w.atching the w.orld unw.ind

Today's lyric:

"What the hell is wrong with you tonight?
I can't seem to say or do the right thing
Wanted to be sure you're feeling right
Wanted to be sure we want the same thing."

Joe Jackson: "Different for girls"

Anyone see last night's "Survival" programme on the Beeb, about the rescue of the yachtsmen in the Fastnet race in '79?

We were down in Cornwall at the time, having just spent a glorious week in Devon - which deserves the title of Garden of England far more than Kent, imo - then moving on at the weekend to Padstow, where we were immediately greeted by weather which would dog us throughout our second week and, of course, cost the lives of several of the racing sailors.

As was our custom, we booked our boat-fishing trip for the beginning of the week, so that, if the sea's too rough to get afloat, there may be a fishable day later on.

Come the Monday - just as the news about the losses at sea was making its way into our carefree holiday - we rang the skipper of "Selachian", and were not surprised to discover that he would not be taking us out today. (Force 6 and above, and you stay indoors.)

Tuesday, the same. As was Wednesday. Thursday saw the sea just as 'confused' as the rescue pilots know it, but, no, we were going to try it. I have some cine film of us, and the one other boat which set out that day, a tiny, red-sailed dinghy which took turns with us to disappear from view as we dipped into what seemed like huge troughs.




Because the boat hadn't been out for several days, the catch of mackerel which was to be used for chumming was now, how shall we say, ripe? And Skip was pummelling it into soup in a steel bucket with a log. There was no escape from the godawful stench.

Buddy hooked into the first blue shark (two anglers at a time take turns to hold the rods, so that there's not a whole nest of line streaming out from the stern) whereupon my gunwhale neighbour decided to show me what he'd had for breakfast. That did it for me - I couldn't control my stomach's natural urge and keep it down so I heaved too, then scuttled into the hold, to remain supine for most of the rest of the trip.

One thing you quickly learn when sea fishing from a boat is that, while there's at least one angler still standing and fishing, no amount of money you can offer will persuade him to return to port so that you can stop dying.

Two other blues were caught before Buddy hooked into his second shark of the day. To his selfless credit, he dragged me from my sick-bed, thrust the rod into my feeble hands and 'encouraged' me to haul the fish in with typical profanities and invective.

It was only the biggest one of the day, wasn't it? A 50lb-er. Sadly, even though we were into conservation all those years ago, we weren't able to return it alive because, in the huge swells, it had swallowed the hook too deeply for retrieval before anyone realised it had taken the bait. Great shame. But it was used for lobster-pot bait, so not entirely wasted.

Watching the programme last night, while we'd not in any way been in seas like those experienced by the yacht crews, I could smell and feel the salt spume in my nose and on my face.

Bl0ody mad, we must have been. But at least we survived.