Tag: adventure

The sun is beaming down on me on Delos as I sit with Alex and Brady on the back. I’m feeling very much at peace today, and relieved.

It’s a new day.

I look down at the thing that has just crunched beneath my feet and take a step back quickly.

“Bones…” I mutter in astonishment. The white skull beneath my foot stares back at me accusingly, the deep black holes where eyes once were sunk deeper into the sand beneath my footprint.

“It’s only seven thirty,” Alex said cheerfully. “We’ve got loads of time.”

Surrounded by music and dancing people in Luderitz, I wasn’t ready to go back to Delos right now. Brady had just returned from dropping off Lisa, Karin and Brian to the boat and was ready for a couple of drinks at the Cray Fish Festival.

We had to get up at 5am tomorrow morning to visit Luderitz’s ghost town- a settlement that had been created for the diamond miners and had become swallowed up in the desert. There was no way I was going to stay out late. I wanted to be fresh for tomorrow.

But maybe one more drink…

We all ordered more ciders, danced and made friends with some guys called John and Uncle.

Time ticked on and we still had plenty of it. Moving onwards to a club seemed like a good idea. Maybe the shots weren’t, kindly donated by a guy who felt rather generous with his own bottle of whiskey.

The dancing continues.

I’ve never come across anything like African music. I’ve never seen people dance with the entirety of their soul like the locals here. They dance with everything, their feet stamping out the rhythm of their heartbeats.

I joined in, laughing and having the time of my life, stomping out my own heartbeat into the floor.

We’re all at that warm fuzzy feeling stage- the place between tipsy and very tipsy. We’ve all got sloppy smiles on our faces and are two more drinks away from starting the inevitable, “I really love you, man!”

“Girls- we need a talk,” Brady says. “Do you want to go to the next place? I’m just saying- I’m happy with getting up after a couple of hours sleep, hungover. But are you ok with that?”

I’m in a haze of cider at that moment and the prospect of hangovers is far away. To my mind hangovers don’t exist right now. I am invincible. Unstoppable.

I’m SV Delos Crew- I laugh in the face of hangovers!

“I’m fine,” Alex says, then looking at me.

“Yeah, defo,” I chime in. “Life’s too short- let’s do it.”

But we have a problem. Coming out that night, we only took out a small amount of money, leaving our backpacks, wallets and phones back in Delos to avoid being pickpocketed. That money was now gone.

We stood from side to side, wondering what we should do, the idea of simply going home to bed and Delos never occurring to us.

I frowned, remembering something.

Reaching into my bra, I pull out a 100Rand note (£5/$7).

A grin breaks out across my face as I raise it to the light.

“Guys…!”

We stare at it as one, as though it was a holy relic sent from God himself.

Relief hits us and we celebrate at the chance of being able to have another drink. The moment is glorious, victorious, stupendous, and all because a bra can double up as a purse.

Thanks, boobs.

“But that’s all we have for the night,” I say slowly when we’ve eventually calmed down.

“That’s not going to be enough…” Alex points out.

We think and discuss for a minute, and then I see a room connected to the bar, the name of it painted boldly in big red letters.

Alex and Brady are continuing to try and figure out how we can make 100Rand last us a night, and I start grabbing their shoulders to get their attention.

“Guys- Guys!”

“What?”

But I’m staring at the room behind them and point up at the huge sign. They both turn as one, and stare at the word:

GAMBLING.

Their mouths drop open and we all join in a chorus of: “Oooooooo!”

When I’m never sure about what I need to do, I always think about what would make the better story. We’re all in control of writing our own destiny, after all.

Images of us putting everything we have on roulette flashes into my mind. There would be cheering, laughing, high fives and slaps on the back. I could imagine the moment happening in slow motion where we put everything on black, the tension and crossed fingers, the dancing on tiptoes as the ball falls on black-

But tonight it wasn’t to be.

After a discussion, we realise that we can’t take the risk and give the 100rand to our friend John to get another round of drinks in. They come and go and we’re skint once again, my imaginings of my glorious moment bursting with every bubble at the end of my bottle.

Still, going back to Delos doesn’t occur. We’ve stopped looking at the time and just know that we’re up for a good night. The next club is around the corner, and we’re a little bit tipsy at this point. Mr Brady is wearing his signature scarf and is “scarfing” everyone in sight.

Don’t know what scarfing is? Let me explain.

