Mes amis - my friends. Mon amis, my ami - my friend, Miami. What a place - Miami Beach. Thanks to deficiencies in workmanship on our boat (censored), we have been forced to stay here.



However, I feel fat! I'm suddenly conscious of the slightly flabby bit around my waist in which I have invested thousands of pounds and to which I have dedicated years in the pub. Until arriving in Miami I felt pretty trim, now I'm just wobbly. These guys must spend half their life in the gym, toning and flexing, followed by hours of bronzing. Is there nothing better to do here? Well, I can tell you the answer to that - damn right there is, but it's not conducive to toned abs.



This place is a Mecca for funky clubs and bars, beautiful people, flashy cars. What's your tipple - anything goes, need a bigger bra, or a reconstructed nose? No burger joints here, but there's plenty if you're queer, and then the waited café-ed street, attended by the wafered slim elite.

Driving bass lines - follow your ears, this party's mine, hear the whooping cheers.

Look at all the buildings, that tasteful neon deco, and symmetrical art moderne, at every corner I turn. Turn your eyes towards the marine; following the sound of thunderous engine driving gliding missiles, draped in lounging beachwear, followed by fluttering blonde hair.

Driving bass lines - follow your ears, this party's mine, hear the whooping cheers.



I think I'll be coming back to Miami!

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... not sailing! At anchor now, the wind's lessened off as the day progressed and the sea calmed down. The daily dose of gin has been administered and taken by all, and the sun finally surrendered itself to its antithesis. Mum is smiling and we're all looking forward to our tea (dinner), wondering if it was so bad after all.

I have to hand it to her; she bounces back like a bungee cord. I was thinking today she might just ditch us and the boat, demand we sell it, while she goes and stays with her friend in Tampa. But no, it's all rationalised; "it's just because I don't know the parameters and it scares me! I just need to get used to each new experience." What a star! She reminds me of a character in a book I read as a child; Supergran.

I asked Dad, today, if he likes sailing. He made an analogy to asking a marathon runner if he enjoys running marathons. The answer is probably no, but millions do every year. I think he's right, much of it is unpleasant, but that is what creates the balance to make the good bits great. The best bit about running is when you stop, and occasionally you do actually enjoy the run.

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Not me! Maybe it's because I'm tired from the night watch and feel a little despondent or maybe it's because it's uncomfortable; spending the whole day heeled at 45°, crashing through waves, being rolled by a beamy sea. Maybe it's because nothing hardly ever happens, maybe it's because all I see is the sea; we're sailing right past the Florida Keys, but what use are they to me, from two miles at sea. Maybe it's because I can see the distress and torment that hurts my mother; my protective instinct harbours fury towards the undulating antagoniser.

She's not enjoying this at all. We set off today in 35 knot winds and a very lumpy sea, but I no longer hear my mother's chorus. She now suffers her ordeal in silence, gone is her alarm; like a child who is truly injured makes not a sound, just a quiet frightened voice, that conflicts her brave resignation to this forsaken trip.

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