Paul Heiney The character of the cabin of your yacht can change with circumstance much like the wind. Yet nothing beats the cosiness of being hunkered down below in a snug anchorage
T
he routine for opening up the boat after the winter has been the same for years now. I keep her afloat, so it can be a heart-in-the-mouth moment. Did the lines hold, the fenders float away, was the cover ripped off the mainsail by that storm strong enough to blow the froth off a cappuccino? As it happens, I’ve always found her to be fine, if grubby, and a bit hairy around the waterline, as if she’d grown one of those whispy little beards so loved by young men these days. I clamber aboard, rummage through my pockets for the key, which turns the lock but with a little difficulty, so I make a note to apply oil, which I never get round to. Then the difficulties arise: I can’t remember where anything is. I am suddenly a stranger in my own boat; it was once as much a part of me as a limb, but now I’m adrift. Where do the lights switch on, did I disconnect the batteries? Where are the batteries anyway? There is a small dance I must do on the top cabin step otherwise I bang my head on the hatch (poor design) and I must have done it a million times, but now I’m like a new entrant on Strictly who can’t put one foot in front of the other. The footwork will soon come back to me, but in the meantime the not so gentle caress of teak on forehead must be endured. And then the magic moment arrives when you finally realise you are back home. You are no longer a stranger here; this is your boat, this is your place, and you reach for your kettle to make that first celebratory cuppa of the year. We underestimate the importance of cabins. They are not merely to keep us out of the rain, or provide somewhere for us to lie down, or somewhere to stow the tons of junk we haul around the seas because we never throw anything away, just in case. A proper cabin is what turns a boat into a home. While a racing crew might consider them to be nothing more than a space which keep the shrouds apart, to a cruising sailor they are places of refuge where warmth and
shelter can be found, where spirits can be restored and where, at anchor, good times can be had. There is much thought given to the mechanics of sailing, but less to getting the best out of cruising in those golden moments when the sun is going down, the lines are secure ashore, and the anchor has extended its grip to the sea bed. We each have our own preferences; I like to see a little woodwork glistening in the glow of an oil lamp and, as I have already written before, the glow of my wood stove lifts the spirits to the heavens. I like my cabins to look created and not moulded. Fashion is against me, though. Modern designers have embraced designs seemingly inspired by a dentists’ waiting room, or a bland hotel chain. But if that’s what you like, what’s it to do with me? Cabins can change their character as easily as the wind can shift, it doesn’t take much. At times, my cabin has felt more like a home than any I have ever lived in, but when hove-to in a strong gale, the growing seas slapping against the bow before falling with the thump of the cabin roof, then it can feel like a coffin. I found myself in this position for two days mid-Atlantic, thinking that every crack of ocean as it hit the boat was going to split us apart, like a nut at Christmas. It was so rough that I had to crawl to the stove to make something hot, stealthily returning to the bunk certain I would never make it with any tea remaining in the mug. I lay down, unable to read or listen to music, a prisoner of that bunk, captive in my own cabin. But storms pass and the character of the cabin changes. All it takes is a gleam of sun, a smoothing of the sea, and so relieved are you that the cabin becomes like a child’s nursery where you are free to play once again, do what you wish, make a bacon sandwich and love your cabin once again. It has seen me through the worst and again allows you to sigh with relief. I try to remember all this as I stumble around on the first day back on the boat after the winter. I remember all the good times, and the bad. But it’s the memory of the good times that keeps drawing you back. Just like home, really.
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APRIL 2022 Sailing Today with Yachts & Yachting
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ILLUSTRATION CLAIRE WOOD
‘I am suddenly a stranger in my own boat; it was once as much a part of me as a limb, but now I’m adrift’
