If you open up the engine casing and lie flat on the cylinder head and turn your head sideways so that your right ear gets folded back on itself by the underside of the companionway and your left ear is jammed against the oil filler cap, you can just reach Samsara’s fuel tank outlet.

I blame Alfred Walter Maley

Alfred Walter Maley it was who bought the bare hull fresh out of the mould in 1973, loaded it onto a lorry and took it up to Wolverhampton where he spent the next three years fitting it out.

Clearly, the first thing he did was put in the fuel tank. I bet he was really proud of it – the way he shoe-horned it in under the cockpit seat and then put in the calorifier so you can’t get at the tank by crawling round the back of the engine (which he put in next, so that you can’t get at the calorifier either.)

But Alfred Walter Maley was not totally without foresight. Clearly, he was capable of thinking ahead fifty years to the day I would find myself rolling through 40° in Prickly Bay on the South Coast of Grenada with my head in the engine – just able to reach the outlet and poke about with the long end of an Allen key.

The fuel tank was blocked again.

Readers who have been paying attention will know that this happened a month ago in Antigua. That time I spent £500 on a Nelson’s Dockyard engineer who I’m sure had promised he had a wonderful machine for sucking muck out of fuel tanks (in fact we just pumped out the fuel and then poured it back in again through a filter until it ran clear).

Well, obviously that didn’t get rid of all the muck because after a good deal of poking and jiggling with the Allen key, even more emerged – first in long disgusting strings and then in great glutinous globs.

Until finally it ran clear into the Tupperware I held underneath to catch the last few drops that were left after I had syphoned out all the fuel.

This, in itself, had been a bit of an operation because the original solution was to fill the tank to the brim in the hope that the sheer weight of fuel would clear any airlocks in the pipes.

My first thought was to buy extra fuel cans – it would still be cheaper than paying for another engineer.

Then I thought of borrowing them.

Then I thought of using water bottles. In the end, I had three of these stacked around the cockpit – as well as the 20-litre emergency water can. Surely they couldn’t be more than a dribble left in the tank…

But steadily, inexorably, the Tupperware was filling up to the brim. So, it was with some urgency that I hunted about for something to replace it. This was not as straightforward as it sounds (see “ears” above.)

While holding the very-nearly-full Tupperware with one hand, I flailed around with the other in the hope of connecting with something that might conceivably hold some diesel.

I found a coffee cup.

OK, so a coffee cup might not be the ideal receptacle for emptying a diesel tank but I was never a coffee purist – the slight tang of fuel oil might well complement Starbucks’ Pike Place roast.

Then all I had to do was change hands. Without removing ears.

The coffee cup filled remarkably quickly. So did the next one.

Quite clearly the tank was not as empty as I thought it was. I now had three coffee cups full of diesel, the Tupperware, of course, and also a pickle jar which I had emptied (complete with the last couple of pickles) into the bilge. Maybe the vinegar would cut the oil…

Meanwhile, I seemed to be out of receptacles and had my finger over the spigot rather in the manner of a little Dutch boy with a Saturday job in a garage. Thinking about it logically, you might assume I would be stuck there – that I might be stuck there forever, or at least until a wandering engineer with a hose and a bucket might happen by one his merry round.

But no. Feeling around with the spare hand, I chanced upon a piece of kitchen roll abandoned on the chart table. Scrunched up one-handed, this might be pushed into the spigot and block the flow long enough for me to get the wooden plug out of the bottom of the washing bucket (which used to be the rain-collection bucket in pre-watermaker days).

It worked. Retrieving my ears from their resting places, I dashed to the fo’c’sle, yanked out the wooden plug (with my teeth) dashed back and jammed it in place of the kitchen roll.

Now I had all the time in the world to empty the Tupperware, three coffee cups, pickle jar etc.

I am pleased to report that the engine now runs without a hiccup and the boat smells only mildly of diesel.

I wouldn’t come for coffee though.

I’m beginning to get the hang of Hurricane Season in Grenada. Nobody tells you about this, but it can all go downhill fairly quickly.

For one thing, nobody wants to go anywhere in case a hurricane comes along, so everybody has time on their hands.

This is why I spent so much time sitting in the cockpit with the man from the next boat drinking beer.

