We were having a long weekend in
September and had arrived in
East Loch Tarbert , Loch Fyne.
After a meal on board the yacht
we walked over to the nearest
hotel for a drink.
While Andrew, the
skipper, ordered the drinks I
asked directions to the loo.
“Straight over there.” the
barman said. I followed his
pointing finger and pushed open
a door. It was certainly a
better appointed Gents than
normal. Small but tastefully
decorated. There was only one
place to go but there was a
tallish guy standing in front of
a basin and mirror half blocking
access to where I wanted to go.
He brushed the lapels of his
very smart sports coat with the
tips of his fingers and then ran
his hands down the seat of his
well fitting trousers. His hair
was very neatly cut and the
eyebrows had been worked on.
Rather sharply I said
“ Excuse me.” and as I squeezed
past I noticed that he was
starting to apply some
lipstick. I didn’t bother
closing the door when I relieved
myself but kept a watchful eye
behind me. As I left I thought
he gave me an odd kind of look.
I joined Andrew at a
table in the lounge and told him
about the fellow in the Gents.
Just then the smart dresser came
into the lounge. “ That’s him
now” I said to Andrew, taking a
drink from my glass. “Is that a
fact? “ he replied-“You better
take another look.”
From the front there was no
doubt at all that I was looking
at a very curvy lady. Our eyes
met and quickly turned away
again, my face feeling as red as
hers looked.
When we were leaving I
checked the door to the loo.
Quite clearly it said LADIES.
The following morning was fine
with only a few bits of small
cumulus breaking up the blue sky
and not a ripple on the harbour
water.
Two yachts with their
spinnakers up were just
making-way out into Loch Fyne.
Another didn’t even try and
motored past us with her crew
wearing the minimum of clothing,
ready for another day of sun
worshipping.
We decided to motor
out and see how much wind the
open loch was offering. With
the skipper at the helm, I
hoisted the main and then –
bare-footed, bare-legged and
bare-chested, went forward to
get the genoa hanked on and
ready.
The forecast had been
for south-westerlies force 3
possibly 4 later in the
afternoon. We thought that we
would head for Arran probably
Lamlash, motoring all the way if
there was lack of wind.
As we left Tarbert and
turned south I stared- - I
couldn’t believe it. The three
yachts that had left ahead of us
were heeled over so far that the
angle of dangle must have been
very uncomfortable. Bug-eyed, I
saw, instead of a pacific -Firth
of Clyde- snow-capped Himalayan
mountains on the horizon.
I informed the skipper
of my observations : “ Christ
Andrew- look at that bloody
lot!,”
In a surprisingly
short time the following things
happened: our destination had
changed northwards to Loch Gair,
the main sail had been reefed,
the stupid genoa had been
chucked down the forehatch and
the wee jib set. The
temperature had dropped
dramatically, precipitation was
within sight and chasing us.
Shorts disappeared. In their
place – submariners stockings,
wellies, fleecies, oillies – and
the skipper telling me that
either he must have eaten
something the night before, or
the Newcastle Brown had been
off. Nothing to do with the
quantity.
By the time we had
passed Ardrishaig conditions
were quite lively and made a big
lie of the forecast. There was
some improvement after rounding
Otter Spit but it was marginal
and then conditions steadily
deteriorated.
Bill Mills
