I have finally discovered the secret to surviving Blighty’s long, dark winters: a sneaky jaunt to a sun-soaked destination. A cruise in the Canaries seemed just the ticket to top up my tan and restore my faith in good weather; it’s just what a gal needs to keep going until the sun decides to shine on Britain.

My partner, Jennie, and I have always wanted to learn how to sail, so we booked a week with the Jubilee Sailing Trust, a charity that runs adventure holidays for ablebodied and disabled people. Jennie is partially sighted and has epilepsy, so a JST trip seemed an ideal — and accessible — adventure that we could share.

We imagined that a balanced mix of sun lounging and sailing instruction would refresh and relax us. Little did we know the mirage would melt away to reveal a reality of sweat and tears.

With a naive spring in our steps, we approached the ship, docked in Gran Canaria. I quickly realised that this was no ordinary sailing boat. The Lord Nelson, an impressively majestic tall ship reminiscent of Pirates of the Caribbean, was innocently swaying in the breeze.

Voyagers arrived and sauntered up the gangway. Some were hoisted on board in their wheelchairs using an intricate web of ropes and knots. Jennie and I boarded and were assigned a minuscule aft starboard cabin. It was obvious that we had overpacked — and overestimated the size of our accommodation. Clocking my raised eyebrows, Don, our cantankerous watch leader, gave us a cursory welcome and reluctantly made us a cup of tea.

The defining factor of a Jubilee Sailing Trust trip is that all passengers are considered crew for the duration of the voyage, regardless of physical ability or sailing experience. Supported by a mix of permanent and voluntary staff, everyone is expected to run the ship.

After a safety drill, we were issued with a duty card outlining our individual and group obligations over the next week. My jaw dropped; I faced an immediate 24 hours of mess duty, followed by 4am watch duty two nights on the trot, interspersed with hoisting of sails, tugging of ropes and lugging of gear that would make even a spinach-fortified Popeye mop an exhausted brow. I was also obliged to take on the night shifts that Jennie was unable to do; a regular sleep pattern is necessary to control her epilepsy and upsetting her schedule is risky.

I was immediately dispatched to kitchen duty where my dreams of an upmarket all-you-can-eat buffet were quashed with a strict regime of school dinner-style meals. I chopped, mixed, shredded, plated, served, swept, washed up, set tables for the following day’s breakfast, then collapsed in my bunk. I felt like Cinderella at sea. Mess duty started again at 6.45 the next morning. I took full English breakfast orders, though not to the liking of some voyagers. “Don’t ask us what we want, just give it to us!” bellowed a burly and ravenous bloke. Porridge, fried eggs and lashings of tea were consumed with gusto despite the intense morning heat.

I cleared up stray baked beans and bacon rinds and then started lunch preparations, followed by Dog Watch — a two-hour stint at the helm — from 4pm till 6pm. Then I went straight to bed and burst into tears.

It seemed just moments had passed when I was woken at 3.30am by the watch team about to come off shift. I pulled on woollen socks, thermals and waterproofs in preparation for the wet, chilly shift ahead and staggered up to the observation deck. In the inky darkness between midnight and dawn, our watch team tracked the ship’s course.

We recorded the weather, wind speed and temperature, and took turns at the helm. When it was my chance to guide the ship, I gingerly took control. Moments later, Neil, the First Mate, second in the ship’s line of command, came bounding up the deck with a wild look in his eyes and bellowed: “Just who is the suicidal helmsman?” I removed my hand from the wheel and sheepishly raised it. Apparently I had been zigzagging across the ocean; how was I meant to see into the briny abyss with no cat’s eyes to guide me?

Once calm was restored with someone else at the helm, the sails back to a gentle billow, I was able to drink in the magic of the night sky. The stars burnt brightly and shot across the canopy. Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper, Saturn and the Moon made a contemplative canvas. It was just difficult to forget that it was 4.30am and I was exhausted.

I also hadn’t seen Jennie for days, even though we shared a cabin; so much for our shared adventure. Completely out of my comfort zone, I contemplated calling the coastguard for an emergency rescue. I couldn’t even console myself with a traditional sailor’s tumbler of rum; the closest I got to “happy hour” was an obligatory 60-minute daily scrubbing session of the communal toilets.

Thankfully, we docked in La Palma for two nights and were let off duty. The most westerly of the Canary Islands, La Palma is a sleepy volcanic idyll untouched by mass tourism and with the lowest crime rate in Europe. Desperate for our freedom, Jennie and I ran down the gangway as soon as we dropped anchor.

Don called after us, waving an aerosol can in the air: “Don’t forget the flyspray!” What? “If anyone tries to mug you, just squirt it in their face,” he explained. I couldn’t get off the ship quickly enough; we left the flyspray with Don.

Given the chance to rest and reflect, I realised that tall-ship sailing wasn’t for me. Jennie enjoyed it much more, though I did point out that this was probably because she wasn’t sleep deprived. She appreciated that her partial sight and epilepsy had been taken into consideration, and she was never patronised or made to feel as though she was shirking duties. “I was impressed by the diversity of impairment. It felt liberating to work together to the best of everyone’s abilities,” she said.

Annie, a wisecracking pensioner from Taunton, has been sailing with JST for 24 years. Adventure sailing, she said, is “about people expanding their horizons and doing something they’ve always wanted to do — disabled or not”. Annie helped me to face the fact that although I may fancy myself as an adventurous gal, there are some challenges that are beyond me — such as climbing to the crow’s nest.

The next morning, all voyagers and crew were called to the deck, where harnesses, ropes and pulleys formed a spaghetti junction of paraphernalia. I watched the experienced sailors gear up for what is regarded as the highlight of the trip: climbing 20m to the top of the mainmast for an unforgettable bird’s-eye view.

I was coaxed into a harness by my supportive watch team, and started the slow ascent. I stopped just before the final climb to the top. I didn’t make it all the way up; I was simply too scared. Alan, a retired Merchant Navy seaman, made it to the top in his wheelchair. So did Pam and Shelley, hoisted in their chairs as we all cheered.

Sailing with JST pushed my personal boundaries of skill and sleep deprivation, and made Jennie much more comfortable with her disabilities. It is a tough physical and mental challenge suited to the fearless and brave. We both returned home with a deep admiration for anyone, regardless of ability or achievement, who takes on a comfort-busting challenge. Now it’s your turn to get up off the sofa.

<-- Return To The Writing Menu