Westerly Nomad Wins a Prize

So the slab-reefing fittings are now on the boom but the lines haven’t yet been set up and the sails are still in the attic. The main cabin has four coats of paint on the walls and roof and five coats of Wood-skin on the woodwork so things are steadily getting better. If the sails were on she’d be good for day-sailing at least so I guess this is the next job. In the meantime though, I have made a small but unusual voyage.

There is a guy in the village who organises a kind of informal regatta each year. Saturday was the

chosen day this year and the event started at 10:00 am with boats assembling by the quay. Each boat had to be suitably dressed and all participants had to be in fancy dress. There were four cardinals in a RIB, the entire cast of a TinTin cartoon in an old gaff rigger, Spanish flamenco dancers on a thirty-five foot ketch, the Blues Brothers on a seven metre Jouette – there were mad monks, naughty nuns, doctors and nurses and – a condom!

Our boat? Well, we were the only British contingent and the event coincided with the Queen’s official birthday, so we were the Sex Pistols – complete with Bose Boom Box playing God Save the Queen – the punk version naturally.

There was a picnic on the water some way down the estuary and then a perfect return with wind and current in everyone’s favour. Back in the Port there were apperros’ in the local bar La Gargot, followed by prize-giving – we won a cup but I have no idea why, or what we had done to deserve it – people were a bit vague by this time.

Then there was a party in a huge tent made of sails, set up around a swimming pool where the water had been heated to 28 degrees C., and Curry was served by an Indian Rajah. I left, just after midnight full of curry, wine and bonhomie. I’m told the party finished around four in the morning.

Seaward