admin Date , July 23, 2025 Sailing Previous Blog Reaching along the River Comments (0)
The first day of the RYA level 2, 4 Day Course - Man in the water drill - recovering the man from the water using a sailing dinghy.
Paul and I thought we’d treat ourselves to a little sailing upgrade: an RYA Level 2 course. After all, we’d already earned our Level 1, managed not to capsize only once when told to do so on a Start Sail Course, and developed a reasonably accurate sense of where the wind was coming from – a skill often lacking in the British summer.
The course was a hive of activity, with students of all shapes, sizes, and confidence levels. One group consisted of very young sailors — and I mean really young. The youngest was just eight years old, barely taller than the rudder, and already able to rig a Topper faster than I can put on a buoyancy aid without getting tangled.
Another group were working on Levels 3 and 4 – the “youth elite” – who looked terrifyingly competent. They sailed past us muttering things like “roll tacking” and “weight trim” while we were still trying to remember which way to push the tiller.
There were two adult groups: the beginners (a happy collection of new sailors wondering why the boat didn’t go where they pointed it), and then there was us — the “sort-of-experienced-but-still-fairly-baffled” duo. Having covered all the Level 2 syllabus content in our own chaotic way, Paul and I were slotted into the group with the experienced youngsters.
It was like joining the Navy SEALS of junior sailing. These kids had Fevas that could fly (I’m sure one actually planed out of the water) and a confidence that made me feel I’d accidentally wandered into an Olympic training camp.
We began with a simple(ish) exercise: a triangle course of three buoys with a healthy mix of tacking and gybing. The idea was to practise boat handling, improve our sail trim, and quietly remind ourselves which way is up. Then came the real challenge: Follow My Leader. The aim was to sail as close as possible to the boat in front, without overtaking or crashing. Like high-stakes tailgating with sails.
Now, Paul and I have many talents. But matching the speed of a hyper-focused teenager in a Feva with the reflexes of a caffeinated squirrel is… not one of them. Still, we gave it our best shot — trying to speed up with perfect sail trim and centreboard position, then suddenly slow down by moving all of our considerable weight to the back without accidentally gybing into oblivion. We even practised sailing the boat to a crawl without stalling it — a surprisingly tricky art when your boat still thinks it's a shopping trolley in a gust.
We wobbled, we gybed, we got overtaken by a 12-year-old, and we laughed. A lot.
As part of our mission to become moderately competent sailors — or at least ones who can tack without the boat spinning in protest — Paul and I embarked on an RYA Level 2 course. While we’ve long since mastered the art of floating and looking vaguely nautical, Paul and I needed time to polish those rough edges. Or, at the very least, stop accidentally gybing when trying to wave at swans.
Our instructor was determined that we’d absorb the Five Basic Rules of Sailing so thoroughly that we’d be muttering them in our sleep.
They are:
Sail Trim – Pull it in till it stops flapping. Then pull it in a bit more.
Centreboard – Up, down, halfway – the boat’s handbrake depending on your direction.
Balance – Not just metaphorically. Lean the right way or prepare to swim.
Trim (the other kind) – Fore and aft weight distribution. Put your tea down and move forward.
Course Made Good – You might look fast, but are you actually going the right way?
We were drilled on these relentlessly. Swapping helm and crew every few minutes, we became telltale obsessives, hawk-eyed on that tiny ribbon on the jib. A flick meant adjustment. A flutter meant disaster. Paul and I were pulling in the sails tighter than ever before. Apparently, our usual approach — flapping and flailing like a pair of startled kites — was not optimal.
We shifted our weight forwards, finally understanding that sitting at the back like royalty doesn’t help when you're trying to squeeze speed out of a Toura. We also began adjusting our angle of attack, taking into account the wind and the river flow — yes, actual tactics!
And just when we started feeling slightly less hopeless, Mark, our senior instructor, decided to show everyone how it's done. He commandeered the Toura. Paul took the helm of the Whaly to ferry the other students out to spectate this "masterclass". I, for reasons I still don’t understand, was volunteered to crew.
Now, let’s be clear: Mark sails like Poseidon in a buoyancy aid. That boat, which Paul and I had treated like a reluctant bathtub, suddenly turned into a racehorse. I hung on for dear life as Mark threw us through roll tacks like we were auditioning for a stunt show. He called out calmly to the observers in the Whaly, explaining every manoeuvre. I heard none of it. I was too busy trying not to fall out or scream.
Then came the moment we were dreading: our turn.
Paul at the helm. Me crewing. We managed not to disgrace ourselves. So far, so smooth. But then —
my turn.
Things were going well... until The Gust. You know the one. The kind that appears out of nowhere like a vengeful god testing your worth. I yanked in the mainsheet like a pro — or so I thought. The boat surged forward like a greyhound. We were flying. Unfortunately, we were also running out of river.
I tacked. Or tried to. But in my enthusiasm, I’d accidentally cleated the mainsheet, meaning the sail stayed tight. The Toura, a boat designed not to capsize, heeled over at a terrifying angle — probably 60 degrees or more. Paul, ever the hero, launched himself onto the gunwale for a dry capsize like something out of a Superman movie.
But the sudden shift in weight snapped the boat upright again. We were safe. Still dry. And still somehow speeding downriver like Olympic hopefuls.
Paul was grinning like he'd just saved the world. Until he realised he’d stubbed his toe. Badly. Later inspection revealed a toe bruise of epic proportions — the kind of injury you want to frame as proof of bravery (or recklessness).
The final mission of the day was the classic sailing test of compassion and control: the Man Overboard Drill. Now, I’ve done this plenty of times in a safety boat, where the engine makes life relatively simple — a little nudge on the throttle, a tidy turn, and Bob’s your (hopefully still floating) uncle. But doing this in a dinghy, powered only by the wind and fuelled by nervous energy, is a different matter entirely.
Still, I wasn’t without experience. Just last year, Ros and I had successfully rescued our instructor, Bea, after she rather dramatically fell off her paddleboard (to this day, I still think she did it on purpose to test us). So, with a smidgen of misplaced confidence, Paul and I set out to prove that rescue heroes don’t always wear neoprene capes.
We joined two Fevas, each crewed by teenagers whose confidence levels were inversely proportional to their rescue success. The objective: recover three 'men' overboard — not actual people this year (probably a wise decision), but weighted dummies that bobbed in the water with unnerving realism.
The challenge, of course, is to approach the casualty slowly, without decapitating them with the bow or running them over like a floating speed bump. The Feva crews, brimming with enthusiasm, took more of a “ram first, apologise later” approach — their dummies stood no chance.
We, on the other hand, treated our dummy with the grace and dignity it deserved. Yes, we missed it. Once. Maybe twice. But we didn’t hit it, which instantly gave us moral high ground and bonus points for gentleness. When we did scoop up our casualty, we did so with the elegance of a well-trained lifeboat crew (albeit slightly more wobbly and a lot more surprised).
Mark, clearly impressed, allowed us to do something truly special: pick up the marker buoys. This is the sailing equivalent of being allowed to carry the flag at the Olympic closing ceremony — a sign of respect and trust. Or possibly, we were the only boat that hadn’t broken anything.
We finished the day proud, accomplished, and only slightly traumatised. The only issue?
Walking.
I was limping. Paul was hobbling. Between the two of us, we looked like we’d fought a pirate duel and lost — badly. I couldn’t remember which leg to limp on, and Paul was visibly suffering with his toe, which by now had taken on the colour and swelling of a particularly ripe aubergine.
Day One complete.
Skills learnt. Rescues performed. Pride (mostly) intact.
Feet: Not speaking to us.
