had to stay overnight in the city. The only room we could get was in a hotel with a double bed. For some reason I thought sharing a double bed with another journalist from a well known boating publication would be OK – until I woke in the middle of the night and the bugger had shuffled across the bed and was cuddling me, murmuring his wife’s name.
If anyone wants to know the name of a hotel with exceedingly comfortable wooden floors, give me a shout – I know of at least one in Southampton.
Fate got him back though when he took a boat test across the North Sea and the diesel engine started sucking oil from its sump through the turbo inlet – and ran away. He had to fight his way into the engine room in wild seas with an ungoverned diesel roaring and using up its vital lubrication, then stuff a rag into the turbo intake, all the while praying the thing didn’t grenade while he was sandwiched alongside.
He made it but I’m sure to this day it was Our Maker’s way of dissuading him from further homosexual activities, however accidental they might be.
Boat shows are always hard work, particularly because there is always a friend or acquaintance from shows past to have a beer or rum with. If fact at last year’s, I went straight to the bar, then went home some hours later and didn’t actually see any of the show. I suppose I should be ashamed of myself, but the one thing you develop in this line of work is a thick hide (and an over-developed taste for the turps).
The former Editor of this publication has possibly the best Boat Show strategy I’ve ever known. It goes something like this: Get pissed and stay pissed. Then hit up everyone you meet for advertising. It seemed to work.
One year a staff member arrived at the Auckland show with a bottle of petrol which we proceeded to polish off with Coke, out the back of the stand. It wasn’t really petrol, it just looked, smelled and tasted like it. We drank it anyway. And, if I ever drank petrol I am sure it would have a similar effect.
We were totaled. It was the night I discovered that a dial a driver from Epsom to Browns Bay costs the thick end of $80. One of the reps tried to drive and managed to hit three things just trying to get the car moving. Keys removed.
For our sins the bloody boss never again allowed us to have a little private area out the back of the stand. It was the first and only time this experiment was tried. From then on everything had to be public – clearly we were not responsible enough to be left alone.
Then there was the stained spinnaker boat test episode.
A lovely couple showing off their new cruising yacht on a beaut day. We swung downwind and the husband decided the spinnaker should be deployed, so his wife and I enjoyed sailing along in the cockpit while he set the kite.
He hauled on the halyard and the kite went skywards and filled – until a pair of knickers fell out and into the water, also revealing a nasty stain in the kite. It is truly fortunate that this sight was hidden from the wife’s view by the mainsail and the fresh air soon dried out the stain.
The husband knew who the culprit was – a mate of his who always thought the sail bags was the best place on a boat for some lovin’ - to this day I’m sure the rest of that cruise would have been far worse than the day Denis clouted the Rough Rock buoy.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
SPLASHING AFTER JACQUES
I blame the French.
Or rather, one in particular. It was Jacques Cousteau and his magical underwater TV programme that inspired me to get kitted up in thick rubber, buy a speargun and tell my school that I wanted to become the next great marine biologist. Or something else to do with being underwater.
I’ve never quite worked out why the teachers at Westlake Boys High School laughed at the notion, particularly as they had never even seen me in a wetsuit. They made me take chemistry instead, and I was as good at that as maths (Translation: Not good at all).
I didn’t even have a wetsuit when I first started snorkeling. My brother conned me into believing that a thin nylon jacket worked just as well and he even generously agreed to sell me one for a small fortune.
I froze my butt off during winter dives until I could afford the real thing … by the time I worked out that I had been royally conned he was enjoying the warmer climates of London, the SOB. Yes he is also the one who used to think it funny to stash all his dirty socks inside my pillow slip.
My first experience of snorkeling was at Scandretts beach, where we used to stay with friends of my parents. I was smitten from the first time I went into the water with a mask and snorkel – what an amazing experience. The water on that occasion was murky and muddy, and for some notion I decided I wanted to spear an octopus.
My surprise at seeing one through the murk was tempered only with disappointment as I stabbed at the thing with a Hawaiian sling spear and missed. It was only when we got out of the water I noticed that our host, a burly and genial Scot by the name of Bill, was wearing orange flippers.
To this day I have my suspicions about whether octopus can change their colour to bright orange and I suspect Bill is lucky to still have both feet.
The speargun I bought was the only thing my mum ever let me take money out of the bank account for – and a horrible old heavy clanking and totally inaccurate thing it was too. Apart from an octopus and a red moki that may already have been dead I don’t think I ever killed anything with it. Except for my hands. The rubber bands would always come unhooked from the spear and the metal clips would take a decent hunk of skin out of my hands as they flew past.
I wasn’t that keen on eating red moki either – someone told me that you have to keep the slime off the flesh but the taste certainly didn’t inspire me to spend long periods under the water holding my breath. The red moki stayed safe, despite there being plenty around.