It is Mr Brady’s process of catching anyone in sight with his scarf when they least expect it, wrapping it around their torso, face or neck and then shouting:

“You’ve been scarfed!”

The locals find it confusing and Alex soon confiscates it from him. Walking up the next place to dance, we remember we don’t have money to get in.

“Don’t worry,” says Uncle. “I’ve got a friend.”

We get in for free after some persuasion on Uncle’s part and watch him as he buys at least fifteen shots of purple liquid.

I stare at them in horror, and there isn’t a shadow of a doubt that I am not going to be joining in. So, Alex and Brady stand at the bar, purple liquid shining under the lights as Uncle looks at them expectantly.

They both managed to chug a shot each, and we return downstairs to dance, the prospect of drinking more and vomiting not appealing to anyone.

My flipflop keeps breaking and I pull both off after being fed up of continually fixing it. I wince several times and know I have stepped on glass. I hobble, wipe my feet and continue to jump up and down. The night twists and turns and we dance together on a near empty dancefloor, cackling and trying to wrestle Brady’s scarf from him.

The scarfing is getting out of hand.

But Brady is skipping around, laughing and joyful as a five year old and we soon give up trying to stop him from accidentally strangling people.

But the night had to end at some point.

We eventually start heading back to Delos, our friend Adir following us to make sure we get home safe. He mentions a party however and Alex, Brady and I start to bicker about what we should do.

“We should go back,” Alex points out, and I know she’s right. But my brain is still in dance mode and I could happily go into another club. I’m happy to do whatever and say so.

“I’m not going back,” Brady announces.

“Ok, well, I am,” Alex says after a while of us continuing to fail to see the sense in all heading back together.

As she walked off around the corner, Brady and I proceed to squabble about what we should do.

Adir shakes his head at us. “You guys are crazy.”

Unable to refute his claim, we continued to debate our choices.

“You decide what we should do,” Brady says, holding up his hands in surrender. “You’re in charge.”

I express my thoughts about returning to the boat, and somehow we get back onto discussing the party. Alex had gone and we were now talking about needing to swim back to Delos through the freezing waters of Luderitz.

“But I want to go to the party,” Brady argues.

I roll my eyes. “But you just said I was in charge!”

“You are.”

“Eh?”

Somehow, we started to see sense, walked around the corner and saw that Miss California, our wonderful Alex Blue was still there, waiting for us. I thanked my lucky stars and instructed Mr Brady that we would all be going home together. I was too afraid to check the time, knowing that we only had a few hours of sleep left.

Trying to keep quiet as we boarded Delos and failing miserably, we filled the air with the following.

“Shhh!”

“Don’t tell me to shush!”

“Just be quiet!”

“You be quiet!”

“Shhh!”

After attempting to make grilled cheese on toast, getting told off by Brian for being noisy (we blame Mr Brady), we all headed to bed for the two hours sleep before we had to get up.

The next morning, I do not want to wake. I glance over at the comatose Mr Brady and know that he is not going to get up on his own.

I rub his shoulder and say his name, only for him to roll over and mutter something in another language and fall straight back to sleep.

“Brady… Brady! Mate, you have got to get up!”

It takes three attempts to wake him as we all desperately try to get ready as quickly as possible, murmuring apologies to Brian and cringing at the mess we have left in the kitchen.

I snooze in the van on the way there as the desert whizzes past, wondering whether I could find a quiet corner in the sand and sleep for a while.

We eventually arrive at the Ghost Town, the sun still not up as we hop out and gawk at the scene. A settlement of houses were left empty, their windows and open doors yawning wide in a silent plea for someone to save them. Sand covered everything, in a flood of pale gold.

“Oh my God…” someone breathes. Maybe it was me. All I know is that we are instantly overwhelmed by the view and we don’t even know which building to start in.

We scatter, diving into the different houses that once had families and friends inside, the paintwork from nearly 100 years ago cracked and flaking onto floorboards hidden in sand. Some rooms were halfway full of the desert, forcing you to crawl across the sand inside and be able to touch the ceiling.

Hooks hung on the wall, happily waiting to take people’s coats and hats, longingly waiting for their previous owners.

There was a sadness about this place. Everything was so beautiful and lovingly made, now lost and dying under the African sun. It was like a slow burial, the desert and strangers being the only company these houses now had.

