Level 1

Me looking down the 29m mast in Cowes on the Isle of Weight.

Travelling to Gosport for the first time was oddly exciting, in the way that arriving somewhere you’ve only ever seen on a weather map tends to be. I flew with Ryanair, which is less like a plane and more like a flying bus—no frills, no charm, but impressively efficient if your main goal is to arrive somewhere cheaply and in one piece.

The flight landed on time at Stansted, which felt like a small miracle considering the boarding process had all the grace of cattle herding, but somehow without the mutual respect.

Once in Gosport, we met our training skipper, Jim, and the first mate, Gavin—two people who gave off the relaxed air of men who’d seen worse. They welcomed us aboard and we began the slightly awkward process of assigning bunks and pretending we didn’t already regret how little personal space there was.

Over the week, we gradually learned how the boat worked—where things were stored, what not to touch, and how not to fall overboard. There was a lot of safety training and a whole new language to absorb: halyards, cleats, winches, and other words that sound vaguely medical until you realize they’re all just things that can cause bruising.

Jim and Gavin were calm, knowledgeable, and endlessly patient, even when we confused bow with stern or tried to furl something that should’ve been hoisted. Slowly, the boat started to feel less like a foreign object and more like a slightly uncomfortable second home.