Sailing as at least the illusion of escape

I smashed back the curtains and sunshine poured into my flat. I opened the Trellidor and strode onto my balcony. Birdsong greeted me from the glade of trees that shades my complex. A neighbour’s cat looked up from a morning hunt in a citronella bush, now blooming pink flowers with at onset of spring.

Snatches of an animated, but loving conversation in Kaaps floated across the electric fence from our neighbouring complex. It was 9am on a public holiday and the Friday lay spread out before me like a large neighbourhood park with lots of good walking trails.

I wandered back inside to start defrosting some bacon for breakfast. I would not be emigrating today.

Or ever, if I’m honest with myself.

Like a middle-aged lady once told me at a body-corporate meeting about her prospects of having a child, “I’m past the time”.

No. I’m here in South Africa for the duration.

But I would be lying if I denied that there are times when you wish you had a little escape hatch; a Plan B.

I’m a bit German, so I suppose I could investigate that aspect of my heritage. But frankly, as someone who almost had a stress embolism from renewing his driver’s licence during the pandemic, I don’t think I’m really made for the complexities of emigration.

Still, it would be nice to think, “Oh well, if they burn everything down during the next uprising, I can always go sailing.”

Going sailing is a fairly common solution for certain South Africans looking to express their sovereign freedom, and perhaps concerned about our fraying social fabric.

Driving around the suburbs of coastal towns, you can sometimes spot the hull of a half-built yacht poking over the wall of a home. It might be the owner’s maritime insurance policy, his dream of freedom, and perhaps escape, being readied for deployment to the harbour once he or she finally finishes upholstering the cabin and perhaps received a retrenchment package.

At harbours around our same country, you might encounter men (often men) in the yacht-club bars, who are studying courses at the sailing school, or even “doing my skippers ticket”. These people are essentially gaining their passport to the world, accessing an opportunity to travel the planet unencumbered by borders and governments.

Of course, they do so at great personal risk upon the roiling oceans of the world. Hence the need for some skills. But many of them achieve their qualification, and they join a global network of skippers, sailors, chefs and au pairs – crossing the Atlantic; sailing the Carib; dropping off a boat in Greece!

It does sound attractive, even if you do risk being cancelled by a serious storm off the Azores at some point.

Thanks to modern technology, many of these icons of maritime self-determination run video blogs on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok. These sailing accounts allow you to vicariously sail the Mediterranean, follow the coast of East Africa, or go island-hopping through Micronesia.

This is exactly what I have been doing since my good friend Martin bravely freed himself from his local commitments, purchased a boat, and went sailing. He’s currently in France, where a failure to dredge the inland canals adequately, has his boat somewhat stranded.

But he has already crossed the Bay of Biscay, entered the Strait of Messina, been attacked by a pod of Orcas and grown an impressive beard. So I am hooked.

I have indeed found sailing a pleasant escape from the challenges of life in Africa, but I prefer to do it remotely, via social media.

Virtual sailing will remain my outlet for now. It’s exciting, safe, and Martin’s beard – and the developing depth of his suntan – are fascinating subplots. Also it’s becoming summer so it’s nice here in Johannesburg. The Knysna Loeries are back, I’m blessed with a job, and I’ve just put the bacon on.

I smashed back the curtains and sunshine poured into my flat. I opened the Trellidor and strode onto my balcony. Birdsong greeted me from the glade of trees that shades my complex. A neighbour’s cat looked up from a morning hunt in a citronella bush, now blooming pink flowers with at onset of spring.

Snatches of an animated, but loving conversation in Kaaps floated across the electric fence from our neighbouring complex. It was 9am on a public holiday and the Friday lay spread out before me like a large neighbourhood park with lots of good walking trails.

I wandered back inside to start defrosting some bacon for breakfast. I would not be emigrating today.

Or ever, if I’m honest with myself.

Like a middle-aged lady once told me at a body-corporate meeting about her prospects of having a child, “I’m past the time”.

No. I’m here in South Africa for the duration.

But I would be lying if I denied that there are times when you wish you had a little escape hatch; a Plan B.

I’m a bit German, so I suppose I could investigate that aspect of my heritage. But frankly, as someone who almost had a stress embolism from renewing his driver’s licence during the pandemic, I don’t think I’m really made for the complexities of emigration.

Still, it would be nice to think, “Oh well, if they burn everything down during the next uprising, I can always go sailing.”

Going sailing is a fairly common solution for certain South Africans looking to express their sovereign freedom, and perhaps concerned about our fraying social fabric.

Driving around the suburbs of coastal towns, you can sometimes spot the hull of a half-built yacht poking over the wall of a home. It might be the owner’s maritime insurance policy, his dream of freedom, and perhaps escape, being readied for deployment to the harbour once he or she finally finishes upholstering the cabin and perhaps received a retrenchment package.

At harbours around our same country, you might encounter men (often men) in the yacht-club bars, who are studying courses at the sailing school, or even “doing my skippers ticket”. These people are essentially gaining their passport to the world, accessing an opportunity to travel the planet unencumbered by borders and governments.

Of course, they do so at great personal risk upon the roiling oceans of the world. Hence the need for some skills. But many of them achieve their qualification, and they join a global network of skippers, sailors, chefs and au pairs – crossing the Atlantic; sailing the Carib; dropping off a boat in Greece!

It does sound attractive, even if you do risk being cancelled by a serious storm off the Azores at some point.

Thanks to modern technology, many of these icons of maritime self-determination run video blogs on Facebook, Instagram and TikTok. These sailing accounts allow you to vicariously sail the Mediterranean, follow the coast of East Africa, or go island-hopping through Micronesia.

This is exactly what I have been doing since my good friend Martin bravely freed himself from his local commitments, purchased a boat, and went sailing. He’s currently in France, where a failure to dredge the inland canals adequately, has his boat somewhat stranded.

But he has already crossed the Bay of Biscay, entered the Strait of Messina, been attacked by a pod of Orcas and grown an impressive beard. So I am hooked.

I have indeed found sailing a pleasant escape from the challenges of life in Africa, but I prefer to do it remotely, via social media.

Virtual sailing will remain my outlet for now. It’s exciting, safe, and Martin’s beard – and the developing depth of his suntan – are fascinating subplots. Also it’s becoming summer so it’s nice here in Johannesburg. The Knysna Loeries are back, I’m blessed with a job, and I’ve just put the bacon on.