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A salt-encrusted anthology of a writer in love with the sea, in the manner of Tessa Duder's bestselling sailing collections.
The ideal gift for the sailor in the family, this book contains a selection of stories, and a novella inspired by a lifetime of sailing adventures and misadventures. The writer is a sailor whose love of the sea has brought him back time and time again, despite mishap, mayhem and the occasional life-threatening disaster.
A book for those with saltwater in their veins, this personal selection is the perfect book to take on board - or to read at home when you can't make it to the sea. In all, a collection of 23 autobiographical stories from Lindsay Wright's working life as a professional yachtsman, delivery skipper, charter skipper and shipmaster. When you feel the urge to go down to the sea again, make sure you take this book with you.
Lindsay Wright has been a professional yachtsman, delivery and charter skipper and shipmaster. He lives in New Plymouth and has written for New Zealand Listener, North & South, national and international boating publications.
the bay. An hour later we’d be clear of the coast, and the guests could experience the thrill of being out of sight of land for half an hour or so until the low-lying shore of Anguilla smudged the horizon ahead and grew larger until we skirted the edge of Shark Reef and sailed into the calm waters of Sandy Bay. Our guests snorkelled on the reef, lounged on the beach or the boat, and swam in the shallows until lunch was served on board, then relaxed as Gandalf reached sedately homewards, the
seal and walrus; indeed it is very fortunate that we did not succeed in harpooning one of the latter mighty amphibiae from the yacht’s boats, for my subsequent experience of the strength and ferocity of these animals leads me to believe that he would infallibly have pulled us all to the bottom of the sea.’ In doing so the walrus would have probably had the whole-hearted support of most 20th-century Western ecologists. The following year, 1859, Lamont stopped on his way north at Hammerfest, in
flowed, in English for our sakes, and in Norwegian. Tales of trappers, hunters, sealers, whalers and explorers, of walrus, polar bears and polar bureaucrats. Elkouba sat at anchor, her red hull blending with the dying rays of the midnight sun and the signal flags I had strung from the rigging barely lifting in the light breeze. I wandered away from the fire, a little drunk, and lay down on the tundra, propped on my elbows. For several minutes I just watched, and a feeling of great wellbeing
said, quoting Rogue Wave’s designer, Dick Newick, ‘and nobody can convince me that it’s more fun to go slow than it is to go fast.’ And he related some distances that he and Rogue Wave had covered in 24 hours. Phil pumped up the Primus and we had a coffee while I bombarded him with more questions. To my mind, the slim multihull didn’t have the internal volume to be a good cruising boat or the hardiness to withstand the hammering that long-term cruisers can be subjected to, but I was excited by
peasants obviously aren’t qualified to appreciate whisky, either,’ I thought to myself. ‘You must have to be born to it to appreciate that, too.’ We had our revenge, though. The owner’s cabin (he preferred ‘stateroom’) aft was awash. It had been watertight during the hosing-down the fire brigade had given it in Auckland, but a few weeks of being racked by the Southern Ocean had opened up cracks and fissures all over the place. By luck, I’d chosen the professional skipper’s cabin, which was the