We were the only ones there. The sun had started to rise and we huddled together as we watched. The sky exploded in pinks, oranges and yellows as it chased away the coolness of the sand, the sun stretching slowly up in the sky as our daily companion.

“Hello again,” I murmured, smiling.

We continued to explore, the heat rising as we all attempted to drink as much water as possible- Brady, Alex and I especially.

Tiny footprints of birds and mice trailed across the untouched sand inside the houses, remnants of life passing through. Karin chased across the trails excitedly, pointing her camera in the hope of finding some tiny animals.

I wondered what the Ghost Town would have looked like a hundred years ago. About the people who had been here. About when the paint was bright, the floorboards were shining and people were dancing. We ran through the rooms like ghosts, tripping over, jumping and cartwheeling as we explored in Delos style, filling the empty rooms with our whoops and cheers.

There was a freedom in exploring a place such as that with no one else there. We were wild. We were free. We span and jumped and twisted and turned, laughing and joking, the walls of the building reverberating with our laughter.

It was an incredible exploration.

Soon people started to visit the Ghost Town, our solitude destroyed as people turned up in tour buses and shiny cars. We looked like a right bunch walking through the main hall barefoot, bandannas wrapped around our heads as we went to join the tour of the Ghost Town.

By this point we had been there for four hours.

People stared at us as we listened to our tour guide, slugging back water and attempting to silently nibble on a biscuit. We stuck out like a sore thumb.

We were taken around the theatre room, the champagne bar, the bowling room and visited a house that was kept in its original order. It looked peaceful and a place that I wouldn’t mind staying in for a few days.

But stepping outside again and staring at the barren landscape of sand and sun, I knew I could never live here for long.

The tour guide spoke of the miners being put in quarantine for two weeks before they left the settlement, given two year contracts to stay constantly on site. We listened as they were made to drink castor oil to flush out any diamonds they may have ingested, wincing when we heard of the miners that cut their skin to hide diamonds inside, waiting for their flesh to heal over.

It sounded absolutely crazy to hear the lengths that people would go to, but I couldn’t help but think, “Come on, man- just give them a couple of diamonds.”

The past inhabitants had left due to there being bigger diamonds somewhere else. I wondered why a use hadn’t been found for this settlement but didn’t ask. I was exhausted, sunburnt, dehydrated and longing for a nap, not to mention utterly overwhelmed by the sights and experiences we had had together as a group.

“Yet another amazing day, family,” Brian said as we jumped back into our little van, Brady, Alex and I finally forgiven for our drunken indiscretions.

I smiled and sighed, my eyes closing as my brain started to shut down and think of cheese and sleep.

“It definitely was, Brian,” I mumble, shifting into a more comfortable position. “And it always is.”

It’s cold, it’s dark and the blanket I’ve wrapped around my legs keeps slipping off in some way or other. I’m trying to keep my eyes open whilst making sure I’m checking radar and making sure we stay on course.

I clench my jaw as I stand, the blanket falling to my feet, heat lost and toes freezing as I check the horizon. There’s always that chance that there could be an obstacle out there that won’t show up on radar. The wind whips the hood back from my face and I hurriedly wrap my scarf tighter around my neck. I see nothing but the Milky Way stretching across the black depths of the sky.

I retreat back to my chair before the wheel, my eyes glued on the wind gauge, trying to take it all in, absorb it- process it.

I find myself suddenly responsible for the lives of five people- and their home.

Four days earlier…

We’re up early. It’s a hot day in South Africa and there’s an excitement brimming in me as soon as I wake.

We’re leaving Cape Town.

Alex and I rush off to enjoy a nice long hot shower early in the morning- we don’t know when we’re going to have another one again and want to take advantage. Thoroughly scrubbed, Brady, Alex and I rush off into the Waterfront to exchange our rand into Namibian Dollars. I don’t know why but we have no luck and spend a fruitless hour being refused from banks and currency exchange booths.

“I feel like I’ve wasted an hour,” I mumbled as we head back.

“We had a killer breakfast though,” Alex says and I nod, happy to go a morning without porridge for once. I’m trying my best to stop myself from saying anything negative. It’s so easy to complain about the little things and although I was annoyed that it couldn’t just be a simple procedure, I knew that being pissed off with the situation wasn’t going to change anything. Alex and Brady are good with pulling me up on this. I’m often negative about myself and that’s a habit I’m definitely learning to snap out of.

