Today was race day; a grudge match days in the making as Richard's 451 was pitted against Tom's 437. The vessels circled about the start line like hungry sharks. The tension was palpable as the cat calls rang out.
Terminal velocity of a yacht under sail is calculated by an equation too dull to bore you with. Essentially, the longer you are, the faster you go. Richard was two feet longer than us, a fact that the male members of his crew were secretly rather pleased about.
The klaxon sounded and the yachts surged across the start line, manoeuvering for the wind and coming close to collision as we jockeyed for position. Expectant crew lined the high side to extract every ounce of power from the sails. Mast and rigging creaked under the strain. Heat resistant tiles began to peel away from the bow and fish stunned by the sonic boom, floated to the surface in our wake.
Tom radioed an all channels warning to shipping in the vicinity as we tore across the gulf towards Hydra at dizzying speeds approaching one tenth of a knot.
After ten minutes we dropped the sails and motored sedately, like a day trip from the Hydra Nursing Home, stopping to swim en route. Splashing about in 5m of water is like an innocent joy from childhood. Treading water when there are 400m of blackness beneath you is an entirely different experience. At times like these, you believe in the existence of Kraken.
Whisper the word 'shark,' even in jest, and you feel a primevil terror rising in your throat. Involuntarily, you push weaker swimmers beneath the surface and claw your way up the bathing ladder, hoping against hope that your legs are still attached to your torso when you flop into the cockpit.
As the breeze quickened, we surfed on a fender towed behind the boat and Adrian learned the perenial lesson taught by waves to bikini wearers, as he forgot to tie the draw string on his swimming shorts.
Pulling into Hydra, with Richard, only slightly smuggly tucked up against the breakwater with all lines secured, was like taking your new Bentley to the super market, only to find the carpark had been comandeered by the local chapter of Hell's Angels.
For bazooka practice.
Hydra's harbour is best described as possessing limited space to maneouvre, even at the best of times. So small is it, that scientists are using the Large Hadron Collider to establish whether it actually exists. Parking four deep is common, and when three out of those four are usually Germans, the teutonic tendency to annexe the poolside sun loungers finds a new and guttural outlet for expression. Leathery German husbands at the helm, scream prison camp commands at long suffering wives, if the anchor drop is a milli-second late.
The postage stamp space in the middle of the harbour, available for delicate turns, was squarely occupied by a hapless yacht trying vainly to retrieve a crossed anchor chain 5m below. Three other boats were circling gingerly in the single lane highway that developped in a clockwise direction around the stricken vessel. A fourth, inevitably crewed by Russians, saw a wisdom that had escaped the rest, and barged counter-clockwise, to add to the mayhem. And then the wind picked up and the bow, that was only ever behaving under sufferance, started to wander.
Round and round we went, waiting for an opening. With each rotation, the Russians became more belligerent and the crew of the yacht in the jam became more exasperated.
The Bentley was whimpering as the trigger finger tightened.
And then, the cosmic tumblers clicked into place, the wind came onto the beam at just the right moment and we reversed neatly into a slot that had been beyond reach a moment before. The Russians glowered. The other boats gave up. We had some gin.
Hydra, with a population of 20, was a trading port that prospered under the Ottoman Empire. Renowned for its skillfull sailors and boat builders, it threw its lot in with the Greeks during the war of independence in 1821 and was pivotal in the victory against the mighty Turk. Trade moved on and Hydra transformed its wealthy merchant housing stock to the entertainment of the rich and famous for the next hundred years.
To walk all four of its winding streets is to stroll in the footsteps of everyone from Oscar Wilde to Pink Floyd. Indeed, the current harbour master, who finally untangled the anchor debacle, is credited with introducing Byron to opium.
Night life in Hydra is a cross between Blackpool and Venice. The wide quayside plays host to open air cafes where smart waiters serve cocktails and strong coffee with hot milk. But as Hydra is a carless island, donkeys loiter amongst the tables, to carry all the produce that is shipped to the island, and small children, if the need arises.
We ate and drank freely into the early hours before stumbling across the decks of dozen yachts, in search of our own.
Someone nameless brought a brunette back to the boat. After twelve Mythos, the guys thought she was cute and she loved the attention. I thought she was a complete dog.
