SETTING SAIL

Every year thousands of Brits spend their holidays afloat. But what happens when shipmates fall out? Sarah Tucker finds that it isn’t all plain sailing at sea

 

I’m a landlubber. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps I’ve watched Titanic or The

Perfect Storm a few too many times, not to mention The Poseidon Adventure. Like most people, I had enormous admiration for Dame Ellen MacArthur when she sailed single-handed around the world. But although I would be game for a great many challenges, that is not one of them. Notwithstanding my own reservations, however, the popularity of ‘learn to’ sailing holidays has soared by 50% in recent years, thanks to the professionalism of companies

such as Sunsail (www.sunsail.co.uk) and Neilson(www.neilson.co.uk). In addition, the likes of Minorca Sailing (www.minorcasailing.co.uk), Wildwind

(www.wildwind.co.uk) and Seafarer Sailing (www.seafarersailing.co.uk) specialize in particular regions. And, of course, there are the canal and long boat holidays on which the pace is slightly slower; less demanding

on the reflexes than the ocean-going capers for which Dame Ellen is famed.

But beware: sailing can seriously damage your relationships. A few years back I hired a boat with Crown Blue Line (www.crownblueline.com) on the stunning Canal du Midi in France (www.canal-du- midi.org). It was four-berth, spotlessly clean and very comfortable, and after about half an hour of instruction on how to start, stop and steer it, the three intrepid mariners – my son, my boyfriend and I –were let loose with this £40,000 vessel, armed with barrels of enthusiasm and not much else.

 

Drifting blissfully towards the oyster beds of the Étang de Thau and the colourful seaside town of Sète, I noticed a curious phenomenon. At every lock we approached a war of words was under way, as the canal boats jostled for position. The English queued patiently; the Italians pushed in; the French had no concept of queuing at all. The cacophonous sound of multi-lingual swearing filled the balmy Languedoc air. Nor was the verbal sparring confined to the battles between boats: as often as not, it was couples and families in the same floating paradise that were going at it hammer and tongs. At the start of the week the crew would be happy enough; by

the end it was mutinous, with at least one member walking along the towpath rather than spend another moment aboard. If communication with your partner is already poor, this kind of holiday stands every chance of breaking the relationship altogether.   I witnessed so many screaming matches between I presume normally loving couples, relationship counsellors would do well to hold surgeries or at least advertise at the many port stops and locks on route.   Harbour masters and in one case a mistress pulled out their hair at the haphazard way in which novices like ourselves tried to navigate between expensive yachts and fishing boats, shouting at us as though we were trying to park a smart car in an empty car park and failing at all turns.  Our boat managed to bash into three yachts and a dingy, leaving that particular harbour mistress completely speechless. Either that or she had shouted so much she’d been left without voice. She simply stared at us as we finally managed to find our mooring, looking stony faced and incredulous.  We only stayed one night there although strangely all the yachts decided to leave that night, probably for fear of accruing even more damage during our departure. 

 

But at least on this type of boat one can get off pretty well whenever and wherever one likes. Not so with full-scale cruising. The monumental floating palaces that patrol the azure sea may seem like luxury hotels, but checking out is no easy task. Come to blows with your spouse in the middle of the Indian Ocean and you’re in for the full 12 rounds. Of course, it’s better if the ship is a large one, enabling the fugitive partner to get lost amongst the crowds. When my son was about seven, we went on a Royal Caribbean (www.royalcaribbean.co.uk) cruise around Mexico and Miami. At each

brief stop I chose an itinerary that would give us both a taste of the local wildlife.

 

Searching for alligators, swimming with dolphins and stingrays, we hurriedly made the most of our pause. Had we been so inclined, however, we could happily have remained on the ship, where the entertainment was such that many passengers never went ashore at all. Plied with twenty four hour food in such proportions that I didn’t want to eat anything, they made full use of the ever lasting buffet although the extensive gym and fitness studio remained eerily empty and ghost-like for the duration of our stay.   Why hang out with a dubious bunch of reptiles, they reasoned, when on board there were climbing walls, an ice rink and nightly shows that wouldn’t have disgraced the West End?

 

Yet the fact remains: once the ropes are untied, you’re trapped. This was brought home to me years ago when I went on a Star Clipper trip (www.starclipper.co.uk) off Thailand. It’s a very good company

and, as small cruises go, this one could scarcely have been bettered. After a while, however, it became apparent that one couple on board could barely stand to be on the same planet, let alone the same ship. The bloke had had a fling with someone else on the first night, his girlfriend had discovered them, and for the next seven days the three protagonists were forced to

exist in excruciating proximity. The couple’s cabin – wouldn’t you just know

it? – was right next to mine, and night after night, like scenes from Dynasty or Dallas, the screaming matches dragged on into the dawn. There was no escape for any of us. And that’s the problem with cruising.

Rarely is there time to learn much about the places one visits, but I guarantee that you will learn a great deal about each other. Perhaps that’s why Dame Ellen chose to sail the world alone. Forget Cape Horn. Hell is other people.