Book 2, Chapter 28

It was Wednesday 18th of April 2001, well into spring and I had an appointment with Cape Horn in 9 months, which meant leaving Britain in 5 months to sail the over 7,000 nm to get there. Captain Cook on Endeavour set sail from Plymouth on either Thursday the 25th or Friday the 26th of August in 1768, and, while there was no suggestion that I should follow his exact route or timetable, the same start would be kind of nice… Could it be done? Bill got out his diary and counted 17 weeks but remembered a consideration…

"Beginning a voyage on a Friday or on the 13th of the month is bad luck! That lets out the 13th and the Fridays of the 17th, 24th and 31st of August 2001."

"Surely you don't believe those superstitions Bill?"

"Not at all but I bet Cook's crew did which is maybe why there is disagreement their starting date and I bet Litara won't start a television series knowing that half the audience will be pointing an accusing finger!"

Litara? I'd learnt to not presume anything about my sister so with a quick phone call I gave her the news on dates and superstitions, duly passing the buck to the person with most to lose on the wrong choice… - … assuming that is that the Friday superstition is rubbish?

To be ready, in 17 weeks, to sail a new boat of untried design around the world in would take a lot of hard test sailing which would certainly result in breakages and the finding of changes that would be necessary. Also we would have to work within the limitations that the local tides made on when we could get in and out of the marina - with tides producing up to 15 metres (49 feet) variation in depth they were no small inconvenience. With incentives like that, planning to give Dumblebit her first workout at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning was natural.

"Bloody sand bar's moved!" Bill explained eloquently, if a little forcibly. Leaving on a rising tide is safest because if you run aground the rising tide will re-float the boat except… if the wind or current is toward the shallower water you will just be pushed higher and higher up the sandbank. That is why I was inflating the new dinghy and cursing its silly little foot-pump and too-short hose. With Dad picking it up effortlessly, at least there was no difficulty getting the inflated dinghy from the deck into the water and then Dad swiftly jumped in and moved it to the bows where I dropped the anchor and a good length of chain to the dinghy's floor. Rope would have been easier to pay out than chain as Dad rowed toward deeper water but his his strength overcame our mistake and before long he dropped the anchor and rejoined us on Dumblebit, showing at the same time how his efforts had almost broken the lightweight oars.

With the anchor stopping us from being pushed further up the sandbank, within 20 minutes Dumblebit was afloat where we could put the electric outboard to good use - even though it did vibrate alarmingly on the track down which it had been lowered - and Dad hauled the anchor up by hand. That was just the first hour!

A successful day in these terms was finding the faults before they became major hazards to my safety a few months down the line. Where we didn't find fault was with Dumblebit's handling under sail. Some alchemy had surely been involved to change carbon-fibre into a boat that would not be denied her passage. She was stiff in that she did not heel too quickly to the 20 knot breeze, and going to windward there was a determination in the way she pushed aside the small but steep waves you get when the wind is against the current.

'The boys', Dad, Bill and Jack, were in their gung-ho element throwing the boat around like a racing dinghy and shaping the sails to the perfection that can be achieved with just the right tension from just the right angle until …

"How did I let you talk me into this?" I shouted from my position, suspended from the spinnaker halliard at the top of the mast. A bit more and a bit more tension on the jib halliard had stretched the luff of the sail more than I'd allowed for until the top of the jib roller system jammed at the top of the mast where it couldn't turn to roll the jib up at the end of our test daysail! Being the lightest, I had been 'volunteered' to be hauled up in the bosun's chair to prise the roller swivel free but the top of the mast of a yacht under sail moves around a lot and there is little to hold onto so I banged backward and forward like an excitedly running child's balloon on a string.

"You owe me you rotten sods!" was my proclamation as I stepped out of the bosun's chair once back in the marina. Just because I had successfully freed the roller and the sails could be furled didn't mean they had to let me down from the top of the mast which is where I remained until Dumblebit was moored in the marina and everything tidied away. "How could you Dad? You're supposed to protect me from idiots like these other two!"

The answer didn't come until I was stepping ashore with them already on the dock. The three of them faced me and in unison made a deep salaam, going down on their knees and touching their foreheads to the planking.

"Grandad don't!" I yelled leaping to help 78-year-old Bill back to his feet.

"Venus, my dear daughter. Welcome to the 'Brotherhood'"

"What on earth are you on about Dad? And you should have realised by now that I don't qualify for any brotherhood!"

"A technicality we have chosen to ignore following the example of the pirate Captain Anne Bonny, we invite you to dinner on Friday, that's a week from tomorrow, as the guest of honour of the Welsh table of 'The Brotherhood of the Coast'"