Well, not all the time, obviously. This afternoon I helped him put his mainsail back on – well, we tried to put it back on, made a total hash of it and then sat in the cockpit drinking beer.

This was not a particularly good look because it meant me tying my dinghy to his boat and leaving the crate of Carib lager I’d just collected on public display.

Yes, a crate – 24 bottles. When I presented 18 bottles at the Marina Mini Market checkout, the man behind the till asked why I wasn’t buying 24.

Well, the answer was that I had 18 empties for the recycling (except they don’t have recycling here).

But 18 bottles cost $81, he explained as if speaking to a five-year-old with their first pocket money, while a case of 24 is only $82 – and since these are East Caribbean dollars – a bottle of Carib “Premium lager from the heart of the Caribbean” works out at just 98p (and if you have a crate and bring it back full of empties, they’ll give you $10 as if this was England in the 1950s – which means your next bottle costs only 86p!)

Yes, thank you, I don’t mind if I do (and really, I couldn’t care less if we should have adjusted the grub screws on the mainsail batten tension before installing the luff plates.)

By the time I had rowed the leaky dinghy back to Samsara, there were all sorts of things, I really didn’t care about.

One of them was leaving the crate on the cockpit seat.

The boat rolled.

Gravity came into play.

… and, as I say, everything went downhill.

I think I’d better lie down.

I have always believed that every cloud has a silver lining – but only if you look for it. It has taken me two weeks to find the best thing about hitting the rock.

You may have read about the rock. I am pleased to say the damage is all fixed now and Samsara is back in the water. However, I did end up with a bill for $2,525 (£1,955) even if it does mean I now have a nice smooth bottom to the keel as well.

This has meant an adjustment to this month’s budget and definitely no tailor-made awning – here’s the one I made for $15. It does the job just as well.

And then I thought: How can I make up that money really quickly? Well, of course, there’s always a way. If you have read the “Desperation” chapter in my new book Faster, Louder, Riskier, Sexier (link at the end) or, more particularly the next chapter, “Luck”, you will know all about this.

So, I have given myself a month to make up that deficit. I have posted the following on Facebook:

“Who wants to make a quick £1,000? You will need a smartphone and a UK bank account in your name to receive the money on August 21st. Apply now with your name, occupation and UK phone number to john@oldmansailing.com. Enter £1,000 in the subject field. It worked for me. What have you got to lose?”

Of course, if any followers of the blog would like to apply, you would be most welcome. That way, we can both earn £1,000 in double quick time.

Meanwhile, if you would like to buy a book, it wouldn’t do any harm.

… and please leave it some stars. Stars are so important.

 https://amzn.eu/d/a7j8Re8

It’s raining in North Wales.

I know this because I just spoke to Dave Jones about my battery installation (I’m biting the bullet and getting Lithium). Dave was happy to talk. It meant he could stay in his van in the dry. Also, It was 14°C outside (feels like 12 says the BBC).

I mention all this because I’ve been moaning about it being 39°C in the cabin here in Trinidad – and coupled with 68% humidity, it’s been pretty unpleasant.

 Of course, this wouldn’t matter if I was anchored out in the bay with a breeze blowing down the hatch – or even on my way back to Grenada with 15kts on the beam. But, as you may be aware, I hit a rock last week and I’ve been on the hard while “Cow” (that’s his name) fixes the damage.

Also, they’ve parked me right next to the pilot boats’ shed where somebody leaves the lights on all night and as soon as it gets dark, every mosquito in Trinidad & Tobago comes to party on my doorstep.

I arrived on Tuesday. By Thursday I had learned that shutting both the companionway and the forehatch and fitting my one fly-screen to the skylight was not the answer. With sleep impossible, I took to getting up at 3.00 a.m. and making tea – until I discovered that that just made it hotter still. Since it would cost £102 to buy a special plug to fit the boatyard’s 220V socket, the batteries were precariously low and I’d turned off both fridges – so the beer was in the high twenties too.

But there’s always rum…

I do realise that drinking rum at 3.00 a.m. while watching old romcoms on Netflix is not really “living the dream”.

So, it was a significant moment on Saturday afternoon when Rob came by. I didn’t know Rob but I had met Anne in the laundry when I was depositing the last copy of Trident* and they have a Rival 38.

