Turns out you can teach an old (sea) dog new tricks…

It was my dad who introduced me to the Sussex Yacht Club, back in the ‘80s. A keen sailor and equally keen drinker of wines at clubhouse prices, he was very involved with the club, even bustling his way onto the committee.

He and my step-mama often used to take us kids there for Sunday roast, his larger-than-life presence loudly filling the bar as he trooped in with at least a brace of the five teenagers that they shared.

My step-mama, it must be recorded, had no legs for the sea, and couldn’t even be relied upon to hold down a drink on board in the marina. But she was appreciative of the social benefits, and she and my dad made hundreds of friends, and lost many a good night at the clubhouse, where the drinks were subsidised and the atmosphere convivial.

I never got the sailing bug, but my old man loved the sea, and adored the club. It was a big thing in our family lives for many happy years.

When I moved to Shoreham, some 30 years later, I joined the club myself. Mostly, I think, so I could take Dad there when he came over to stay with me. I took him for Sunday lunches there, just like he had done me when I was a moody teenager, a reset and revisit we both loved. He was excited about the new clubhouse that was being planned. Sadly, he would never get to see it, as he died in 2021. But I kept up the membership, because it made me feel connected to him.

Enter the Devil’s Advocate

One Saturday in early September last year, me and my friend Palmer were at the club, taking the sun, and on our second bottle of Grillo, when there was a bustle as people returned from a race. Palmer recognised someone – a chap called Al that she knew from Brighton. He and the rest of the crew he was with – from a boat brilliantly called the Devil’s Advocate – sat with us, and we all became instant friends.

As well as Al, there was Ann (hilariously called Ann Overboard because she went overboard once, they all cheerily exclaimed), and Lizbet, who co-owns the boat with her brother, skipper Dave, as well as other crew members. Dave sat next to me, and it turned out he remembered my dad, and all the other various ne’er-do-wells from that time. It felt like a big warm circle closed around me. “If you ever want to come out sailing, just say,” they all said.

We were on board the following Saturday.

I can still remember the first day I stepped onto the boat

I’m not exactly a novice when it comes to being on water – I’ve done tons of ferries, lived in the Greek Islands where getting about is only possible by water, and knocked back free booze on swanky boat press events all around the world. I’ve got good sea legs. I once survived a ten-hour ferry crossing to Guernsey in a storm, proud of the fact that I was the only person not crying on the floor in a pool of their own sick by the time we saw the harbour lights.

But a sailboat is a very different beast, and on my first trip, manoeuvring around it I felt terribly clumsy. I climbed on board over the ropes and it took me two goes. Like mounting a horse but with less purchase, my legs not used to the movement. I only got over the second time because the chap behind me unceremoniously gave my arse a good shove. I think he feared for his life behind me.

I staggered on, worried my shoes wouldn’t be grippy enough, anxious about slipping on the foredeck. Once on board, everyone was busy pulling ropes, hoisting sails and yelling words I didn’t understand, and I felt in the way. I went below deck, feeling awkward even going down the tiny steps. Do you go down front ways, or backwards like a ladder?

I also hadn’t considered clothing, so was immediately kitted out with some ‘oilies’ – which in the old days would have been short for oilskins, but these days refers to more modern waterproof clothing. On board the Devil there are spares of everything, so I got into some salopettes, a jacket, and a lifejacket.

Having not anticipated this, I was wearing ‘sensible’ warm clothing underneath, so I was done up like the Michelin Man – with arms and legs that could now hardly bend, barely able to move or breathe. I made my tubby way to the steps and somehow got back up them.

Learning the ropes

Once back on deck, I was determined to get involved – I didn’t want to just sit and watch. In fact I’m not even sure I could sit. But everything on a boat has mad names and I might as well have been listening to a foreign language. I know a few more of them now, but on that first sail, the best I could do was exactly what I was told – which is what I did. “Pull that rope PULL IT PULL IT PULL IT FASTER, FASTER GET ON WITH IT!” or “DUCK!” were phrases I had yelled at me more than once.

I did learn one proper term which was “TAIL IT!” which is about helping someone who is winching, by pulling the rope behind them for extra tug and friction. This means bracing yourself against the opposite side of the boat and pulling with all your might, often while the boat is belting along at almost 90 degrees out of the water. It was all both terrifying and exhilarating, and I used muscles that hadn’t seen the light of day in decades. It took me about three days to stop hurting afterwards.

This first sail was a pursuit race, only about 90 minutes of racing, and probably half an hour each side dicking about waiting to start / get back in the lock. As we burbled back towards the marina, the crew were happy and already making merry. Ann had the oven on, warming up onion bhajis and sausage rolls, and Lizbet was knocking rum and gingers together for everyone. I shakily sat down and sank a vast dark and stormy in about three seconds flat, my legs like jelly. But it was no good. I was bitten by the bug, and I knew I would be back. I couldn’t wait.

A different kind of race

The next sail I experienced was completely different. I’d unknowingly signed myself up for a long inshore race. A pursuit race is shorter, lots of manoeuvres and corners – a long inshore, as the name suggests – is considerably longer, and is more of a ‘straight line, turn around and come back’ scenario.

