“At the drop of a hat?” was the question shot back at me from a gorgeous guy I had met on the jetty in Cape Town. I had been staring at all the moored boats, shining and gleaming, big or small, they all gave off the scent of adventure. The raffish sailor was part of a crew preparing a yacht to sail to the Virgin Isles. “Yes!” I confidently replied.
I had finished an international deck-hand sailing course a year or two earlier, not because I loved sailing but it would be a way for me to travel. I was ready to go out on the high seas and conquer the world. In my young and naïve heart, it would be a cinch.
I gazed into the tanzanite eyes of my seafarer ‘saviour’ who would be the conduit to my dreams. His sun-bleached hair whipping in the Cape wind [cue violin SFX], at the-drop-of-a-hat seemed a no-brainer.
Conveniently forgotten at that moment was the fact after years of beach-combing in Cape Town, I had taken the big step of getting a real job in Johannesburg. At least I had finally chosen a career in advertising to the delight of my worried parents.
When blonde-sailor-saviour called about a month later out of the blue and said, “Pack your things, get to Cape Town and I’ll see you at the harbour, you’ll be sailing with us to the Virgin Isles.” What? How about some warning? I have a job, an apartment and accounts to settle! And with it, the ‘drop-of-a-hat’ becomes populated with the horrible facts of reality.
My ship left, without me.
After crying under the duvet a decent amount of time, I vowed to myself that I would look out for another ship and this time—be prepared. Another lifeboat came in about a year later. The advert read something like, “Looking for a crew to sail a 187 footer to the Virgin Isles. Interviews conducted in Cape Town, Johannesburg and Durban”, giving the dates and locations of some of the best hotels around the country. I prepared myself mentally and physically, going over my practical guidelines of sailing to refresh my memory. I wanted this. By the time I walked out of the interview at the hotel suite, I knew I had it. My credentials as a so-called international deck-hand would suffice. I was informed of the great news a couple of weeks later, and I had time to get ready.
I announced it to the agency and handed in my resignation. My peers were excited for me if a little green. I was sailing off into the blue yonder after all. I gave notice to my apartment, paid-up my accounts and had the support of my family with some careful warnings. The beautiful 187 footer yacht, modern and decked out in the latest equipment was in the process of going through its sea trials, and there was still three months before departure. Phone calls with the owner, who was a much older gentleman, went back and forth for arrangements and particularly visa requirements as a South African. My ship was getting closer by the day.
About two or three weeks before leaving, during conversation still sorting out visa regulations, the owner mentioned the crew would be flown back after the Atlantic crossing. I had the impression we would be going all the way to the Virgin Isles—I was astounded. “Why had this never come up before? “ I asked—deafening silence over the phone.
He replied, “I repeat, I am flying the crew back. After the Atlantic stretch, it is very calm sailing, and you and I would be able to handle her [yacht] with ease, especially around the islands.”
Curdling silence. When your brain becomes a mass of ping-pong balls thrown into a room; ping, ping, ping and you are unable to connect your heart and mind hurled against each other—ping, ping, ping. Little bits and pieces started to twist into place like a revolting Rubix cube.
I had signed on to be a ‘companion’, and the mortifying realisation of this was more than I could bear. I thanked him, but no thank you—he was old enough to be my father. Gross. My 187 footer left without me. In the mush of mortification, a pattern of passing ships and under the duvet weeping was emerging.
I had to ask my creative director for my job back. I’d lost the apartment and had to move back to my parents. The taunting and teasing in the creative advertising studio continued for months. Someone would shout, “Okay everyone, all-hands-on-deck—not you Shirli!”
Some years later, there was Rex, an ex-military radio control vehicle; a Land Rover Forward Control Series II which had come onto the market. The potential of doing a Cape to Cairo trip was the fantasy. But, the chap meant to fix the vehicle for the journey lost commitment and had no follow-through. Left with Rex but no ability to do the practical work needed, I ended up selling him. As the new owner drove him out of my driveway, another dream faded into nothing.
It was achingly apparent this analogised ‘ship’ of mine would never moor in the harbour where I was waiting packed with maps and the place names of my daydreams. The epiphany not to depend on anyone or anything but myself took me years.
My ship was born, the handsome Tintin.
“We are never in the same boat, our storms are our own, our flares of light are ours alone. Your ship can be anything, your narrative alone.”