Mast down

When I was at university in the mid-1990s, young and undoubtedly invincible, I used to do a few deliveries along the south coast. My Dad had worked with a company in Totnes who imported yachts from the manufacturer in France and, using that connection, they used to get me to go and bring the part-exchange boats from where they were moored back to the yard on the Dart.

This was generally done with my friend, Jeff, who I’d met at university. Like me, he was completely indestructible so the thought of being dropped off at some south coast port on a Friday night with some food and keys to a completely unknown boat to get back as soon as possible didn’t make him bat an