Earlier this year (January the 2nd in fact) I decided motor sport is not what I'll do when I'm wealthy and famous. Instead I'll race ever larger yachts with ever more beautiful and supple women of appropriate age.

To that end, I've started on the track by crewing on boats of other wealthy and famous men, although I am not beautiful and certainly not supple. I can only conclude they have stuffed up big time and I'm doing fine with my quest.

Last Saturday, it was windy and raining, I was sitting on the rail, thinking heavy thoughts being ballast and all, when it was decided we had the wrong genoa up and that it was time for a change. Brandon leaped forward telling me to come help. So there I was on the bow, sorting tack from clew, luff from leach, hanking and unhanking and sorting sheets.

Next I was told to tie the leeward jib sheet, which should have been no big deal as I have a short lump of rope beside my bed that I practice tying knots in most (some) nights and generally it's never connected to Gabba (or the headboard). But bugger me if I made 3 attempts and couldn't get it right out on the boat when it matter most. Then I became acutely aware that people in the afterguard were yelling that it was time to tack and I still didn't have my sheet tied. Every second dragged on for a year and I couldn't for the bloody life of me tie a proper bowline. Or even one that could pass as a bowline on a dark night through squinty eyes.

In the end, all I could do was admit defeat and ask someone else to tie it for me. Bloody hell, clearly all I was good for was sitting on the rail.

The kicker was that as soon as I got home, I grabbed my bed time rope and tied a perfect bowline without even thinking about it.

The moral of the story is thus. I can be relied on to perform in the bedroom, but not so much in the middle of the harbor in the wind and rain on the bow of a boat. The supple women I covet will be somewhat disappointed, I'm sure.

The Photo

A bowline. Proof I can do it.