“Every time you say something mean about yourself, you have to do ten press ups!” Alex announced one evening.

The threat of that was enough to keep my mouth shut.

We returned to the boat to find Lisa Blair there herself with friends, ready to see us off. I was astounded and so happy to see her there by the gates, her curly hair bobbing around her face as she grinned and chatted to our new buddies.

“There you are!” she exclaimed in her Aussie accent, her smile widening even more. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

Don’t know who Lisa Blair is? Let me explain. She’s a lass who decided to make a stand against climate change, bought a boat, named it Climate Action Now and decided to sail around the world in a mission to raise awareness. She sailed for 81 days before her mast broke in a storm and was forced to come to Cape Town to hole up and repair her beloved boat.

That’s where we came in, keen for her arrival and went speeding off in Maggie, armed with beers and cameras, keen to meet the infamous Lisa Blair.

Fast becoming friends after a few parties, meals and some drunken ramblings, I know we were all so pleased to see her and our new friends to see us off.

Then, everything just happened so fast.

We were casting off, pulling up the fenders and waving from the bow.

This is happening, I thought as my hand tightly gripped the rigging. This is actually happening. I had waited for this so long, had thought about it for so long. Had never thought this was ever possible. This time last year I had just moved into my old housemate’s place, sitting down and watching my first SV Delos episode. If you were to tell me that I would be here, sitting and staring up at the sails, about to head on my very own adventure with the SV Delos Crew- that I would be part of the SV Delos Crew, I would have rolled my eyes, laughed and made you a cup of tea.

But here I was, sailing off into the distance towards Luderitz with Table Mountain becoming smaller and smaller behind me. I felt as though I had been in Cape Town so long that it had become part of me. There was a routine. There was a familiarity. It had become a home.

But I had become restless for the adventure again and I knew that my home wasn’t about where I was- it was who I was with. I was home with these people. My crew.

The crew, (knowing how to sail already) communicated with each other about sails, motoring, wind direction and other words I didn’t really understand. I knew we were going forwards, and that was about it. Every time we have gone out for a practice sail, I have made sure I’ve watched what everyone is doing and ask questions on anything I don’t understand.

I was to learn very quickly.

My biggest fear was that I was going to become seasick. But none of it came. I’d like to think I have a strong stomach- I’m British after all, and I was pleased when no shameful episodes of throwing up over the side came into play. There’s only so much I can live down. But I found my body anticipating the movement of Delos, waiting for the rise and the fall of the boat, my body leaning back and forth to the motion. It’s actually kind of fun.

Except when you’re in bed.

I would wake up in the morning and sleepily ask, “How did you all sleep?” to hear a chorus of “great, thanks!” But I have had to stuff pillows around my body to stop myself from rolling left to right. I’ve found that’s the worst motion. If it’s a roll from bow to stern, then I’m rocked to sleep like a baby. Left to right, my body is rolling around like a sausage. Trapping myself with pillows help- and I’m ready to fall into a world of sweet dreams.

But then there’s Mr Brady.

Mr Brady and I share his cabin, a bunk on either side, separated by “privacy curtains” if we so choose. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t. It usually depends how exhausted and how much rum we’ve drank.

For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of sharing a cabin with Mr Brady and fantasise of doing so- I assure you- it’s not the pleasure palace you think it’s going to be.

And although we have a peaceful co-existence, there are times when the moon is high and the stars are shining when the peacefulness is disrupted.

Lying in bed, swamped in pillows and blankets, I stare at the ceiling, blinking. Again. And again.

I cannot sleep. Exhaustion is clawing in my bones and I know I have my watch coming on in a few hours.

The reason?

I roll to my side and stare at Brady’s face. His mouth is half open, his head tilted upwards as a pug like growl comes from his throat, mixed with unexpected bursts of laughter and talking in his sleep.

I stare at him as he says loudly in his sleep, “Do I look good?” before falling back into snoring. Resigned, I grab my earplugs and try and block it all out.

As the nights passed on, his snoring became one of the other noises of Delos that became ingrained into the Girl Crew’s core. Trapped in the center of Delos between the sound of Brady and Brian, their nasal roars eventually melded into the sounds of the crashing of waves. Our eardrums evolved to block it out to survive.

But now it’s my watch. My alarm goes off and I scramble to switch it off before it wakes Mr Brady. Which is nigh on impossible. It’s quite good sharing a room with someone who’s had experience sleeping through the worst and is genuinely not bothered.

