Birvidik

Well, that's it - the season must have started. We've left the marina and I've had my first swim.

Not that it was exactly voluntary.

Once winter is officially over (1st of May according to the bureaucratic mindset) the cost of our staying in the marina jumps from £9 per day to a whisker under £50 a day. This concentrates the mind wonderfully.

Our overall plan was to head North to Corfu. The weather up until our proposed departure date had been ideal for this, with light following winds and smooth seas. This, of course, all changed as soon as we were ready to leave. Luckily, we had plenty of time in hand and so decided against spending our first trip of the season ploughing into wind and sea for seven hours. Instead we headed south and anchored in Vliho Bay, intending to potter around there for a couple of days until the wind changed and then make our way North.

Hah!

Eleven days later we're still waiting for a wimp's weather window suitable for a couple of big girls' blouses such as ourselves to get up to the Northern Ionian. In the interim, Meteo Gr predicted strong winds from the North West rapidly followed by the same from the South East. We ran round in circles screaming and panicking for a bit and then hi-tailed it off to Spartahori, on Meganissi, to hide.

This is a well protected spot. We tucked Birvidik into a snug little corner behind a quay and tied up bows-to, taking the thoughtfully provided lazy line to our stern to hold us off the quay.

Did I mention that Birvidik doesn't do backwards? Well not with any degree of precision or predictability. When we need to get into tight little spots such as Spartahori, we go in forwards - much easier.

However, the geometrically ept amongst you will appreciate that if one goes in forwards then one must, perforce, come out backwards. This is generally easier than going in backwards as you tend to back out into a larger space. This optimistic analysis, however, fails to take into account the lazy lines.

When leaving astern, our general technique is to release the bow lines and then I go to the stern and drop the lazyline into the water where, in theory, it should sink. Indeed, it usually does. The problem is, it does it very slowly. This time it did it very slowly indeed.

In these circumstances, after dropping the line I peer myopically over the stern, trying to work out if it has sunk far enough to clear the propeller. Then, and only then, I call out to Liz to go astern.

This particular line was taking an inordinately long time to sink. As a result the wind was pushing us sideways into the tight, shallow corner of the harbour. Perhaps the circumstances led me to be just a little bit hasty in making the call that it had sunk sufficiently. "OK astern" I shouted. Liz, trustingly, put the drive in astern, an action that was immediately followed by a heavy clunking noise that had all the assembled yotties standing up and looking round like a clan of startled meerkats. We were now anchored to a one tonne concrete block by a length of heavy duty line, the other end of which was securely wrapped around our propeller.

And so it was that the first swim of the season came to pass. We rapidly attached a cat's cradle of lines from our bow and stern to the surrounding boats, a task in which we were ably assisted by Brian from Dando, who ferried them about with his dinghy. As soon as this was done I grabbed my mask and snorkel and went over the side.

It was bloody freezing.

After a few girly squeals I regained my composure and some of my self respect and discovered that a bight of rope had been prevented from sinking by virtue of its laying over another boat's lazy line. This bight had wrapped itself tightly round the propeller and shaft before the cutters had hacked it into little pieces, after which it got its revenge by jamming itself into the cutters and locking the whole thing up in a solid lump. Plastic will melt under the heat of friction, even underwater.

After a half an hour I had managed to clear the prop and shaft and the two ends of the severed lazyline were reunited in a seamanlike knot. To cheers from the assembled yotties I was declared winner of the first wet t shirt competition of the season and we retrieved our lines and motored out of the bay.

By this time I resembled the illustration above, which details the diagnostic signs and symptoms of hypothermia. I failed to notice this as I considered all of them, with the possible exception of shivering, as being the normal state of things. Liz, however, made a correct diagnosis and bawled me out for standing around in the cockpit pretending I was in charge or something.

I slunk below for a hot shower.

Looks like we might make north next Wednesday.

Might.