Here We Go (again)
For the fourth time in three months, we’ve slipped lines and are headed out to sea. It’s a wee bit early to comment on this race, given I’m still digesting my final land based breakfast, so instead I find myself looking back on the last week or so and reflecting on our stopover in South Africa.
Arriving in Cape Town just over a week ago, I resembled Robin Cook after a particularly challenging walking holiday, my hollowed out features and thousand yard stare a consequence of the battering we’d just taken. You’ll be pleased to hear that just ten days later I now bear a closer likeness to Antony Worrall Thompson after a 72 hour melted cheese bender. Well, melted cheese has certainly featured, but red meat has been the real winner on my weight gain odyssey. Steak’s the word and guzzling’s the action. I’ve abused my bowel to the point where I’m amazed it hasn’t taken out a restraining order.
I’d love to say I’ve seen all that Cape Town has to offer, but unfortunately, I’ve not ventured much further than the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront. For those not familiar with the V&A, think of it much like Gunwharf Quays in Portsmouth, just with a massive table shaped mountain in the background. And for those not familiar with Gunwharf Quays, I envy you. Given my pathetic attempt at adventure (something I put down to a mixture of boat duties, scare stories and general inertia) I’m at something of a loss when it comes to commenting beyond the food and wine. There’s the urinals of course. I say of course, but it’s only really a of course for gentlemen of a certain stature. You see, the urinals are positioned at a height that makes weeing for the under 5 foot 2s a real challenge and essentially leaves you with two options: a) make a dignified detour to the stalls for a relaxed and leisurely pee; or b) tip-toe yourself as close as possible to the porcelain, angle what needs angling (please God not less than 90 degrees) and then hope upon hope that your mate doesn’t wander in behind you to witness your passable impression of an 8 year old on his first trip to the football, trying his best to fit in by using the big boy toilets. South Africa doesn’t seem to cater for the short legged reliever.
Aside from lavatory based strife, I was also saddened to wave goodbye to some of the close friends I’ve made so far. Given the tears I’ve shed at the end of Leg 2, I can only imagine what it’s going to be like waving goodbye to everyone come the end of this round the world adventure. I’m currently assembling a team of therapists who may be able to release me back into society after several years of intensive treatment. For now the party continues and I’m buoyed by the fact plenty of my crewmates are coming back for future legs. All others I’ve been trying to persuade to sign up to another leg – my main arguments being “money schmoney” and “we’re your family now.” Given the rock solid logic of my case, I’m pretty confident of sailing out of New York with around 62 close mates in seven months time. Perhaps we’ll all live on a big old boat and sail into a happy ever after together. Yep, that sounds about right and I definitely haven’t lost all concept of reality.