3rd April 2026

“In the last 24 hours,” said the ship’s doctor, “you have fainted, fallen over and started another fire on the boat.”

Then he added: “This cannot go on.”

I started doing my” ‘Bu…bu…bu…” routine, which means that I have an objection, a justification or, at the very least, some sort of protestation to put forward – only I cannot find the words for it just at this moment.

So, I had better explain.

Ever since arriving on board Samsara in Grenada, fresh from the family skiing holiday in Austria, my youngest son, Hugo, has usurped the role of ship’s doctor.

The holiday had been marred only by the family ganging up on me over my vegetarian diet – or, to be more precise, my paltry protein intake. Since we now have a doctor in the family in the hulking shape of Number Two Son Theo, there wasn’t much I could say in my defence – and Liana, Number One Son Owen’s fiancée, and a fellow vegetarian, was no help at all.

No sooner were we back aboard than Hugo insisted on taking an inventory of my typical day’s diet and counting up every gram of protein. It was quite clear that I was woefully lacking in this. Half a tin of kidney beans… one boiled egg…a handful of pistachio nuts. These things do not grow rough, tough ocean sailors.

And, I must confess that over the past few years, I have despaired at seeing pictures of myself with my shirt off. What happened to my muscles? I look like an old man…

So, under Hugo’s guidance, I have started to eat chicken, fish and cheese again – but no red meat (and certainly no pork – there is a reason so many religions ban pork). Also, I cannot bear to face a plate of delicious calamari knowing that the Octopus is such a gentle and intelligent creature that it really does arrange “an octopus’s garden in the shade”.

Consequently, yesterday, at anchor in Fort-de-France, Hugo took the dinghy ashore before breakfast to buy a proper French baguette from a proper French boulangerie.

We ate it with two boiled eggs each and half a jar of Bonne Maman Confiture d’abricots – along with the obligatory freshly squeezed orange juice and black coffee.

The sun was hot, the baguette was full of protein, and the confiture d’abricots was as sweet and glutinous as ever. I began to feel a little dizzy with the excitement.

“I feel a little dizzy,” I said.

“Drink some water,” said Hugo. He’s always saying: “Drink some water”. I think this was his parting instruction from Dr Theo at Salzburg Airport.

The next thing I knew, Hugo was standing over me in a state of great alarm, and my shorts were all wet.

What had happened (and I am ready to dispute this – after all, we only have Hugo’s word for it). Is that I passed out even before my shaking hand with the water bottle reached my mouth. My head lolled back, mouth open. The water poured all over my lap. And Hugo went into full panic mode.

He phoned Dr Theo. Dr Theo did not answer. He was due for his face-to-face Zoom Italian lesson (Dr Theo should have a receptionist). Hugo phoned his Mum. She was in London, in the West End, watching Lifeline about the discovery of penicillin (very appropriate – Tamsin is a former pediatric nurse). She didn’t answer.

The Panic Mode now rising to DefCon Five, Hugo punched out a message to the family WhatsApp group: “Somebody answer the phone. Dad collapsed.”

That was when I woke up, wondering what all the fuss was about (and why my shorts were all wet). I felt fine. I said so, repeatedly, as one by one, every member of the family phoned back, clamouring for news.

And Theo went all family doctor on me: I should get myself checked out. Did we have an ECG machine onboard! I should at least have my blood pressure taken. Had I banged my head? Was I lying down? Good idea – a little lie down after breakfast…

It took ten minutes to get him off the phone, and even then, I jumped every time I heard an ambulance siren.

But I really did feel fine. It was just too much breakfast in the hot sun, and maybe I really should drink more water.

And so, panic over, Hugo and I took the bus to the giant Carrefour to stock up on sardines and pink salmon and French cheese – and no men in white coats appeared, so we decided to take ourselves off for dinner in a really good French restaurant (the “When in France” compulsion covering more than just fresh baguette for breakfast).

The really good French restaurant was closed (much to the annoyance of the man who turned up at the same time – he had a reservation). Never mind, we found another – and it really was very good indeed. I forget quite what we had – it was that good…

The only mouche in the consommé was that it had been raining – one of those sudden showers so typical of the Antilles in April, and the pavements were wet – and Martinique, being part of France and not your usual, somewhat basic, Caribbean island, has decorative ceramic pavements which gleam attractively under the party lights shining from all the bars.

Deceptively attractively, in fact, given that these pavements become dangerously slippery under an old man wearing Crocs. I fell heavily and got up to find my right forearm bleeding all over the attractive ceramic patterns.

I went into the place where we’d had lunch to wash it, reasoning that, technically speaking, I was still a customer (as well as an emergency). I rocked up at the Really Good Restaurant clutching a wad of paper towel to my arm so they would still let us in.

Anyway, it stopped bleeding by the pavlova.

When we got back to the boat, I dressed it in Elastoplast soaked in tea tree oil, and I’m sure it’s healing nicely.

Besides, by this morning, I had other things to worry about. The batteries were down to 23%. There’s not much wind in the anchorage under the fort and it had been generally cloudy. Breakfast was going to be courtesy of the little alcohol camping stove.

I filled the reservoir carefully to two-thirds. I placed it on the gimballed stove. I wiped away a few drops of spilt alcohol. I lit it with the turbo lighter. It burst into flames.

The next few minutes I shall gloss over. It is enough for you to know that the fire blanket took a long time to douse the flames. Hugo wanted to break out the fire extinguisher and “strike knob hard”. I said this would make an awful mess. He said: “Not as much mess as burning down the boat.”

The flames went out just in time. Hugo looked up how many times you can use a fire blanket. Answer: “Normally, once”.

I claimed this was a one-off because, in wiping away the few drops of spilt alcohol, I had allowed the gimballed stove to swing and spilled a whole lot more.

I will know better next time.

“There won’t be a next time,” said Hugo.

Doctors don’t know anything. Especially ship’s doctors.