In which Steve Crook recalls the inevitable degeneration of a couple’s weekend refresher course  

It started out much like any other teaching assignment. A married couple wanted to spend a May weekend brushing up their sailing skills before their Mediterranean holiday that Summer.
“We want to start early and finish late,” they asserted, “and we want to eat ashore in Cowes on Saturday night. We don’t mind where, so there’s no need to book.”
I know that you’re way ahead of me. But in my defence it was May and they didn’t mind where.
Anyone who has ever
accepted the challenge of teaching a married couple anything will recognise that it frequently brings with it a certain characteristic.
That characteristic is an absolute defiance on the part of either partner when it comes to receiving the slightest scintilla of advice, however well intended or valid, from the other. So it was with ‘my’ couple.
As the light began to fade it doesn’t really matter what it was that caused one partner finally to howl “I’ve had enough” but the net result was that one spouse was left doggedly holding the wheel whilst the other spouse ended up sobbing below. “She’ll be fine,” was the unsympathetic response from the helm.
The long day was sliding inexorably into becoming a longer evening.
So it was that at around half past eight our now joyless yacht entered Cowes roads in the gloom. It was just possible to make out the unexpectedly dense forests of masts packed into the marinas.
There wasn’t a berth for us. Eventually we did find a space on the non-walk-ashore pontoons opposite the pub upriver. We completed the line of yachts that were now rafted out three abreast.
Shorelines were made fast in frosty silence.
In fairness to the water taxi he was very busy and he did ferry us across the river as soon as he could.
However it was well past nine o’clock by the time we crossed the threshold of the inn that promised the warmth and food we craved and that just might save the day.
Those of you who are familiar with the establishment will not be surprised to learn that the only tables not being danced on had ‘Reserved’ signs on them.
Perhaps it was the sight of my clients’ impressions of bulldogs chewing half a wasp each, or perhaps it was the look of desperation in my eyes as I asked him how long we might have to wait for a table.
Whatever the reason, he took pity on me and to this day I thank him for it: “How many of you, three? Why don’t you take that one over there in the corner?” he grinned as he removed the sign.
I never heard how the holiday went.