Three Old Men and the Sea

Hi everyone. I’m doing well. I received many kind messages after my slightly out-of-character display of emotion last week — thank you. After the wobbly start, it didn’t take long to find my stride and now, a week in, I’m very happy to be here.

The backdrop certainly helps. From the marina, I can see Lion’s Head, Signal Hill, and, of course, Table Mountain. I know I’ve only been here for a week, but I’m sure that the sight of the tablecloth spilling over the summit will never get old.

Given its location in the middle of the city, the marina is home to a surprising abundance of wildlife. This is thanks to the cold Benguela Current, which flows north from Antarctica and slams into the African continental shelf, forcing deep, nutrient-rich water to the surface. Add to that the power of the African sun, and the result is an explosion of life rivalled perhaps only by the Chilean coast, where the Humboldt Current does much the same.

The water is so rich, in fact, that when I flush the head aboard Warrior, it fills with hundreds of krill — the tiny prawns at the bottom of the food chain. They feed the fish, the fish feed the Cape fur seals, and above them all the birds feast: crowned cormorants, black-crowned night herons and hadeda ibises among the many species found here. The Hartlaub’s gulls are here in overwhelming numbers too, and one has already managed to decorate my only white t-shirt.

It’s not just the wildlife here that fascinates me. This week I met three remarkable men who have spent their lives working on boats: Manuel, Sean and Abraham.

Manuel is the owner and manager of the boatyard here. When I walked to his office to introduce myself and picked up his thick Portuguese accent, the first thing I asked was, “Angola or Mozambique?” It turned out to be Angola, and like many of the brancos, he left shortly after independence in 1974 and came to South Africa, but not before spending several years sailing around the world. When he eventually settled in Cape Town, he built what became the boatyard of Africa. Alongside servicing Skip Novak’s Antarctic expedition yachts and the Volvo Ocean Race fleet that passes through every three years, the yard also produced several legendary new-builds — among them Shosholoza, the IACC entered by the Royal Cape Yacht Club as a challenger for the 2007 America’s Cup.

Sean is a teacher at the sailing academy where I’m currently taking courses to get my professional sailing qualifications. In his appearance, Sean is a spitting image of Dutch semi-celebrity chef Wil Demandt (please Google), but verbally he is far more entertaining. Sean’s ocean-going days now lie behind him, but he seems to really enjoy sharing his wisdom of 50 years afloat. In a classroom full of mostly white South African boys aspiring to a career on superyachts, Sean interjects his deliberations on variation and deviation, spring tides and neap tides with hard-won advice like: “Don’t fuck the stewardess on the yacht you work on — fuck the stewardess from another yacht, or the captain will bliksem you!” Not quite the curriculum I expected, but valuable lessons nonetheless.

Like Sean, Abraham is also a teacher. He is Cape coloured, and speaks with that warm Cape accent that sounds so light-hearted yet carries so much historical weight. After decades of working on cargo vessels, oil rigs and fishing trawlers, Abraham now provides Maritime Safety courses. He teaches at full volume — perhaps no surprise after all that time spent in engine rooms — and began by asking everyone their favourite colour. “Blue.” “You are trustworthy!” “Green.” “You like money!” “Purple.” “You are sexually frustrated!” For a moment I took him for a joker, but when he turned to the risks of life at sea he became deadly serious — except, perhaps, when explaining the man-overboard drill: “You shout, you point, you throw the lifebuoy! But not if it’s your ex and your wife is with you!”

That was the first week. Between krill-filled heads, defecating gulls and ageing seamen, it feels as though I’m beginning to find my way here. In the second week, I hope to go sailing.