You can run but you can’t hide
There are few racing classes that escape the Seahorse gaze. The workboats of Carriacou in the Grenadines are such a type – though they evolved as handy, fast sloops for fishing and island trade. Dan Houston is an admirer
It was our last night aboard the three- masted cruise ship and things had started to unravel. I had joined a mix of journalists from the dailies and the specialist press and after a little down-island Caribbean cruise we had come to Antigua, and anchored off to watch some of the most gorgeous boats on the planet racing together under sail. It was the last supper at our big table
onboard and our shepherd, Rex, a lovely PR man in the twilight of his career, had turned an interesting shade of puce; his face was sweating in a way that made me glance at the defibrillator hanging in the gangway. Three things had happened: ‘love’ had
unexpectedly blossomed between a very famous (and very famously married) photo - grapher and a pretty lady editor; then Marjorie (I am not sure if that was her real
48 SEAHORSE
name) had ‘scored’ a bag of ‘Columbian Gold’ ashore and was sharing loudly how determined she was to smoke it onboard… and John had gone missing. Some people thought he had been on the boat coming back to the ship earlier but he was nowhere to be found. I had just come in, late on the last boat, sun-stroked, salt-encrusted and rum-infused and I think my news that I hadn’t seen John either (and why should we care) was… well, it was unhelpful. Rex untucked his napkin and said he
should go to see the captain. David leaned in and appraised me of the unfolding events. It was he and I who, the day before, had noticed the photographer enter the saloon from a different direction for the second day running. There was nothing illegal with it – we just thought it was a bit out of character. But PR Rex had now got wind of it and was concerned the feature writer from the Sunday red-top might use it as an angle… And then when Marjorie had asked me how to make a roll-up using her ‘special’ tobacco he’d begun to change colour. And where the f+@£ was John?! I’d had a magical day on the water; I
was already so high I had no interest in helping Marjorie smoke her gold. I could lend her some papers and maybe she could get one of the smart New York yachtsmen
from one of the neighbouring tables to help? I was in that kind of mood. Red Top could write what he liked: Sex
and Drugs in High Seas High Society… It wouldn’t be the first such story. In any case his wife was one of the lead unrav- ellers. She could and did drink three Long Island iced teas before lunch then cruised into the afternoon watch on half a bottle of spirits. No problem. The day before, as we’d anchored, I’d
climbed up the rigging to watch the J-Class yachts Endeavour and the newly built Ranger come racing out of Falmouth Har- bour. These greyhounds of the sea could slice the trade winds swell with a power and grace that forced you to stare as they sundered by. The splashing-hiss of their hulls was punctuated by loud, deep cronks as the rig and deck gear transmitted breeze-power into hull-speed in this wondrous sport of sailing titans. I knew I couldn’t get a big feature out of
this cruise thing. I imagined our sailing readership wouldn’t be that interested. We were basically on a cruise liner but with masts and sails. Naturally the sails were automatic and you needed a special pass from the very nervy mate to go up the rig. The pool was nice but sitting at break- fast it lay above you – the whole length
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