For some people working for a company that sells sailing holidays would seem the ultimate perfect dream job. Dave Ross was nobody's sailor, even he admitted it but the job suited him. He was an almost thirty four year old graduate and now the lead Human Resources person in a sizeable public limited company that spanned most of the world.
He was responsible for the pay, holidays, sick leave, discipline and the general health, safety and welfare of representatives, crews, shipwrights, mechanics, cleaners, riggers and chandlers that operated and maintained the large fleet of large yachts from marinas in the United Kingdom, down across the Mediterranean; from Gibraltar, St Tropez, Amalfi and around Sicily and the heel of Italy into the Adriatic, The Ionian and Aegean seas, and then Cyprus to Port Said and across to North Africa.
Brave Sailors could sail across the Atlantic, by boat if they wished, and cruise anywhere from Maine down to the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, or alternatively fly to the West Coast of America and sail the Pacific from San Diego to Hawaii.
But Dave Ross hated the water,
"I don't swim in the same way I don't fly. When I develop gills or wings bring it on," he would say on those many occasions he was offered the chance to crew a yacht to or from the far flung locations that to him were just pins on a map.
He'd seen all sorts of yachting videos and figured he could do it, no question, he just didn't bloody want to! Dave just hated the pretentious crap spouted by the crews, skippers, and holiday makers in their stupid clothes who lived and loved the whole stupid concept.
A sheet for instance.
Sheets go on beds, everyone knows that.
There are sheets on a yacht.
Of course there are; for the money these people are paying they aren't going to put up with a fucking sleeping bag for heaven's sake.
"No, no, no!" the yachties would chortle at his idiocy, "it's part of the rigging!"
"What, like a sail?"
The hilarity of the sailors knew no bounds,
"A sheet controls the angle of the mainsail!" the main sailor all but howled, pronouncing it mainsa'l as if they knew this would piss him off even more.
"And it's made of rope?"
"Yes," said the sailor seeing Dave's look of incredulity, "but it's called a sheet..."
"Why not call it a rope..." said Dave.
The Sailor took a deep breath,
"There aren't any 'ropes' a yacht," he snapped "they are called 'lines'," he took another deep breath and with some inspiration added, "unless they are halyards, shrouds or stays."
"And they're made of rope?"
The sailor stuttered his reply,
"Or cord..."
"Fucking thin rope then." said Dave, finishing his coffee and going back to his computer and his nice files that were called 'files'.
He considered calling them 'personal detail portfolio's' and keeping them in large parchment ledgers rather than e-mail-able files seeing as many of his colleagues seemed like they wanted to use pointless fucking terms from the 18th century; perhaps he should pay them in doubloons rather than Sterling, Dollars or Euro's and rather than use the staff disciplinary system for workplace transgressions or late payments from clients he could have them whipped, keel-hauled or hung from the yardarm -- whatever the fuck a yardarm was.
He didn't mind Rum though.
It was his contempt for this pretention that first brought him to the attention of his new colleague who heard a similar rant about port, starboard, for'ed and aft, when he thought left, right, front and back served the rest of civilisation reasonably well.
Deborah or 'Debs' Conway was a former lone yachtswoman and had been a very minor celebrity as she had chosen to sail the world at a time just after the Olympics and hardly anyone knew despite the publicity from her sponsors. The pictures showed the side of her yacht marked "The Harry Conroy Veterans' Sailing Charity" and a swift Google search would show a picture of a young soldier killed in Afghanistan and the charity started in his name by his Father.
Once she stopped sailing the world and she hadn't been made a Dame she went to her local town hall where she received the British Empire Medal from the Lord Lieutenant and like many sports personalities before her she moved into motivational speaking, and was then employed by Worldsail International as the UK Operations manager, her lonely BEM photographed pinned to her corporate blouse.
Many of her new colleagues felt she was employed because of her name rather than her skill as manager and were concerned at some of her more random decisions and her rather unpleasant attitude.
She had been told off for bullying a young staff member who was slightly overweight saying that she didn't want any fatties on her bloody watch and berating her in front of two of her blonde, slim, now cringing crewmates arguing that there was no excuse for someone being overweight,
"less food, more exercise, simple," snapped the motivational speaker tapping her victim's belly.
The fatty in question was niece of the investment director and she phoned him in tears from the staff toilet within minutes of the incident.
Debs was made to apologise, and when she did stated that it was just tough love and merely grown up banter. She walked away from the sales floor with that director giving him the benefit of her hard-hitting creed, hating the twenty first century, entitled snowflakery she came across so often in the overpaid, molly coddled corporate environment found in Great Britain today. The Director didn't stop to ask her about exactly where she had come across that seeing as she had been at sea with injured veterans or as a lone yachtswoman for the last five or six years.
His niece was posted to the Med as a Rep in the Cyprus office and was more than happy with the change and the distance between her and her previous manager.
Within a few weeks of that she had reviewed and replaced the staff uniform going for cheap unbranded gear heavy with sponsorship logo's but short on comfort, and the nylon polo shirts that shrunk in the wash were universally detested as the numerous embroideries caused much itching and scratching across backs and shoulders, while the shorts caused sweating and rashes where temperate climate based staff least wanted that kind of thing; staff across the globe and out of her sight just ignored them except for photographs.
The smell of three or four staff members in any confined space was better talked about than endured that spring, and many brought a second set in for the afternoon after a lunchtime shower in the gym across the road. After the fifth week and no increase in the laundry allowance or clothing issue many didn't and just wore the same.
The long trousers were slightly worse.
Dave was a shiny arsed bureaucrat, self-confessed, and wore the same kind of smart casual attire he had for many years along with the other office based staff in the main building and away from the rich customers.
She called him into the office a few months into her job.
"Ah Dave," she said looking him up and down, "the trousers..." she waved her pointer finger up and down indicating them as if he hadn't cottoned on to her description.
"Yes?"
