Falling in

The one thing about being a boater is that eventually you will get unexpectedly wet...from Tony Speight of Bedford.

Before I recount this tale, I would like to say that I have changed the names of both the innocent and the guilty to protect their identities as well as to save my own skin.

If you spend enough time on boats you will at some point find yourself in the water – and I should know, I have been in on more than one occasion. Each time, as I bobbed about looking for a way out of my various predicaments, it always struck me that I only had myself to blame – if I hadn’t volunteered myself on to the boats in the first place, I wouldn’t have been able to volunteer myself out of those boats.

My first experience of a soaking was when learning to sail. Small sailing boats are perfectly comfortable when heeled over at an angle but when upright they are strangely ungainly.

And so it was that Ian and I sailed an RS 200 across a small bay. I was learning and so had been left in charge of the tiller. “Just keep her as she is,” Ian said as he went forward to set the foresail. And I did just that.

Things were going well until we came into the lea of a small hill. The wind, which had been driving us along at a good pace, dropped and the boat sat immediately upright. I had been sitting on the gunwhale, leaning out to balance the boat, but my reaction to the boat’s vertical movement was too slow and, unbalanced, I slipped quietly overboard into the water. Ian was still busy with the foresail and was only made aware of my absence by the small voice shouting from the briny: “You might want to take a turn at the tiller now!”

On another occasion, I had been watching my lads messing around in a canoe and convinced of my own ability took the first opportunity to jump in and have a go. I had watched canoeing enough on tv to know that if I supported myself on the bank using the paddle I would be able to slide into the sleek fibreglass hull. I breathed a sigh of relief as I sat cocooned in the lightweight shell.

My lads had been watching and I confidently announced that I didn’t think that canoeing was as hard as they seemed to make out. At this point the canoe was a little wobbly but I knew that all I had to do was to gain a little forward speed and I would be in control and would be able to say that I had taken to it like a duck to water.

I pushed confidently away from the bank but within half a stroke the canoe was upside down and I found myself struggling free. A few seconds later I burst thought the surface of the river, truly a duck in water.

As I scrambled up the bank, I noticed that my better half was bent double laughing with tears rolling down her face; what is it about women that they find the downfall of men so funny?

And it’s this that brings me to the story of Kev.

The day had been a scorcher and I sat on the pontoon talking to Kev. For his part, Kev had taken refuge in a small rowboat, which was sat in the shade of the bigger boats on either side. Our respective wives had come along to join us with a few other moorers, you know, just to chat.

Being lower in his boat than we were on the pontoon, Kev felt a bit left out of the conversation until his wife produced a stool for him to sit on. Having erected the stool in the centre of the rowboat, Kev sat atop it. The effect of the stool was to raise Kev’s centre of gravity and the boat jittered nervously under its load. After a couple of minutes, though, Kev had mastered the balancing act, much to Joan’s relief. She had watched him nervously at first, then realising that he had the situation under control went back to her conversation.

Why, has never been made clear, but during a momentary lull in proceedings Joan suggested to Kev that removing a sock while seated on the stool would be impossible. Kev, ever up for a challenge, carefully crossed one leg over the other and pulled vigorously at a size 12 sock. The sock resisted manfully until with a final tug it came free. Kev’s face beamed momentarily until he realised that he was accelerating rapidly in the direction of the water. The resulting Tsunami exploded across the pontoon soaking everyone in the party.

Now you might have thought that Joan would have shown some level of concern for Kev, who was now floundering in the water. But no, her face was contorted into a grimace of uncontrollable mirth.

So I repeat my question. “How come women find their greatest humour in men, in trouble?”

This month’s winner was Tony Speight of Bedford.

He requested that the proceeds of his prize, a 16.5in model of the Cutty Sark worth £49.95, be donated to the Cutty Sark Trust to help toward its restoration. Thanks Tony.