Chapter Ten

Five weeks until the abseil – that’s if I don’t get swept out to sea during my windsurfing challenge . . . or is that wishful thinking?

‘Morning, morning!’ calls Linz as she strides across the entrance hall of the outdoor centre.

She’s still unnaturally happy despite the fact we’re up earlier than should be legal on a Saturday morning. Instead of looking knackered from the week at work and too many vinos on a Friday night like me, she looks all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. What it must be to still have that young skin which doesn’t show the daily wear and tear so badly.

I wave at her. It’s about as enthusiastic as I can get at this time in the morning, especially when I’m preoccupied with the fact that any minute now we’re going to be plunged into icy water.

I’ve lived in Portsmouth for over ten years and I can count the number of times I’ve been in the sea on one hand. It’s always freezing, even if it’s a blistering hot day at the end of summer. Going into the choppy sea in March when it’s so cold that I had to put on a winter coat this morning is not something I’m relishing.

‘All right, guys,’ says a man who’s surely still a teenager, if not in body then in mind. He’s got bright blond shoulder-length surfer hair and he’s wearing shorts and flip-flops. His nod to the fact that it’s nippy out is a hoodie . . . because that’s going to keep his toes warm.

The motley crew of aspiring windsurfers assemble in front of him. All four of us, of whom I’m the oldest and most out of shape.

‘All up for getting blown away?’ He flashes his big grin at us and his eyes settle for longer than necessary on Linz, who giggles appreciatively.

Everyone replies enthusiastically, apart from me, and we’re led through into a little classroom which has rows of those desks with flippy-down tables that you can never balance paper on properly, and a whiteboard at the front.

‘Now, I know you’re all eager to get wet,’ he says, winking at Linz. ‘But we’ve got to understand the basics first. I’m going to go through how you essentially sail a windsurf and some of the key concepts like jibing and tacking that I’ll be teaching you later on. So are we ready to learn?’ he says, dishing out some little books.

‘Yes,’ I say eagerly. I notice that everyone else is sighing, but I’m relieved to get a few more moments snuggled up in my hoodie and trackie bottoms. In fact, if only the whole course was desk-based. That would be ideal.

Unfortunately for me, the whole course is not desk-based. What I am hoping will be a long and lengthy windsurfing 101 is in reality a twenty-minute lecture with stick men drawn on the board. By the end, I know as little as I did before the lesson and I still think that tacking is something to do with horses.

‘Let’s get you all kitted out then,’ he says, eyeing us up and handing out wetsuits. ‘Abi, I think you might get away with a medium, but I’ll give you a large too to be on the safe side.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, my cheeks colouring. There was me hoping I’d lost some post-break-up pounds with my cycling to work, but clearly not.

‘Here you go, Linz – you’ll be a small,’ he says, handing a wetsuit to her.

She flashes him a big smile before heading into the female changing room. I sigh and follow her.

I hate wetsuits with a passion, but the only thing worse than having to put on a wetsuit is going into the freezing cold sea without one.

I catch a glimpse of Linz in her itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie blue almost polka-dot bikini and I sigh again. I look down at my own black Speedo swimming costume, chosen to attract the minimum amount of attention, and I can’t help but notice the thick belly protruding from it.

Where did my toned stomach go? OK, so I might not have had a super-toned stomach for a number of years, but before I got together with Joseph I’d been able to look over my stomach line and see the waist band of my low-rise jeans. Now there’s a roll of fat in the way. All those contented pub lunches and meals out plus the post-break-up Chinese did me no favours.

I look between the medium and the large suit and back down at my thighs. I guess it can’t hurt to try the smaller one first. I do want it to be tight to help keep warm.

I step into the wetsuit and I immediately cringe that it’s ever so slightly damp. I daren’t think about the fact that means someone else was recently wearing it. I pull it up over my thighs and start to jump it up. My boobs go flying as I try and wriggle to get myself in.

I’m starting to think I should have gone for large, but I’m too invested to give up now.

I see out of the corner of my eye that Linz seems to pull hers on like a glove and she has no problem getting it up over her chest and then pulling the long strap up at the back to fasten it.

I curse under my breath and put my hands through the arms. This’ll be the test of whether it really is too small.

To my sheer amazement, I get my arms in and the fabric pulls tight across my chest. I practically break my arm trying to grab the strap at the back, before Linz bounds over and helps me.

‘Let me grab that for you.’

She zips me up, and I yelp as a little bit of back skin gets stuck in the zip.

‘Oops, hang on,’ she says poking at my flesh and trying once more.

This time it does up and I windmill my arms to make sure I can move around. The fabric stretches a little bit and I think I’m going to be OK.

‘Shall we go?’ asks Linz enthusiastically as she leaves the room.

I try not to look at her skinny little behind as she walks out of the changing room in her wetsuit and flip-flops. I pad behind her, my wetsuit shoes flapping noisily on the tiles. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and instantly wish I hadn’t. This wetsuit is the least flattering thing I think I’ve ever worn. They’re clearly not designed for women with hour-glass figures. My boobs still look massive despite being compressed in neoprene and my thighs look like tree trunks.

