2. The Crunchie Bar Kids.
A mixed chocolate metaphor
The Recipe
So, the essential bits are all here.
A quayside smack, side-on breeze. Make that a semi-hooley.
A load of yachts on the lee-side of the quay.
A rather large gap on the windward side of the quay with a sailing boat tucked up and seemingly comfortable. That’s us.
The method. It’s mad.
Step 1
First circle around a bit. Listen to the crew moaning about not being able to get off the boat to eat and drink. And hire motorcycles or quad bikes. Decide that you cannot bear the thought of laying the anchor out in the bay.
Decide “fuck it”. It’s a rental.
By this time crew are extremely antsy. You decide that the gap on the windward side is so huge what can possibly go wrong? So, wheel about and a bit of throttle and point the pointy bit towards the quay.
Step 2
Wow! You’re amazed that you’ve covered the 500 metres to the quay in 40 seconds. That’s 12.5 metres a second. Hold on a second that’s 24.298056155717 Knots.
Shit! The Eureka Moment Occurs. Erm, 30 odd knots of wind plus a bit of Yanmar boost has taken you a little more quickly towards the concrete of the quay than you’d anticipated.
The crew are excited. The skipper has just had a brown shorts moment and he wisely decides to switch to Heroic Mission Abort Status. The wheel goes hard-a-port, the boat speed magically dissipates into a swoosh of white wake which splashes playfully against the quay. The gathering quayside crowd collectively say “Oooh”.
Meanwhile, beers are being raised on Gamecock, the spectator vessel as everyone spots that you’re about to mix up the finishing touches to your own personal Crunchie Bar mission.
Step 3
You realise that this fucking boat you’re steering seems to be going more sideways than forwardways. Crew now saying Fuck. A lot. Possibly more than the skipper.
Quayside some burly geezers up for a bit of Derring Do are lining up on the pointy quay end ready to give some stanchion bending assistance.
The Monkey Nuts are now being cracked and eaten on the spectator vessel.
Step 4
More math required. 6 burly geezers pushing handily on the side of a 29,321lb — that’s a 14 tonnes yottie, wind assisted on the other side by a 30knot breeze isn’t going to stop your trusty 48 foot charter vessel from making deep love with the pointy bit of the quay, so you filter out the crew now muttering the adjective “Tosser”, avoid any kind of eye contact with the quayside geezers pointing at the new rather decorative 3 foot gouge on the side of your boat and think quietly about the loss of the 2500 Euro deposit you’ve just kissed goodbye.
The Final Solution — Step 5
In a fit of pique you bark something along the lines of “Well if you think you can do better, you fucking steer”. The wheel gets taken over and you stomp off for some “quiet time” and sit, alone at the base of the mast as the crew steer the boat over the other side of the bay and drop the anchor.
“Pump up the Fucking Dinghy” you shout to the crew now collectively dividing 2,500 by 6 to yield their contribution to the deposit. Dark mutterings abound. “You pump up the dinghy, Tosser”.
The lone embarassed helm dressed inappropriately in a pair of jaunty pink (and brown) shorts is seen shortly afterwards dejectedly rowing the inflatable towards shore and the petrol station-cum-chandlery and the row of recently price-inflated Plastic Padding tins on aisle one.