If I’d learned a lot on the first sail, this next outing taught me a lot more. Interestingly, it was also the first time I ever felt queasy on the waves. I stupidly didn’t eat breakfast, and the sea was wallowy, a bit choppy. I found if I stayed above deck I was fine, but Al was trying to show me how the navigation kit worked below deck, and all the while I was trying to quell the rising tide of nausea. I didn’t want to chuck up all over him, so I bolted up the steps as soon as I could.

I didn’t say anything, but I think Lizbet knew. She fished a sugary boiled sweet out of a pocket and gave me one. The sugar made me feel better, instantly. And I felt even better later on when Al was sick over the side (sorry Al)! I thought I’d lost my sea legs, but it wasn’t just me. It happens to everyone at some point, apparently. I always eat a bit before sailing now.

Into the fog

The weather was unhelpful – mizzle turned to a thick fog once we were away from the coast, meaning we could hardly see anything around us. This meant relying a lot more on sailing instruments and navigation skill. Watching skipper Dave and the crew working this out was exciting. They might be rum-soaked funsters, but when it comes to knowing their onions and being real sailors, their knowledge is impressive. We were also helped hugely by the presence of Steve on board with his fancy GPS gadget. The sea was rougher, the wind often blustery, and we couldn’t see the shoreline, or indeed any of the other boats around us in the race. It was surreal.

Fewer manoeuvres also means less activity on the boat, so there was more time to sit and just enjoy roaring along on the darling Devil. There’s a lot of idle chit-chat that happens in these moments, and the crew is always different on every sail. And I love this. It’s a kind of camaraderie and fellowship happening between a group of people who wouldn’t necessarily normally hang out together without the bond of sailing, and it’s lovely.

Line honours and rum

As well as talk of the weather, we discussed so-and-so’s party coming up, who was going to the club house afterwards, and what to do when we approached the mark to turn around and come back (gybe and harden up, was the consensus). We charged along, passing other boats, gaining precious time to overcome the handicap that the Devil has, and achieved ‘line honours’ – first across the winning ‘line’. Back to the marina for rum and pasties, and then off to the club for a happy few hours of drinking wine, eating crisps, and discussing the race whilst watching it replayed on the clubhouse screen. Cackling most unsportingly at one of our closest rivals, Jongleur and her crew, who we’d passed in the fog.

I’ve been sailing a number of times since then, always with different crew coming and going, and every time I learn so many new things. There’s a part of me that finds this very frustrating. I’m used to learning things quickly, so I’m impatient to be better. But I got myself some proper oilies that actually fit me, and bought a copy of the indispensable Reeds Crew Handbook, and I’m just going to have to learn to be patient. I can’t sail as often as I’d like because I have a seizure-prone senior pug called Alice, who I can’t leave alone, but I have to remind myself of how much I’ve learned since I first fell onto the deck.

So what have I learned?

I move around the boat in a completely different way. I am more sure-footed, up and down the stairs, leaning into tacks and rolling when it helps. I get on and off without someone having to help. As well as the actual sailing part, which I’ll come to, I’ve learned about the boat itself a bit more. I helped sand the keel when she was out of the water over winter, so I’ve seen what lies below, and I helped clean the galley and berths at the same time, finding my way around the inside of the boat. I know about bilges, and how the oven works. And I know where the rum lives!

Above deck, I still don’t know the right words for most things, but I have seen enough manoeuvres now to anticipate what’s coming and be on the right rope. I can winch, although I’m a bit feeble, need to work on those arm muscles, and I understand things like unlocking the track, and when to let a rope out, and when to pull it in. I am trying to learn more knots, because almost everything in sailing is about ropes, and knots.

I know how to pack a spinnaker. I can plot a simple race chart. Importantly, I have so far always managed to duck as the boom comes over, because that shit can kill you if it caves in your skull. I can get on the Devil, I know where the keys are, I can open her up and start preparing her for sailing, put the kettle on, drag the sails out ready, uncap the winches… and remembering all this makes me realise how much I’ve learned already.

I do also know that my dad would be immensely proud of me, and that brings me such joy, I cannot tell you. I feel him with me every time we go out.

The right boat, the right crew

I feel insanely grateful to have fallen in with the Devil’s Advocate gang. It feels like it was meant to be – from the moment Palmer recognised Al, from the moment Dave remembered the old days of my dad’s time, from the moment we heard the boat’s name and that the sail number is 666 – I just knew it was the right boat for us. And fortunately, they seem to feel the same way about us.

We’ve sailed with them, partied with them, and I’ve laughed more with them than I thought possible over the last year. They’ve also patiently taught me everything I know about sailing – in particular Ann. What a legend. Most other crews are not like the Devils – we are both notorious and envied for our wild rum drinking and music-playing ways – isn’t it amazing how birds of a feather find each other?!

I will keep learning and trying to become a good sailor. I have a goal in mind – next year it’s the 50th anniversary of the Royal Escape Race – a 66.5-nautical-mile dash from Brighton to Fécamp, and I would love to be on it. The race follows the route taken by Charles II when he escaped to France in 1651 after defeat at the Battle of Worcester, slipping away from Shoreham aboard the coal brig, Surprise.

Launched in 1977, it is one of the country’s most famous offshore races, with both British and French crews racing across the Channel before the inevitable celebrations in Fécamp – and the Devil’s Advocate won it this year!

I’ve got my eye on one of those berths next year, although I’ve got a long way to go until I’m ready. Better knuckle down and get on with it.

Now where did I put my crew handbook…