A note about Mr Brady for you all- I have never met someone who is grossed out so little by anything. He doesn’t care about nudity, body hair, smells, poop, noises or people being all round disgusting. It’s made me and the girls feel very much as home because we feel as though we can completely be ourselves. It doesn’t matter who last pooped, who accidentally just farted or in Alex’s case- belched loud enough to make mountains crumble. It doesn’t matter if the girls haven’t been able to shave their legs or wash for a week. No one on the boat cares- least of all him.

So I gather my things, still trying to be quiet out of politeness and shuffle on deck. Karin’s waiting for me and Lisa comes down so she can sleep.

Brady, Brian and Karin are sharing three hour watches with us throughout the night until we get more confident with the workings of Delos. I’m looking forward to being capable of doing night watches alone so they can get some sleep, but I know I’ve still got much to learn.

I feel as the days have passed, I’m learning more and more about the workings of a boat. Brady gives me a sailing question of the day, whether it’s about tacking, jibing, or what the difference between true and apparent wind is. I try my best to answer as well as I can- sometimes I’m afraid of getting the answer wrong and hesitate to speak my mind, needing to retreat back to the books and read the page over and over until it’s sank in. And sometimes it doesn’t. I tend to need to experience an action to truly understand it, have someone to explain it to me and for me to explain it back. Maybe I put too much pressure on myself, but I have a constant fear of being the weak link on the boat.

I must keep up.

So here I am, sitting wrapped in blankets, surrounded by the stars. I think back to the night where we had our first anchorage from Cape Town in Saldana Bay. Maggie had taken us to shore for us to enjoy a beer in yacht club. We went from not being allowed a drink because we weren’t members to several rounds of double rums, talking to the locals and singing songs on the guitar.

I smile in my seat, thinking about how each day I have spent on Delos, I have had another amazing experience to be grateful for.

Another gust of wind comes and I wrap my head with my scarf, my hand reaching forward to check the radar again.

This is why night watch is so important. This is why it has to be taken seriously.

It’s my responsibility to learn as much as I can in order not to just become a sailor- it’s not about that. It’s about being able to look after the people on this boat. My family.

I lean back before the wheel, waves lapping against the ribs of Delos as I breathe in deeply, thinking once again how grateful I am to be here.

I am here.

Find more about SV Delos here! www.svdelos.com

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Continued from The Delos Diaries Part 4…

Whoa. What a week so far. We’ve done so much that my brain actually hurts.

Night is descending upon Delos and I am sitting here surrounded by the Delos Crew. Brady is cooking, everyone is freshly showered and I am recovering from an epic hangover.

It’s been a strange few days.

Four days ago I received some bad news.

Maybe I should just go back to that day.

I felt good, positive and happy. I had porridge in my belly and two cups of tea already down the hatch. I had a long list of goals I wanted to complete and good focus.

I check my phone to find a message from my friend, Tommy.

Now none of you know my friend Tommy, or maybe some of you do. Tommy and I have been friends since I was fifteen years old- so, thirteen years in total. He’s been there for me from the beginning. Words seem to fail me when I try and describe what this human means to me. He has been there for me through countless situations when I needed someone. He’s pushed me home in a trolley when I couldn’t walk, he’s dragged me out of bed when I refused to get up, he’s fed me when I didn’t want to eat and placed a rum in my hand when I was sitting outside, numb and dumbstruck by the event that changed things for me back in England.

I remember sitting outside at my housemate Steve’s house. It was Spring, the sun was beaming and I was still adapting to my surroundings.

He pressed a cold glass into my hand and I looked down at it, seeing the swirling black liquid and smiled.

“Everything is going to be alright, lass,” he said, taking a seat opposite me. “It may not feel like it now. But it will.”

I nodded back, trusting him, believing him.

And he was right.

Everything became good again.

Fast forward a year and I am staring at my phone seeing his message.

“Give me a call please mate.”

I know he doesn’t ask for me to call him unless it’s important.

So I do so, ideas running in my head. My worst fear is that something has happened to him.

But it’s not him that something bad has happened to.

It’s someone else.

Another friend.

I hear him speak and in my heart I knew what hurt me the most was the sound in his voice and knowing I wasn’t there with him.

I broke down immediately and I was incredibly grateful for Alex the newest member of the crew. She stood up straight away and gave me a hug.

