First Dates Can Be Awkward
17 October 2018
Maybe it was growing up during the war but my dear old dad was a bit of a worrier. I guess that came with his generation given the trouble and strife of the last unpleasantness. Despite all the hardships, black-outs, rationing, a father on the war-torn high seas, despite his worrisome inclination he was remarkably comfortable with change, at least as far as boats were concerned. In his time, my dear old dad bought and sold thirteen sail boats. From Kismet his fourteen foot, gaff rigged, clinker built dinghy to the sheer bloody looxury of the Hurley 18, the Galleon, the Mystere, and on the list goes but none larger than twenty nine feet. Cosy and manageable dad called them. "Hell Ships" mother called them. So, quite what they'd be thinking if they clapped eyes on Time Bandit ll, our new steed, I don't know.
I outlined in a previous post how this catamaran "demon" came to find itself buried in my brain lurking somewhere between motorbikes and mountaineering so I won't repeat it here but I do have some great excuses all prepared. All ready for when we meet folk on "proper" boats, "it's just a phase he's going through"; "had to try it before the hips go"; "his sense of balance was going", etc... although, we're still not entirely sure if they'll talk to us traitors at all.
We flew up to New Caledonia last Friday last to meet Drop Dead Gorgeous, have a final sea-trial, haul for survey and finally, have a final go-around with the world's banking system and bingo, we'd done it, whooshed to the dark side faster than Harry Potter up a chimney. For any readers who haven't closely followed the plot, Time Bandit ll (from now, we'll drop the "ll") is an Outremer 51. A French fusion of style, practicality and substance. Like Brie. She was parked up in Port de Sud marina ready for us to head out on our maiden voyage, well at least, over the other side of the bay to get fuel. Now, we've never been in charge of a catamaran with engines before and definitely not one larger than eighteen feet, unless it was at anchor and serving copious amounts of gin and tonic. "Manoeuvring wiz two engeens eez une doddle" said all the Outremer owners when we visited the Outremer Cup in May. All of whom I'm now convinced can easily rub their tummies while patting their heads and singing the Marseillaise. However, more by luck than skill we managed to extricate ourselves without embarrassment or clunking anything hard and off we went, filled the tanks, opened up the genoa and off down the lagoon to a quiet anchorage to take some time to work out what strings to pull. Self taught, newly born catamaran sailors, forty eight hours later we whizzed back up the lagoon at ten knots, maxing at eleven point five at forty five apparent for a night of fine dining and a bevvy with Trev and Jan.
You've got to have some constants in life.