There is a thing about spearfishing – looking upwards when you are at the end of your breath and the crystalline surface is a long, long way up. It’s an interesting experience.
I eventually got my octopus. It was at Goat Island (in the days before it became a marine reserve). I had been invited by a friend of mine to camp up there. As a challenge to our spearfishing skills we weren’t allowed to take any food – we could only eat what we caught. In hindsight, we were always going to starve.
And freshly caught octopus – which is the only thing we managed to kill – is about as appetizing as a gumboot that’s been in continuous service around the farmyard for many years.
I’m told that to prepare the Octopus, you boil it in a billy with a rock in the water. When the rock is soft, discard the octopus and eat the rock. I believe it
In fact that trip was memorable for more than one reason. I came home in the back of my mates Mark 2 Consul (a two door car) with his girlfriend sitting in the front with a five gallon can of petrol held firmly between her knees. The cap was not that well secured and petrol was sloshing around the top of the can. Remember, the bit about no rear doors next to where I was sitting? The raw fuel sloshing around the lid was bad enough but when she reached for her cigarettes, I found myself on the side of the road hitch hiking before my ass got fried.
Our efforts at securing a feed took on a more positive note when my mate Peter bought a rubber duck. At least we could go further than walking distance.
It had an oil spewing, noisy and cantankerous old Carniti or Crescent outboard and wooden floorboards that you fixed in place when inflated. Or tried to fix in place. The fittings were old and worn, so this thing flexed over every wave and was guaranteed to make the inhabitants seasick. We’d relieve the boredom by falling backwards into the briney at high speed. It used to take a long time to get anywhere in that thing but it sure was fun and I’m still amazing none of us lost an arm as the outboard clattered past. The folly of youth.
Spearfishing was also my introduction to drinking hard liquor, after a work colleague showed me the delights of a few slugs of Kirsch after every dive. The stuff is absolutely lethal. The only problem was that Brent tended to extol the virtues of his sex life after a couple of swigs and hearing him tell his many stories it’s a wonder that at least half the females in the North Island weren’t knocked up and giving birth to pissed little blonde babies wearing flippers.
Spirits Bay, that mythical place at the top of the North Island, beckoned one Easter, so armed with a tarp to use as a tent - and very little else – we headed off. It was a rich time and we were actually quite successful with gathering plenty of paua for eating.
The expedition leader mentioned a dive around the point, so fully kitted up in our wetsuits and full weight belts, we hit the track. He failed to mention that his plan involved a full walk up over the hill in scorching hot conditions.
I’m not sure whether any Maori spirits were departing that day but they must have thought the King of Tonga had died young and what he was doing wearing several radial ply tyres as he walked over the hill to jump off towards the promised land.
When we finally got into the water, steaming and sweating, it was like someone had filled the wetsuit with ice cubes! This was made tolerable by finding an underwater cave chocka with huge paua. Immediately I swam in and gently prized half a dozen off the cave wall. It was about this time I learned that flippers don’t come with a reverse gear.
So imagine if you will a hippo wedged head first in a 44 gallon drum of water, with no reverse gear, as his air runs out and you will have a vivid picture of that occasion I remember so well. The fact that I am here to tell the tale proves I survived, but since then I’ve been far less likely to swim blindly into small caves, no matter how much food is inside them.
And I’m still likely to throw the snorkel, mask and flippers into the boat when we’re off for family picnics. It’s some of the most fun you can have with your clothes on. I never did get the attraction of scuba with all its gear and the amount of time it takes fiddling with the gear compared with short time under the water.
To me snorkeling is a pure form of pleasure, simple and enjoyable. And through all these adventures - at least I learned how not to stab at coloured objects, swim into caves, set fire to myself or trust my brothers
Or rather, one in particular. It was Jacques Cousteau and his magical underwater TV programme that inspired me to get kitted up in thick rubber, buy a speargun and tell my school that I wanted to become the next great marine biologist. Or something else to do with being underwater.
I’ve never quite worked out why the teachers at Westlake Boys High School laughed at the notion, particularly as they had never even seen me in a wetsuit. They made me take chemistry instead, and I was as good at that as maths (Translation: Not good at all).
I didn’t even have a wetsuit when I first started snorkeling. My brother conned me into believing that a thin nylon jacket worked just as well and he even generously agreed to sell me one for a small fortune.
I froze my butt off during winter dives until I could afford the real thing … by the time I worked out that I had been royally conned he was enjoying the warmer climates of London, the SOB. Yes he is also the one who used to think it funny to stash all his dirty socks inside my pillow slip.
My first experience of snorkeling was at Scandretts beach, where we used to stay with friends of my parents. I was smitten from the first time I went into the water with a mask and snorkel – what an amazing experience. The water on that occasion was murky and muddy, and for some notion I decided I wanted to spear an octopus.
