“W
hat is zee point to sail round zee globe just to end
oop where you starteed.” So said Bernard
Moitessier, or words to that effect. Don’t get me
wrong. I’m not comparing myself with the paté-loving French
vegetarian mystic who, “to save his soul,” abandoned the Golden
Globe race with victory in his grasp. I’m not a vegetarian.
Neither can I sit in the lotus position, nor prise myself out of it
without the help of a power winch attached to a Land Rover
anchored to a sturdy tree stump. Other than that,
we’re not too dissimilar, me and my mystic choom,
except that I disagree with him.
For all voyages are a homecoming that starts
the moment you step aboard and feel your boat
tremble alive beneath your feet, each nook, nick,
cranny, scuff and tea-stained mug more familiar
and more intimate than anything in your, ’ow
shall I say eet, house-machine, zee prison of your
soul....Ooh la la, cripes! Sorry, I was so spiritual
for a moment I started talking Franglais.
And so it was as I stepped once more on board
Marlin in July last year. I was home. Zis was my
universe, my – qu’est-ce que c’est en Anglais? –
world entire, fi nite but infi nite, for zee horizon lay
beyond but always out of reach... zoot alors! I’ve
come over all over Bernard Moitessier again.
But part of Marlin’s Mission truly was a
homecoming, and that’s why I chose to sail the
Thames to London alone. It’s a course that runs
through my life, an escalator of time, a pulse of
history, without doubt one of the great passages in
the world. And it revealed my life in fl ashback
and reverse as it transported me back to where it all began;
where I began.
As I sailed west last year on a warm July morning under the
QE2 bridge, for the very fi rst time in my Sailfi sh, my heart soared
as I looked up at the suckers on their way to work. It was the
glinting Golden Gate to my past. And at Erith Yacht Club I crossed
the track of my past and saw my younger self in 2006, grasping fora visitor’s buoy and hanging on for dear life. From Gallions Point
in the Royal Docks, where my Sailfi sh had been launched by a
forklift truck, it had been an eight-mile, white-knuckle ride to Erith
entirely under motor. I’d told my girlfriend it was too rough to
raise sail but I wasn’t even kidding myself – it was F2-3 max.
It was an age ago, but I still recall how crestfallen I was when I
realised my dream to sail from my east London home round to my
mooring on The Blackwater in Essex was simply beyond my
capabilities. But now, at last, I’d sailed back and
closed the circle. And my eyes moistened. And
then, as I called London Vessel Traffi c Services
(VTS) for permission to pass through the Thames
Barrier, for the fi rst time as commander of my own
vessel, I felt a swell of pride. A returning
circumnavigator could not have been more elated.
And passing Greenwich, the man who sails an 18ft
Sailfi sh saw a vision of the 10-year-old boy who
marvelled at how small Chichester’s 54ft Gipsy
Moth IV was.
She’s been resurrected from her concrete tomb,
but don’t get me started on The Cutty Sark, jacked
up, her stern vandalised for a souvenir shop, a dead
thing, a monument to architectural vanity and
curatorial hubris. A real sailing boat could have
been built for a third of the money, but at least
she’ll keep conservators in white gloves and sable
brushes for all of time. Enough, that’s maudlin.
And so to Limehouse, where in 2002 a timid
non-sailor walked into the Cruising Association’s
crewing service one Wednesday night in winter.
His eyes widened and his jaw dropped in wonder
as he discovered there were people with boats who’d let him on
board. It started there. A new world opened up and a new life
began. That July day, when I returned in my own boat, they
remembered me and offered a room for the night. And do you
know what I said? “Thanks, but I can’t abandon Marlin, it would
be a betrayal.” Perhaps I have got a soul, but at least I didn’t say it
in a French accent this time.Dave Selby crosses the outward track of his life when he sails into London
Sailing home
“At Erith,
I crossed the
track of my
past and saw
my younger
self in 2006,
grasping at
a visitor’s
buoy”Sternpost
CLUADIAM
YATT