Any sense of glee that I felt at squeezing into the medium disappears as I waddle out feeling like an overweight walrus.

‘Let’s get this show on the road,’ says Brett, as we meet him and the other two guys in the lobby. We follow him outside, where there’s a windsurfing board fixed to the floor.

‘So, I’m going to run you through what you’re going to do when you get out on your boards,’ he says, jumping on and masterfully spinning the board around with his legs. I find myself being impressed and suddenly Brett’s become that little bit more attractive. Down, cougar, down.

He takes us through what we’re supposed to do at breakneck speed. And then he calls for us to have a go one by one.

When it’s my turn, I climb onto the board, and push myself up to stand. The board swivels underneath me, instantly making me nervous. What on earth possessed Joseph to put this on his list?

The thought of him in a wetsuit with wet curls running out of the surf, à la Baywatch, suddenly makes my knees buckle and I’m reminded why I’m doing this.

I gain control of my legs once more and push my arms out rigid. I can do this. I chant.

I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I could fall the three inches from the board – and probably face plant into the concrete floor below . . .

‘That’s it, Abi. Strong legs. Now, gently pull the rope of the sail up and lean back whilst grabbing the bar.’

I take a deep breath and do as he says. The wind begins to take the sail and I pull it up. I can sense Brett hovering behind me and from watching the others I know he’ll have his hands outstretched, so with that in mind I lean back and allow myself to get in the position.

‘Sweet, Abi, sweet,’ says Brett. ‘OK, you can hop on down.’

I stand back upright and almost immediately let go of the sail. It crashes noisily to the ground.

‘Sorry,’ I say, wincing as it hits the concrete below.

Brett tries to smile through his own wince. ‘That’s OK, just go careful.’

The last of our group takes to the fake board and I start to think that this windsurfing malarkey might be quite easy after all. I can already stand on the board and pull the sail up, and Brett says from there the wind will carry us, so really I can practically do it already.

Maybe I should just get Linz to take the prove-I-was-here photo and then I can call it a day.

‘Right, guys, let’s grab our boards and get in the water. I’ve already attached the sails and I’ll teach you about connecting the rig after lunch.’

Brett has deposited our windsurfers on the edge of a concrete slipway and he helps each of us carry ours into the water.

I can’t help but try and tiptoe as the water starts to run over my ankles and into my wetsuit shoe.

The coldness of the water takes my breath away and I can’t believe that I’m voluntarily wading into it.

We all hang onto our boards like seals, with our torsos resting on them.

‘Right, guys, push away and have a go.’

Brett brings a motorised orange dinghy down the slipway. ‘When you need towing back to the shore, just give me a wave and I’ll bring you back. Don’t go any further than that orange buoy.’

I look out onto the horizon and just about see the orange dot he’s talking about. I almost laugh. There’s no chance of that, it looks like it’s miles away. I’m going to be hugging the shore as much as possible.

‘Come on then, guys – mount your windsurfers.’

I slide my chest off the board and my feet sink into the muddy sand below. I place my hands flat on top of it and go to push myself up like you would getting in and out of a swimming pool.

I instantly tip the board backwards and fall into the water.

It was a whole lot easier when the board was on concrete.

‘Almost, Abi,’ calls Brett.

I look over and see that everyone else has made it onto their boards, and I’m the only one splashing about.

It takes me three attempts to get on all fours on the board, and I’ve already got my hair wet. The water is so cold that my head feels like I just took part in the ice bucket challenge.

I stay for a moment in crawling toddler pose and watch the others as they shakily get up. One guy stands up for a second before tumbling backwards. He’s so tall that he makes it look as if he’s just stepped off his board – as he’s still waist deep in the water that comes up to my shoulders.

Linz stands up first time and without the sail up she looks like she’s surfing.

‘Way to go, Linz,’ says Brett circling her in his dinghy.

Her flirtatious cackle catches in the wind and I feel like it’s taunting me.

I try and block her out and think of Joseph instead. I imagine him standing astride a board with his hands on his hips and it spurs me on as I get lost in a fantasy of the two of us windsurfing off into the sunset.

Before I know it I’m standing on my own two feet.

‘I’m up!’ I shout, involuntarily. ‘I’m up.’

Or at least I am for about a second before in my celebration I lose my balance and topple backwards.

I land clumsily in the water and my knees buckle from the impact of the mud.

I’m now the only one in the water. Everyone else is standing and attempting to pull up their sails. They remind me of snake charmers slowly coaxing the snakes up out of a basket.

‘Come on, Abi, hop on,’ says Brett, waving at me.

I fight the urge to stick my finger up at him, and instead smile through gritted teeth. I practically bellyflop onto the board and push myself up. At least I’m perfecting the beached whale to crawl pose. This time I make it up to stand and I attempt to balance, putting myself into the rope-pull position.

‘Here goes nothing,’ I mutter under my breath.