Rob climbed up the ladder for a cup of tea in the cockpit – the rest of the family were at the water park. He was astonished to discover I didn’t have air conditioning.

Air conditioning in a Rival 32…

“Not built-in air-conditioning. You can rent a mobile unit for $5 a day: A guy comes round and plumbs it into your hatch and bingo…”

Just my luck to discover this on a Saturday night.

I endured the Saturday night (John Thaw in “Bomber Harris” with Antigua Gold – a refined and mellow rum). Then on Sunday night, I moved into the West Palm Hotel. This was an extravagance I know, but it was only for one night and the air conditioner over the door was set to 17°C.

Now I’m back aboard and the cabin temperature is a pleasant 27°C (it’s 41°C in the shade outside). Another benefit of air conditioning is that the pressure of the cold air being pumped into the boat gets forced out of the cracks around the companion, so the bugs just get blown back where they came from.

If there’s any justice, it will have stopped raining in North Wales too…

*Trident in the laundry: This is the novel I wrote in 1983 and finally published on Amazon when its theme of Russia meddling in other countries’ elections, an “America First” President in the White House and a Corbyn-like figure installed in Downing Street suddenly seemed more credible.

I formatted it myself and very amateurish it looked. I’ve since had this done professionally and the book sells steadily to people who want to test Tamsin’s theory that I can’t write fiction because I’m not interested in other people (but you’re good when you’re writing about yourself).

Then, a few months ago, I found five copies of the original edition mouldering under one of the forward berths and decided on this idea of leaving them in marina laundries. I write a message on the fly-leaf asking people to leave the book in another laundry when they’d finished with it – and would they like to contact me and tell me where it’s got to? It’s like sending out messages in bottles.

By Sunday, Anne’s bookworm son, Sampson, had snaffled it and read it cover to cover – and, moreover, declared that he liked it.

Since I never waste an opportunity to plug a book, here it is: https://a.co/d/079DQuMq

 Hurricane Beryl had just crashed through Carriacou and taken a side-swipe at the Grenadines as she passed. I was in Trinidad’s Scotland Bay a hundred miles to the south watching it all on YouTube.

I had joined the exodus and was feeling exceptionally pleased with myself.

Here’s a tip: Never feel too pleased with yourself.

The next morning, I puttered back to Chaguaramas to complete Trinidad and Tobago’s byzantine customs and immigration process (How many people have died on the voyage other than as the result of an accident?)

I knew the way – just round the corner, round Delgado Point where the buoy’s missing, and someone has helpfully posted the fact on the Navionics Chart. Two miles round the corner was no trouble. I had just dodged a hurricane…

That was when I hit the rock. The rock that is clearly marked on the chart. The chart that I was not looking at because I’ve just got Starlink and had flicked over to Facebook to look at pictures of all the boats piled up like spilikins on the hard at Tyrrell Bay.

In other words, I wasn’t paying attention to the job in hand. It’s something I do a lot – have done all my life. People called me a dreamer (one of the kinder explanations).

What I say to myself when I knock a chunk out of a boat has not always been so forgiving. Hitting a rock at four knots is just the sort of thing I would beat myself up about for days. Samsara certainly didn’t deserve to lose a great scrape of gelcoat from the leading edge of the keel. Now she’ll have to come out for repair – more expense.

More reason to berate myself for the fool that I am.

Except I don’t do that anymore.

Now I know there is a reason for it – this not paying attention, these temporary absences from real life. This is classic ADHD.

Get over it.

If you would like to read about the other absurdities (and hilarities) that I lay at the door of this ridiculous mental kink. I have written my life story – now that I understand it. You can find it on Amazon. It’s called Faster, Louder, Riskier Sexier – Learning to love ADHD.

And if I do say so myself, it’s a cracking read.

But then I would say that, wouldn’t I? So, don’t take it from me. Take it from the first couple of reviewers.

One says: “I’ve read a few of John’s books and I read his blog, this book is his best work yet – in my opinion! “

Another writes: “This is a wonderful memoir and a great read… John writes with the style of a top journalist and the honesty of a great memoirist.”

https://amzn.eu/d/00WelhNb