Note: Not guaranteed to come with supplemental materials (access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.)
Extend Your Rental at Any Time
Need to keep your rental past your due date? At any time before your due date you can extend or purchase your rental through your account.
Sorry, this item is currently unavailable.
From the author of "Driving Over Lemons" comes this humorous account of his stint as skipper for the summer, sailing a Cornish Crabber around the Greek islands. It was his dream job, and there was just one tiny problem--he hadn't ever sailed before. It's a book with a big heart and a great belly laugh.--"The Times."
Chris Stewart shot to fame with Driving Over Lemons in 1999. Funny, insightful and real, the book told the story of how he bought a peasant farm on the wrong side of the river, with its previous owner still a resident. It became an international bestseller, along with its sequels – A Parrot in the Pepper Tree, and The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society. In an earlier life, Chris was the original drummer in Genesis (he played on the first album), then joined a circus, learned how to shear sheep, went to China to write the Rough Guide, gained a pilot’s license in Los Angeles, and completed a course in French cooking.
Table of Contents
Teach Yourself Sailing
This Way, Then That
Sark By Starlight
The Isles of Greece
Where is Weare?
In Praise of a Bucket
Cutting Up Rough
Lost at Sea
The New World
Table of Contents provided by Ingram. All Rights Reserved.
Teach Yourself Sailing
It was Julie Miller who sent me to sea, one wet autumn afternoon in London’s Wandsworth Road. Now of course you haven’t a clue who Julie Miller is, and indeed why should you . . . but her relevance to this episode and subsequent adventures is that she had a great-aunt called Jane Joyce.
“Chris!” yelled Julie, who was more than a match for the thundering of London traffic. “What a fantastic coincidence. I’ve been longing to see you and there is something I particularly wanted to ask you . . . what was it now? Ah yes, how would you like a job looking after a yacht in the Greek Islands this summer?”
“I’d like that very much,” I replied, without so much as a thought. “As it happens I’m not too busy this summer.” Which was the long and the short of it, for at the tender age of twenty-nine my career as a sheep farmer had just hit the skids. The bank had refused any further loans to nurture the flock that my girlfriend, Ana, and I were tending on rented land in Sussex, and my “prospects” as my mother insisted on calling them, were not looking overly bright.
“Terrific,” said Julie. “That’s a very great relief. My great-aunt Jane has been on at me for weeks to find her a skipper, and I thought of you straightaway.”
Now this, it must be said, was a most peculiar thing for her to think. For I had never been on a boat before in my life, and I knew not the first thing about sailing. But I desperately wanted a job, so it struck me that it might be best to keep minor details like my complete and utter unsuitability for the job to myself.
clearly, the first thing to do was to bone up on boating, in order to conduct myself satisfactorily at the interview. So I bought Teach Yourself Sailing or some such guide and immersed myself in it. It was not, I thought, quite as gripping as a book on such an interesting subject ought to be, and I emerged from it with only the haziest notions of sailing and how it was done. If I had the pictures in front of me, I could tell the difference between a sloop (gaff-rigged or Bermuda), a schooner, a ketch, and a yawl; I had a very vague idea what beating and tacking and running were; I had learned the undesirability of jibing when running; and I could tell you more or less when to reef, or if things cut up really rough, to scandalize.
I did a little work on the vocabulary, too. I discovered that ropes were not actually ropes, but sheets, lines, halyards, warps, painters, stays, or ratlines. The toilet was not the dunny but the heads. Of course, the front wasn’t the front and the back wasn’t the back. . . . Then there was a fid and the bitts and take-alls, there were peaks, luffs, and clews; and if you didn’t feel too good, you could always heave to.
Friends and family were concerned about my cavalier attitude and horribly obvious ignorance. “What if you
tip the old bird into the drink?” they asked. “How would you live with yourself if you were to wreck the boat, or, worse still, drown the lot of them and yourself into the bargain?”
I pointed out the tautology, reassured them that things would turn out for the best, and dialed the number of
my patron-to-be. A pleasingly patrician American voice answered.
“But my dear, I have been simply longing for you to ring. Dear Julie has told me all about you and I simply cannot wait to meet you in the flesh, so to speak. However, things being as they are, I suppose I shall have to. So perhaps next Tuesday evening at eight o’clock would suit you?”
I returned my nose to the sailing book and tested myself one more time on vocabulary—full and by, jibing, reaching, tacking . . . goose wing, veering, backing. Then, got up like a dog’s dinner—