Sometimes the Eject Button looks attractive

by Nancy Knudsen on 29 Aug 2007 I often wonder if it is just an ironic coincidence that the lifelines on a yacht so closely resembles the guard rails round a boxing ring. It happens after we've left Bora Bora on our way to Tonga. Its thirty-three degrees in the shade and the wind has veered. We need to put the pole up.....

Outside the water seems to glitter with the heat, the sky is an uncaring cool blue, cloudless. Skipper Ted goes to the mast to get the pole ready, hot sun burning on his bare brown back making it glisten. I dive for the sheet and brace to loosen them.

But in the corner of my eye I see the end of the headsail sheet minus its figure-eight knot slipping towards the block. It's a cursed slippery line that is constantly trying to escape from the boat and doesn't keep its knots well. I scramble to catch the line before it reaches the block and out into the ocean. If it does that we'll have an irritating job retrieving it and threading it again before we can bring the headsail onto the new side.

Just as I grab it (I am now bum up head down along the side deck), I hear the first clang, ringing out like a church bell on a Sunday morning when they used to allow that sort of thing, and know instantly what that noise is – it's the pole clanging against the forestay track – a fragile thing that could easily be damaged... I gasp headsail in hand and start backward scrambling to the cockpit. It clangs again, swinging free – I cringe at the second clang, still not back to the brace yet.

But at the first clang the shouting starts. 'What the &^%*&%! are you doing!?!' and more expletives. 'Get that pole under control for ^&$^%$& sakes!'

'What do you mean' I shout back when I have time to form the words – 'I was DOING something!'

By now I have yanked the brace and the pole has stopped its wild yawing. We swing it up into position.

Ted's returning to the cockpit. 'How long have you been &%$^&$& doing this on this &^%$&^% boat? Ten years?!?'

The volume is quite loud, uninhibited really, as we are out at sea.

My head roars with anger and hurt feelings. 'What do you mean – I said I was DOING SOMETHING. Why couldn't you see that I was looking after the headsail sheet which was slipping out of the boat. I had to save it!'

'You can't let the pole hit the forestay – you KNOW that!'

'But I didn't know you were going to raise the pole at that moment. I WASN'T READY! You are so used to my watching every move you make so that nothing goes wrong...'

'Yes you ARE supposed to be watching every move I make.'

'Well normally I am, but what's wrong with a simple 'Are you ready?' and why can't you watch me too? Why do I have to do all the watching?'

Ted, obviously knowing more about the relationship between Discretion and Valour than I do, doesn't answer.

Now here the similarity with the boxing ring ends, because here there is no Umpire, and we grumpily retire to our corners, doing the metaphorical equivalent of pouring cold water over our heads and bathing our faces with a wet towel.

It takes at least fifteen minutes for the grumps to disappear. They float away behind us, drowning in the wake that streams out to the horizon.

'Would you like a cup of tea?'

'What a good idea! Sounds marvelous – thank you.'

HOWEVER, my friend Dorothy on our buddy boat, Bauvier, from Belgium, and sailing with her husband Bart and children Thibaut and Olivier, has communicated a secret to me.

'Have you noticed the Eject Button on the console?'

'No,' I say, mystified.

'Yes yes, have look – there's an Eject Button you can always use if your husband/skipper gets too much to stand'

'No I hadn't noticed' I am intrigued, astonished, and certainly, interested.

'O yes, it's called MOB'

'That means 'Man Over Board'!'

'That's right, so if he gets, you know, just too much, I won't hesitate – it'll be 'Man Overboard' for him.'

Well, there's a solution, right before me, and I didn't realise!