My surprise at seeing one through the murk was tempered only with disappointment as I stabbed at the thing with a Hawaiian sling spear and missed. It was only when we got out of the water I noticed that our host, a burly and genial Scot by the name of Bill, was wearing orange flippers.
To this day I have my suspicions about whether octopus can change their colour to bright orange and I suspect Bill is lucky to still have both feet.
The speargun I bought was the only thing my mum ever let me take money out of the bank account for – and a horrible old heavy clanking and totally inaccurate thing it was too. Apart from an octopus and a red moki that may already have been dead I don’t think I ever killed anything with it. Except for my hands. The rubber bands would always come unhooked from the spear and the metal clips would take a decent hunk of skin out of my hands as they flew past.
I wasn’t that keen on eating red moki either – someone told me that you have to keep the slime off the flesh but the taste certainly didn’t inspire me to spend long periods under the water holding my breath. The red moki stayed safe, despite there being plenty around.
There is a thing about spearfishing – looking upwards when you are at the end of your breath and the crystalline surface is a long, long way up. It’s an interesting experience.
I eventually got my octopus. It was at Goat Island (in the days before it became a marine reserve). I had been invited by a friend of mine to camp up there. As a challenge to our spearfishing skills we weren’t allowed to take any food – we could only eat what we caught. In hindsight, we were always going to starve.
And freshly caught octopus – which is the only thing we managed to kill – is about as appetizing as a gumboot that’s been in continuous service around the farmyard for many years.
I’m told that to prepare the Octopus, you boil it in a billy with a rock in the water. When the rock is soft, discard the octopus and eat the rock. I believe it
In fact that trip was memorable for more than one reason. I came home in the back of my mates Mark 2 Consul (a two door car) with his girlfriend sitting in the front with a five gallon can of petrol held firmly between her knees. The cap was not that well secured and petrol was sloshing around the top of the can. Remember, the bit about no rear doors next to where I was sitting? The raw fuel sloshing around the lid was bad enough but when she reached for her cigarettes, I found myself on the side of the road hitch hiking before my ass got fried.
Our efforts at securing a feed took on a more positive note when my mate Peter bought a rubber duck. At least we could go further than walking distance.
It had an oil spewing, noisy and cantankerous old Carniti or Crescent outboard and wooden floorboards that you fixed in place when inflated. Or tried to fix in place. The fittings were old and worn, so this thing flexed over every wave and was guaranteed to make the inhabitants seasick. We’d relieve the boredom by falling backwards into the briney at high speed. It used to take a long time to get anywhere in that thing but it sure was fun and I’m still amazing none of us lost an arm as the outboard clattered past. The folly of youth.
Spearfishing was also my introduction to drinking hard liquor, after a work colleague showed me the delights of a few slugs of Kirsch after every dive. The stuff is absolutely lethal. The only problem was that Brent tended to extol the virtues of his sex life after a couple of swigs and hearing him tell his many stories it’s a wonder that at least half the females in the North Island weren’t knocked up and giving birth to pissed little blonde babies wearing flippers.
Spirits Bay, that mythical place at the top of the North Island, beckoned one Easter, so armed with a tarp to use as a tent - and very little else – we headed off. It was a rich time and we were actually quite successful with gathering plenty of paua for eating.
The expedition leader mentioned a dive around the point, so fully kitted up in our wetsuits and full weight belts, we hit the track. He failed to mention that his plan involved a full walk up over the hill in scorching hot conditions.
I’m not sure whether any Maori spirits were departing that day but they must have thought the King of Tonga had died young and what he was doing wearing several radial ply tyres as he walked over the hill to jump off towards the promised land.
When we finally got into the water, steaming and sweating, it was like someone had filled the wetsuit with ice cubes! This was made tolerable by finding an underwater cave chocka with huge paua. Immediately I swam in and gently prized half a dozen off the cave wall. It was about this time I learned that flippers don’t come with a reverse gear.
So imagine if you will a hippo wedged head first in a 44 gallon drum of water, with no reverse gear, as his air runs out and you will have a vivid picture of that occasion I remember so well. The fact that I am here to tell the tale proves I survived, but since then I’ve been far less likely to swim blindly into small caves, no matter how much food is inside them.
And I’m still likely to throw the snorkel, mask and flippers into the boat when we’re off for family picnics. It’s some of the most fun you can have with your clothes on. I never did get the attraction of scuba with all its gear and the amount of time it takes fiddling with the gear compared with short time under the water.
To me snorkeling is a pure form of pleasure, simple and enjoyable. And through all these adventures - at least I learned how not to stab at coloured objects, swim into caves, set fire to myself or trust my brothers
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