The sail’s much heavier than it was on dry land. The water’s fighting against it, and I’m struggling with all my might to pull it out gently whilst keeping my balance. It’s touch and go as it emerges out of the water, and I just manage to correct my balance in time, and before I know it, I’ve got the sail up level with me in the neutral position.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes momentarily, trying to remember what comes next.

‘Turn it round and off you go, Abi.’

I try and remember how to turn the sail, crisscrossing my hands over one another like I’ve been shown.

‘Lean back into it,’ shouts Brett.

I wobble as I try and take his advice, but I push through my legs, like we were taught, and hey presto, I’m actually moving.

There’s a light breeze and as I move the sail slightly the wind catches it, and I find myself cruising along. Maybe I’m a natural after all.

‘All right, Abi!’ says Brett, whooping.

I want to do a victory air punch, but I daren’t let go.

The wind picks up and I start to gain speed and suddenly I’m going pretty fast and the shore is disappearing behind me at a rate of knots.

I look back at Brett to see if he can help me, but he’s circling Linz, who’s managed to turn her sail and is heading back to the shore.

How did she do that? I can’t remember what Brett said to do, and the orange buoy is getting ever closer.

I vaguely remember that I have to move the sail round, and as I go to move it out of the wind I lose my balance and not knowing what to do I drop it. The next thing I know I’m crashing into the water. Only this time I’m far from the shore and I plunge straight under.

I pop back up a second later and throw my arms over the board, spluttering from the mouthful of water. I can confirm it tastes as bad as it smells.

I wipe my soaking wet hair out of my eyes and wonder what to do.

I’m contemplating how I’m going to get back on the board now that my feet aren’t touching the ground, when a small two-person sailboat floats by. The couple, who are wearing matching orange life jackets, give me a small smile of pity as they glide past. Why couldn’t Joseph have put that on his list instead? Look how lovely and romantic that looks. The lady’s got a little cap and sunglasses on (despite a lack of sun), and her hair’s nice and dry. That’s more like it.

I get boat envy as I watch them navigate to shore, twisting their hand this way and that to move the sail. No wetsuits that make you feel like a whale or arm- and leg-workouts required.

The more time I spend in the sea, the more I realise how cold it is, wetsuit or no wetsuit. I’ve got to make it back to the others.

I try to climb on my board. My first attempt sees me tip the board backwards and plunge down to the icy depths. The second sees me do the same manoeuvre, only this time I wallop my nose on the board in the process. Third time lucky I make it up on, and I’m standing within no time. What do I do now? I’m drifting along and the orange buoy is only a metre or two away and beyond it is what looks like a giant industrial ship. What if I bring my sail up and I can’t turn it and I crash head first into it? What if I don’t stop and I drift across the water and I find myself landing on Hayling Island? Or worse, I hit a current and I’m swept out into the sea and lost for evermore.

I’m practically hyperventilating as I try and wave to catch Brett’s attention so he can rescue me, only he’s still sailing round Linz as she wiggles around on her windsurfer.

‘Help!’ I shout. Only the wind is blowing in the wrong direction and not one person hears me.

By now I’m panicking. I’m not a strong enough swimmer to drag the windsurfer behind me, and with the sail dragging in the water I doubt I’d be able to paddle it back like a surfboard.

I curse Joseph and try and conjure up my best memory of him, the one where he first told me he loved me. If I’m going to die doing this stupid list, I might as well die with a good memory in mind.

Brett’s still perving on Linz as she demonstrates her ability to turn her windsurfer. I knew letting her come was a mistake. If she hadn’t been here, I might actually have been rescued.

I watch her with annoyance as she drops the sail and leans it round the wind, turning herself in the process.

‘That’s it,’ I say to myself. ‘That’s what I need to do.’

I look once more at the orange buoy that’s coming perilously close. I lift the sail, trying to lean into it to counter-balance. Somehow I manage to do what Linz did and my sail swings, turning my board around. I find myself facing the shore and I cling on for dear life as the wind catches the sail and propels me towards safety.

For once I don’t mind that I’m moving pretty fast. I’m just relieved to be heading towards dry land.

‘Hey, Abi,’ says Brett. ‘What kept you?’

Steam practically comes out of my ears.

‘Right, guys, let’s head back into the centre and we’ll get a hot chocolate and I’ll teach you the next step.’

Next step? Isn’t this it?

I let the sail down gently and dismount as gracefully as I can into the waist-deep water. I pull the board behind me and just as I’m congratulating myself I slip onto the concrete slipway and bash my knee.

‘Ouch!’ I cry.

‘Yeah, you have to be careful coming up onto here. The seaweed can make it slippery.’

‘Thanks,’ I mumble. I’m not particularly reassured that he’s making today any safer for me.

He helps me heave the board out and I collapse on the ground for a moment, allowing myself to breathe deeply.

I can’t believe I did that. I look at the orange dot in the distance and a sudden burst of pride washes over me. I, Abi Martin, have managed to windsurf. I don’t think I’ll be sailing off into the sunset any time soon, but I feel like I can almost tick it off my list. All I’ve got to do is get through the rest of the day without too many more injuries, snap that all-important photo and not get swept out to sea. Sounds like a breeze . . .