The next few hours were difficult. I was so acutely aware of affecting the others with my sadness that I didn’t know what to do. I never like to tell people if I’m feeling down as I don’t like to affect other people with my problems. I don’t want people to ever be brought down by my energy. I want to be able to make people feel good.

But on Delos that isn’t the way. We live so close together that we have to share anything. Honesty is so important here. If one of us hurts, we all hurt. We all pitch in to bring that person back up. It just so happened to be my turn.

So I got hugs, cuddles and chats on the docks until the weight of the pain was lifted from my shoulders. I was honest in the days that followed. I spoke about my friend Jack who had passed, told the crew when I needed a hug, and when I felt low. I spoke about my buddy Tommy, shared stories and played his songs on Delos.

It helped so much, to hear my mate’s voice fill the boat when all I wanted to do was give him a hug and tell him exactly what he told me.

“It’ll be all right. It may not seem it now but it will be.”

And the beauty of a tragedy is that it brings people together. The boys at home are spending time together, going on adventures and remembering Jack. Tommy is with good people and they can all thrive off each other’s energy, bring each other up when they are falling.

And me?

Jack passing has made me feel even closer to the Delos Crew. We are all such a varied bunch on here with our own individual personalities and unique strengths. We all bring something different to our new family but one thing is the same.

We all care deeply for one another.

Jack was such a special spirit that his passing has made this adventure even more paramount. This is it. This really is the path I’m on. I wake up every morning so grateful that I’m here. Because life is so fickle. It can end any moment. I really need to seize each day and stop worrying about tomorrow. I need to be present and in the now.

I had a phone call conversation with my dad a few days ago and he said:

“What is your business plan after sailing?”

I blinked in surprise. I had always been used to thinking several steps ahead. But it was that that made me unhappy. I had finally managed to start appreciating being where I was each day that to think of the future frightened me. I knew my path would be evident eventually. I didn’t want to force my path.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, the phone hot against my cheek. “I don’t have one. I’m just trying to be in the now to be honest…”

This month has given me a sense of clarity that I have been looking for in a very long time. I’ve learned more about myself than I thought I would and I know there is still a road ahead. We leave for Namibia next week and I’m so excited to learn how to sail. To be on the ocean.

There will be no internet, no checking emails or social media. We will simply be six people living alongside each other. The outside world will be cut off. And I’m looking forward to that.

I’m looking forward to figuring out more about myself and the people around me. I’m looking forward to the challenges ahead and finding some sense of goodness and peace.

And the best part?

I get to do it as part of the Delos family.

It’s been another busy day at SV Delos.

We’ve been busy packing away the late night food delivery by our good friend Ian and trying to figure out where to put everything.

I have a well-deserved rum at my side and Brian is busy chuckling away at his computer screen. Lisa the Austrian has put on some super chill tunes, Karin is already fast asleep and Brady is doing God knows what in his love nest.

The boys have been working hard to work out how to prepare for the new generator on the boat and the girls have been sweating below deck, vacuum packing rice, pasta, porridge and a seemingly hundred bags of spices.

I avoided a near disaster today.

But let me start at the beginning.

Two days ago, Brian and Karin’s toilet became blocked.

Let me set the scene. There are two toilets on Delos. One is by Karin and Brian’s bedroom, separated by Lisa’s “love tunnel” bed, which then leads to the kitchen and lounge. Another toilet is by the kitchen and lounge and beyond that is Mr Brady’s love nest/sex den/red room of pain.

So, you either have a choice of pooping between two (usually) empty bedrooms or between Mr Brady’s room and the lounge where everyone sleeps. Now, Mr Brady is usually in his room anyway working and there’s always someone sitting at the table, so the safest choice for uttermost privacy is Brian and Karin’s bathroom.

It just so happened that one day the toilet got blocked and Brian was forced to investigate.

I wrinkled my nose as I walk towards him on the docks, inspecting Brian hunched over with a teeny tiny motor, pocking at it and inspecting it with a cloth in hand. He’s wearing his usual “I’m working” green oil stained Delos t shirt and green sunglasses, his fingertips stained with the unthinkable as he starts pulling hair from the mini motor.

I look up to see Lisa the Austrian pointing a camera at me.

“So Miss England has blocked the toilet,” Brian is saying, and I can hear the sneaky grin on his face.

“What?” I protest. “That wasn’t me!”

