Sailing and Me

I was sent a lot of gorgeous photos of kiddies sailing in Fiji ...

 This, Lady R, is a P-class.

... and again, for the first time in many decades, heard that blast-from-the-past word "P-class".

In all my travels, I have never heard anyone who was NOT from Fiji refer to "kiddie's first yacht" as P-classes but I have never called them anything else.

However I am always given blank stares when I do. What does the rest of the world call little kiddies yachts?

Anyway, I saw these photos and, although very pretty and all that ...

 ... I thrust them away from me as quickly as possible.

 And this is the photo that chilled me to the bone and had me shuddering:

 The same shape, colour and size

as "Vuka".

Oh man, I hated my P-class. Like hated it with a deep and desperate passion. Mine was called "Vuka", meaning "The Flyer" but the name was painted on upside-down because I spent so much of my time capsized.

We used to race our P-classes every Saturday morning in Suva Harbour in a big competition ... 

 Still happening in Suva, although these photos 

are taken in Savusavu Bay.

... and all the highly competitive Murphy kids aced these P-class races, winning awards and trophies and forever up there on the podium ... but not me.  Never me. And I didn't even try.

All my siblings can, to this day, name each of the buoys we were supposed to sail to and around, all with names like ... nope, I can only remember "Fumigation", the name of the very first buoy and the one I was determined to never ever go near.

I could rig up Vuka without problems, single-handedly and crying all the while, and sail it alone out of the RSYC breakwater, by this time almost hysterical ... but the very moment I got around the breakwater and hit the choppy water that was me done.  I'd capsize the sodding thing, climb atop it and scream hysterically until the duty boat came to get me and tow Vuka back to shore.

 The Savusavu duty boat!

Ah, I was definitely the Shame of the Murphys and everyone was very cruel to me about it, but each week it was the same:  rig-up, sail out, capsize, scream, get back, unrig, stow, and then free I'd go out to watch the rest of the race at the Point with my mum and all the other mothers.

And when I'd join them, my mum would always say "I'm so ashamed of you.  Why don't you at least TRY."

But I couldn't try because I was just so afraid. Not of sailing itself which was easy but of sailing over dark water.

But what was it about that dark water that made me so afraid? Seeing these photos and having all this come back, I sat up late last night recalling it all and that's when I realised what had caused it:  those sodding Korean fishing boats and their hideous cargo.

 Suva Harbour, 

with the Korean fishing boats.

Photo stolen from Jon.

Johnson's photo of Korean fishing boats.

Given my current stance on shark-finning, I'd like to say it was those thousands of shark-fins drying on those dozens of lines above the decks that broke my heart and had me weeping hysterical tears, but that wouldn't be true.

I couldn't explain it back then - and I wonder if I could have if it would have made a difference - but my dark and nameless fear came from the fact that the first buoy was right next to those Korean boats so the moment I'd come around the breakwater I'd see them and instantly I'd be determined to capsize as soon as possible so NOT to reach "Fumigation" so that I wouldn't be anywhere near them.

And the real reason?  Well, I now realise that those shark-fins drying in the sun reminded me that the dark ocean was full of thousands of sharks and that if I capsized out there undoubtedly a huge shark would immediately arrive to bite off my legs. And although under normal circumstances even as a tiny child I was very good at talking myself into putting fear aside, but those fins - so many thousands of fins - would get into my face and I couldn't escape the terrifying images in my head.

So that was it for me.  Avoiding "Fumigation" became my priority every week ... until mum decided I was a useless little pillock and Vuka was given to Molly instead.  Yayyyy! The torture was over.

The worst days of my life!

But there's something else about seeing these photos: they remind me how I really do need to get over myself. I mean, look at those wonderful shots and imagine it for yourself:  what sort of Ridiculously Spoilt Brat would dare to class this as unspeakable horror and boldly claim them as "The Very Worst Experience of My Young Life."?