The wind shrieked through the shrouds as I struggled to make off the jib halyard on the cleat; the weather sheet, which I attached to the clew with a bowline, ran freely through the car while my companions adjusted the trim with the jib sheet until the leech tautened in the brisk force four.
Less than a week previously, that sentence might as well have been in Urdu for all the sense it would have made to me. But in five days on a Royal Yachting Association's competent crew course I was turned from a feeble landlubber who didn't know a rolling hitch from a clove hitch into a salty old sea dog, complete with calloused hands and a sunburnt nose.
The competent crew course is designed, as its name suggests, to turn you into a useful person to have onboard a yacht. No one in their right mind would leave you in charge of anything, but when the skipper says jump, you have some idea of how high. Four of us were living and learning on the solid, reliable, and unglamorous Marvin, a five-berth, 32ft yacht with a hull like reinforced concrete and all the style of a school bus. Perfect, in fact, for fools like myself who had never set foot on anything that could be affected by basic stuff such as wind and waves and currents. We would have to try pretty hard to sink this baby.
We set off from Southampton on the first evening against the backdrop of cranes and industrial chimneys with plumes of pollution silhouetted against a hot pink sunset. The Solent is not a pretty place - it is the busiest shipping channel in the world. There's no better place to learn what all those buoys and flags and lights mean - and no place where you'll need to know it more.
The first evening was more of a taster; the main point seemed to be to get to the pub before closing time. We sailed gently down the river, drinking red wine and eating the risotto our skipper, Andy, had whipped up for us on the tiny galley stove. The first practical thing we learned was handling the sails - flaking them neatly when they are not being used, changing them so that we can have a smaller sail for stormier conditions, hauling them up and tying them securely. I quickly broke a nail, my once soft and cared-for hands red from the cold and raw from the rope; my hair, tangled and windswept, had lost any suggestion of style. But I was slipping and cursing just like a proper sailor. Fabulous.
When it gets a bit rough, you have to wear a harness and clip yourself on to the boat for your own safety. We practised the man-overboard drill on a calm day, but frankly it seemed to me that the chances of fishing someone out of the water when it's rough (and after all, that's when you're likely to go over) are pretty slim.
We crossed the Solent to the Isle of Wight with a light wind, taking it in turns at the helm and the sheets - that's the ropes attached to the little sail at the front. Once we had learned to tack and gybe (the same thing, only one is when the wind is coming from the front, and the other when it is behind), it felt like we could really sail. A few practise runs and we were a well-oiled machine; "Ready about!" I would sing, and the others would get ready with the sheets. "Lee-ho!" and we swung around, one girl pulling the jib sail around to the other side, another releasing it, and there we were, sailing!
In control, changing direction with confidence, and using a whole new language. Our confidence burgeoned. We took it in turns at the helm and, as we got more practised, we tried to fine-tune all the angles to get as much speed as possible. The boat streaked along, leaning at a sharp angle with its edge dipping down into the foaming water.
Before hitting the bar, we usually had a task to perform: practising rowing the inflatable dinghy, learning a range of knots from a bowline to a double sheet bend, and going up in the bosun's chair. This hysterical procedure involves getting winched up the mast in a harness until you are so high the boat looks too small to catch you should you fall.
Our last day was what sailing is all about. It was a beautiful sunny day, with a few high clouds draped and feathered across a cornflower sky and a cheerful wind blowing hundreds of yachts around the Solent.
We were all moving about the boat with confidence now, and while one of us stood at the helm the others soaked up the perfect sailing weather with a cup of tea and a biscuit, watching blackheaded gulls and snowy egrets circle the waters, and admiring some of the magnificent boats around us.
There was a sense of a great boating community, made up of all kinds of sailors from potterers to racers, fishermen to cruisers, pros and amateurs, young and old. And in just a few days, we had become part of that world.
The practicals
Anna Rockall completed a five-day competent crew course with Southern Sailing (01489 575511) in Southampton, costing £395 and including meals, on-board accommodation, sleeping bag and waterproofs. The UK Sailing Academy (01983 294941) offers competent crew courses from £166 for a weekend to £663 for an eight days. Its website, www.uk-sail.org.uk has a list of sailing schools around the country.
The Royal Yachting Association training office (02380 627 450) can supply brochures with details of sailing schools around the country. Or look under the training section of the RYA website, on www.rya.org.uk.
Sunsail (0239 222222, www.sunsail.com) offers yacht and dinghy sailing courses on the Solent and on the Firth of Clyde. Its competent crew courses cost between £195 and £350 according to season.
Sailing talk
bend: tie or fasten.
bow: front end of a boat. stern: the back end.
clew: the lower aft corner of a sail, where the foot meets the leech.
gybe: to turn the boat so that the stern (back of the boat) crosses the wind, changing direction.
halyard: rope or wire used for hoisting sails.
helm: the tiller or wheel, and surrounding area.
jib: a foresail. On a cutter this is the forward most sail, as opposed to staysail located between the jib and the main.
leech: the aft edge of a triangular sail.
tack: to turn the boat in order that the wind exerts pressure on the opposite side of the sail.
trim: to adjust the angle of the sails to accord with the wind. Or the way a boat sits in the water.
