Oh, the misery! Yesterday I felt quite depressed. There was nothing exceptional about the day to cause it; I just felt done in, probably due to an amalgamation of many small things.

The frustrations of problems and delays had undoubtedly caused frayed nerves and a fractious atmosphere. There was no wind so we motored slowly through the rain and booming thunderstorms. The yawing of the boat and puffs of air caused the main sail boom to swing and slam, which caused a tremendous crash, that is transmitted through the mast, just out side my berth where my tired and depressed head lay.

I asked my self what the hell the point of me being here was. I don't do anything. Nobody really does anything. Set the boat to autopilot, so it drives itself, in a straight line, and look out to make sure it doesn't crash in to any other boats, for which the chances are slim - and if it did, at least you might have something to do, like swim for your life!

My original observation of boats was really starting to ring true. I felt like I was in a floating prison, and to make matters worse, my girlfriend is probably going through the hardest time in her life, at home, and I'm incarcerated in this buoyant reformatory unable to offer her my support.

But, what really did it for me was the realisation that I can't see the pleasure in this past time; I felt defeated. I hate not understanding things, and I hate missing out even more. It's like pasta; it annoys me that some people love pasta. I think it's alright, I don't dislike it, but I can't love it, and would never order it in a restaurant, it's just a kind of bland consistent mixture, lacking variation and surprise.

So what the hell do all these people see in sailing? I bet if you ask them they can't tell you. "It's great!, you sail somewhere, drop anchor, or go in to port, have a meal, go to sleep, sail back again; Smashing!" Do you mean that the best bit about sailing is NOT SAILING??? I would rather take a cab, mate. I think you have to be born with a silver boat in your mouth to like it, a thing you inherit from your parents. For them, it's like going back to the comforts of a maritime womb, but for the rest of us, it's more like going into an uncomfortable drunken nightmare set in a rolling, heaving, surging detention centre. Oh, God no... stop... no. Let me out! LET ME OUT!!! AAARGHHH!!!!!

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This journey is plagued with set backs. It feels like we've bought a Friday afternoon boat. We were holed in Miami for three days waiting for battery chargers that were totally defunct on arrival. Deciding to manage with what we already have, we set off to makeup some ground only to limp into Fort Lauderdale, a few miles up the coast, with a snagged main sail that was jammed in the furling mast. While there, we got hold of an electrician who told us that the battery charging system in place was working fine, but the original design of the system would never achieve what we want it to. Furthermore, because our boat is specified for Europe with a 240 Volt system, no shore power has been fitted for the US 110 Volt system, and our boat will probably have sunk when we come back to it, in five months time, in Chesapeake, due to no power for the bilge pump. Huh, bummer!

There are plenty more of these issues, but they are so boring and frustrating, I can't be bothered to talk about them. These frustrations come down to expectations, and when you buy a new boat, you might expect it to work. "Wrong", say boatie friends. Apparently we are being naïve. When you buy a new boat you should expect nothing to work and then enjoy sorting it all out. What?! I'm just not getting this sailing lark.

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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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