“It’s black hair, Elizabeth,” Brian argues, pulling more hair from the mechanical part to illustrate his point.

“You’ve got black hair! And it’s short hair coming out of that thing!”

“Nah, the motor has chopped it up- pretty sure it’s yours!”

“How do you feel about this, Miss England?” Lisa asks, her accent lilting up and down in a mesmerising fashion (I always love hearing her talk).

“I don’t appreciate these accusations!” I snort, snapping back to reality, determined to not have the blame. “It must be Brian or Brady’s man-scaping habits.”

Brian shrugs suddenly. “I wouldn’t put it past Brady.”

I raise an eyebrow as I haughtily step onto Delos. “As if I’d be stupid enough to block the toilet, Briiiiian.”

Fast forward to today.

We’ve all been working super hard and the arrival of Bryn, our buddy, heralds the time for a well-deserved break and a bite to eat down at the Waterfront near the docks.

“You girls want to get something to eat?” Brian shouts to us below deck.

We stop what we’re doing instantly, scrambling for our backpacks and to throw something more appropriate than just a sports bra and shorts.

I jump into Brady’s bathroom and decide that using a facewipe is quicker than washing my face.

“Come on, England!” I can hear Brian shouting.

“I’m coming!” I yell, trying to pee, spray deodorant and refresh my face at the same time. I’m hungry and all thought leaves my mind. I throw the facewipe down the toilet and press “flush.”

Uh Oh.

The flush splutters slightly, and I think nothing of it. It’s Brady’s toilet after all. He’s been ill recently and I’m sure the place has already witnessed some horrors. I skip off the boat, my body relaxing beneath the glare of the African sun and fall into step next to Lisa.

Uh Oh.

The facewipe.

I turn to Lisa. “Mate…”

“Yes?”

“I’ve done something bad…”

I tell her and her expression falls. “Ooooh, that’s baaad,” she says, genuine concern turning her petite face. “That’s not good.”

I know it’s a big deal if Lisa says it’s a big deal.

I have a moment of pure dread. I do not want to be the person who blocks up a toilet and has to get someone elbow deep in shite to fix the problem I’ve caused. This is made worse by the fact that Brian just had to fix his loo and the fact that I got a teased that it was my fault.

Now it really was.

Now I’m embarrassed. No- I’m mortified. I wish I can go back and throw that god damn wipe in the bin. Sounds like a small deal? I’m sure it is. But if there’s ever a scenario where you have to get your mate to deal with poo then I can assure you it’s never a good one.

I’m English. I’m from a land where manners are everything. Getting your mate’s hands covered in shite isn’t the way to build relationships.

Debatably.

I tell the crew and they then have a theory of how they can punish me so I never do it again.

“Ok,” Brian says, his beard stained with mayonnaise from his Burrito. “You have a choice. You can A- not go to the toilet for an entire day, B- forgo tea, or C-“ His face lights up only in the way when someone believes they have found a glorious conclusion, “can’t speak for 24 hours.”

I frown at him, wondering at the spark in his eye. I narrow my gaze, inspecting everyone’s mirth at my fateful choice. There is no choice. Only one.

 “The tea,” I say solemnly.

It was a tough decision- but not pooping or speaking is far worse. Plus- no one said anything about coffee, right?

We return to the boat, continue with our chores and I insist I will help with the toilet.

“Oh don’t worry, mate,” Mr Brady assures me. “You’ll be helping.”

He then calls me into the toilet and I can feel a wave of English embarrassment hit me.

Oh Gawwwwwwwwwwd, my mind is screaming, watching him pick up a huge plunger and shove it into the toilet bowl.

No, no, no, no no!

He wiggles it and starts pumping it up and down, his body bobbing up and down comically with the motion.

My pride is on the edge and I’m waiting for his verdict. Do we have to open the toilet and how much of Brady’s poop am I going to get on my hands?

The answer?

None.

“Looks all good mate,” he says, testing out the flush.

To my joy, the water is spinning below and there’s no flood of poop.

I go back on deck for a mini break and sigh with relief, my pride somehow still intact by a thread. I tell Brian that all is well.

“Does that mean we can lift the tea ban?” I tentatively ask.

He nods in that slow and calm way of his. “I’m sure because of the circumstances we can lift it this one time.”

I nod and suddenly can enjoy the sun again, glad no one has had poop on their hands because of me.

That would have been a “shit” situation.

Har Har.