If you ever need reminding how brilliantly designed today's yachts are, have one weighed and measured for an endorsed IRC certificate.
We went through this fascinating process this week in preparation for our Fastnet adventure, just before the boat came out of the water. The boat has to be weighed absolutely empty: nothing in any of the lockers, no sails, no safety equipment, no water, no charts, no nothing: all that is allowed to be left on board are the fixtures and fittings, the bunk cushions, and the batteries. (The water tanks - and bilge - have to be empty, and the gas bottle taken off, but an allowance is made for any remaining diesel).
Knowing this was coming up, we'd been stripping the boat gradually since November. We'd been taking an armful to the car every time we stepped off the boat: the food, once we realised we wouldn't be going cruising any more in 2006, the cruising chain and anchor, once we were preparing for the Boxing Day race, the clothes and bedding out of our cabin, once we realised we wouldn't be sleeping on board any more, and so on.
And gradually the house filled up with mountains of gear, and absolutely nowhere to put it all. How is it that what stores conveniently out of sight on a yacht spreads out to fill all the space available, as soon as you get it home?
We've always been fairly particular (all right, neurotic) about emptying the boat before we lay up in the winter. It makes sure you go right through everything, clean what needs cleaning, throw away what needs throwing, service what needs servicing, find an alternative home for stuff that frankly shouldn't be there, and so on.
It gives you a good opportunity to clean right through the boat, with nothing in the way, and generally provides an opportunity to give your favourite investment all the TLC it deserves, as a reward for, hopefully, an enjoyable season.
I'm always amazed to look around the boat yard and see how many people abandon their boat ashore with the sails still bent on, the fenders still languishing on the side deck, the lifebuoys still in their holders on the rail, and so on. Don't they realise how much this stuff deteriorates, left exposed to the elements for months longer than necessary?
Part of it is a function of how much bigger boats are getting: it's actually very hard work to lift and fold the sails of a 40 footer, which may help to explain why so many people simply don't bother. And they do take up an incredible amount of space at home.
But we've always taken all the bunk cushions home for the winter, and stripped off the sails and as much of the running rigging as possible. It's because we've always only just been able to afford to run our boats, and looking after the gear not only saves you a great deal of money in the short term, it also ensures you get the best possible return on your investment in the longer term, when you eventually decide to sell the boat on.
But RORC measurer Peter Cockayne imposed a discipline even beyond our usual fairly meticulous end of season clean up. Even the washing up liquid and the dishcloth and our mascot Paddington Bear were evicted. Peter acknowledged that they wouldn't have made much material difference to the rated weight of the boat, but it's a question of starting everyone from a level playing field.
So here I am at home surrounded by boxes and boxes of cups, plates and cutlery, first aid kit, lifejackets and harnesses, binoculars, handheld VHF and GPS etc, charts, pilot books, spare string and sail ties, torches - everything but the galley sink, in fact. That, fortunately, is firmly plumbed in.
And I've just spent a long evening putting bits of rope through the washing machine, while “him indoors” reorganised the garage to make room for the cockpit gratings, the boarding ladder, the fenders, and much more besides.
We'll be glad of all the hard work in the spring (launch date only eight weeks away and counting) when everything is returned to the boat cleaned and overhauled and ready to go.
But in the meantime, we're still marvelling at how it all fits so tidily into such a relatively small space when afloat - and how it spreads like ectoplasm and takes over the universe as soon as you bring it all ashore.