A labrador, in fact.
Terminal velocity of a yacht under sail is calculated by an equation too dull to bore you with. Essentially, the longer you are, the faster you go. Richard was two feet longer than us, a fact that the male members of his crew were secretly rather pleased about.
The klaxon sounded and the yachts surged across the start line, manoeuvering for the wind and coming close to collision as we jockeyed for position. Expectant crew lined the high side to extract every ounce of power from the sails. Mast and rigging creaked under the strain. Heat resistant tiles began to peel away from the bow and fish stunned by the sonic boom, floated to the surface in our wake.
Tom radioed an all channels warning to shipping in the vicinity as we tore across the gulf towards Hydra at dizzying speeds approaching one tenth of a knot.
After ten minutes we dropped the sails and motored sedately, like a day trip from the Hydra Nursing Home, stopping to swim en route. Splashing about in 5m of water is like an innocent joy from childhood. Treading water when there are 400m of blackness beneath you is an entirely different experience. At times like these, you believe in the existence of Kraken.
Whisper the word 'shark,' even in jest, and you feel a primevil terror rising in your throat. Involuntarily, you push weaker swimmers beneath the surface and claw your way up the bathing ladder, hoping against hope that your legs are still attached to your torso when you flop into the cockpit.
As the breeze quickened, we surfed on a fender towed behind the boat and Adrian learned the perenial lesson taught by waves to bikini wearers, as he forgot to tie the draw string on his swimming shorts.
Pulling into Hydra, with Richard, only slightly smuggly tucked up against the breakwater with all lines secured, was like taking your new Bentley to the super market, only to find the carpark had been comandeered by the local chapter of Hell's Angels.
For bazooka practice.
Hydra's harbour is best described as possessing limited space to maneouvre, even at the best of times. So small is it, that scientists are using the Large Hadron Collider to establish whether it actually exists. Parking four deep is common, and when three out of those four are usually Germans, the teutonic tendency to annexe the poolside sun loungers finds a new and guttural outlet for expression. Leathery German husbands at the helm, scream prison camp commands at long suffering wives, if the anchor drop is a milli-second late.
The postage stamp space in the middle of the harbour, available for delicate turns, was squarely occupied by a hapless yacht trying vainly to retrieve a crossed anchor chain 5m below. Three other boats were circling gingerly in the single lane highway that developped in a clockwise direction around the stricken vessel. A fourth, inevitably crewed by Russians, saw a wisdom that had escaped the rest, and barged counter-clockwise, to add to the mayhem. And then the wind picked up and the bow, that was only ever behaving under sufferance, started to wander.
Round and round we went, waiting for an opening. With each rotation, the Russians became more belligerent and the crew of the yacht in the jam became more exasperated.
The Bentley was whimpering as the trigger finger tightened.
And then, the cosmic tumblers clicked into place, the wind came onto the beam at just the right moment and we reversed neatly into a slot that had been beyond reach a moment before. The Russians glowered. The other boats gave up. We had some gin.
Hydra, with a population of 20, was a trading port that prospered under the Ottoman Empire. Renowned for its skillfull sailors and boat builders, it threw its lot in with the Greeks during the war of independence in 1821 and was pivotal in the victory against the mighty Turk. Trade moved on and Hydra transformed its wealthy merchant housing stock to the entertainment of the rich and famous for the next hundred years.
To walk all four of its winding streets is to stroll in the footsteps of everyone from Oscar Wilde to Pink Floyd. Indeed, the current harbour master, who finally untangled the anchor debacle, is credited with introducing Byron to opium.
Night life in Hydra is a cross between Blackpool and Venice. The wide quayside plays host to open air cafes where smart waiters serve cocktails and strong coffee with hot milk. But as Hydra is a carless island, donkeys loiter amongst the tables, to carry all the produce that is shipped to the island, and small children, if the need arises.
We ate and drank freely into the early hours before stumbling across the decks of dozen yachts, in search of our own.
Someone nameless brought a brunette back to the boat. After twelve Mythos, the guys thought she was cute and she loved the attention. I thought she was a complete dog.
A labrador, in fact.
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