Solent Sail & Soldiering: Joint Services V34s, MOB Drills & Mess-Night Banter | The Parallel Four

In this true-to-life episode of The Parallel Four, the team trade briefing rooms for the Solent—skippering Joint Services Victoria 34s out of Gosport with half the Group aboard. Expect RYA Yachtmaster precision, man-overboard drills, tight tacks into Beaulieu River, and hops through Cowes, Ocean Village, Yarmouth, and Gunwharf Quays—all while staying on standby if the balloon went up. It’s classic British military life: leadership at sea, morale in the green, and mess-night humour that keeps veterans ticking.

You’ll get:

• Real Army sailing on V34s: safety briefs, MOB under sail, chartwork, tide, and teamwork
• Authentic stops and stories: Hornet, Blue Crab, Wetherspoons logistics, QHM calls, and that sacred tactical bacon
• Veteran camaraderie from the 1970s, 80s, 90s & 00s through to modern deployments—Rugby, Skiing, and life between tours

If you love military and life stories, RYA seamanship, and no-nonsense veteran humour, climb aboard.

Transcript

In the middle of all that bustle, our pre-planned sailing expedition loomed on the calendar—five days on the Solent with the Joint Services Victoria 34s. Not just us four this time, but half the Group, split across the boats, with Johan, Stephen, Marlin, and me taking the skipper slots.

On paper it looked indulgent—who takes a sailing jolly when the world’s about to catch fire? But the head shed saw the sense in it. It was local, it was short, and if the balloon went up we could be back in hours. Worst case, we’d radio in our apologies from Portsmouth Harbour and leg it back to Chicksands. Truth was, we all needed it. The lads were wound tighter than winch handles, and the intel cell was running on more espresso than blood. A few days at sea—ropes in hand, sails up, wind in our hair—wasn’t just a break. It was a pressure valve. Better to have them hauling sheets and calling gusts than snapping at each other in the messes.

Too right. Give a bloke a halyard and a horizon and he remembers how to breathe. Give him another briefing and he’ll chew the table. Out there, the only acronyms that mattered were TWS and ETA—and no one tried to laminate those.

By then we were all Yachtmaster Offshore and Cruising Instructor qualified—proper stamps, proper logbooks. It’s almost funny, thinking how long we’d sailed without a single certificate between us. Years of Sea Cadets, summers on the water, boat handling until it was muscle memory… and still no paper to prove it.

Aye, for ages we were just “that lot who know their way round a boat.” The Navy kept tossing us sails and saying, “Try not to hit anything expensive.” Eventually someone decided our competence should come with initials, so we sat the exams, ticked the boxes, and—miracle of miracles—turned experience into paperwork. Same sailors, just shinier folders.

It wasn’t until after the first Gulf War, when the tempo finally eased, that we got the chance to tick the RYA boxes properly at the Joint Services Adventurous Sail Training Centre in Gosport. It felt strange—like being asked to prove you could ride a bike after a lifetime of pedalling. But rules were rules. We smiled politely, tied our knots under the examiner’s nose, plotted our bearings on neat chart work, and pretended it wasn’t second nature.

Yeah, and the examiners acted like they were unveiling the mysteries of the deep. “Show me a clove hitch,” one said, all serious. I wanted to ask if he preferred it one-handed, blindfolded, or in a gale, but I kept me gob shut. We played the game, ticked the boxes, and walked out with shiny Yachtmaster tickets.

And that changed things. Suddenly we weren’t just the salty ones who “probably knew what they were doing.” We were officially qualified—recognised skippers and instructors, signed off in triplicate.

Which is how the four of us ended up volunteered—notice the word—for the grand Solent expedition. “Responsible adults,” they called us. That still makes me laugh.

We’d cut our teeth back in C Squadron days, running expeditions and skippering Troopers across the Baltic and North Sea like some modern-day Hornblower—though our kit was Gore-Tex, our charts backed up with GPS, and our courage fuelled mostly by instant coffee. Sweden became our unofficial advanced course: slipping lines at first light, ghosting through the granite channels of the archipelago, and, every so often, giving the Swedish customs boats rather more excitement than they’d asked for.

Aye, and then there was Kiel. The British Kiel Yacht Club had this habit of “loaning” us boats—which, funnily enough, always came back with more dents in the galleyware than when they left. We’d pack ’em with squaddies for a week of “bonding.” Translation: half the lads learned to sail, the other half learned just how small a marine bog feels in a Force 5. Morale, they called it. Nothin’ like tryin’ to heave your guts out while your mate’s hangin’ on the other side of the same bucket.

Yet somehow, it worked. By the time we brought them back, they were tighter crews—stomachs steadier, language saltier, and all of them more respectful of the sea. Even the bucket earned a kind of grudging reverence.

So by the time the Solent expedition rolled round, we weren’t just keen—we were quietly smug. Years of Baltic crossings, Kiel dets, and archipelago dawns had given us all the experience, and now the paperwork to prove it. We even had the sea stories polished and ready, enough to keep the mess bar entertained for years. The only real gamble was the half of the Group we were dragging with us. Most of them thought “tacking” was something you got punished with and “sheet” was still firmly in the laundry category.

So Monday morning came—bright and early, at least for us. While most folk were just figurin’ out which way their kettle handle worked, we’d already signed out with the Ops Officer and shoehorned twenty bleary-eyed volunteers into two trusty minibuses. Off we trundled, kitbags piled high, chatter bouncin’ round the windows, destination: Gosport. A whole week of “messing about in boats,” official stamp and all.

We rolled through the gates of the Joint Services Sailing Centre at 0800 sharp, greeted in the traditional style: confusion at the guardroom, a clipboard shoved under someone’s nose, and the unmistakable smell of wet Gore-Tex lingering in the corridor. From there it was straight down to the pontoons. Four yachts waited—Victoria 34s, sturdy little things, built like brick outhouses with masts. Just looking at them settled something inside me. After weeks of frenetic planning and noise, here was clean order: rope, sail, tide, wind.

Yeah, and then came the fun bit—crews meetin’ their new homes. You’ve never lived till you’ve seen a bloke tryin’ to figure out which bunk he can kip in without bashin’ his head every time the kettle boils.

First order of business: stowing the mountain of personal kit. Within ten minutes the cabins looked like an explosion in an Army surplus store. Bergen bags wedged in lockers, boots dumped in corners, sleeping bags unravelled like snakes. The same questions echoed from boat to boat: “Where do I put my boots?” “Which way does this sleeping bag go?” and, inevitably, “Why does it smell like damp dog in here?”

Next came the grand tour—led with all the solemnity of a regimental inspection—straight to the most important bit of kit on board: the heads. Twenty keen faces stared blankly as we explained “pump before you flush.” The dawning horror was priceless. I swear one lad looked like he’d rather bivvy in the cockpit for a week than go anywhere near that contraption.

Then it was time to issue oilskins in bulk. Within minutes, our bright-eyed volunteers had transformed into something between RNLI crew and weary North Sea trawlermen. Hoods up, braces dangling, and enough bright yellow to make the sun itself squint.

I couldn’t help meself. “All we’re missin’ now is a crate of kippers and a BBC documentary crew,” I muttered. Half the lot groaned, the rest laughed nervously—clearly wonderin’ if I was jokin’.

By the time we’d finished, the four boats looked less like finely tuned expeditionary units and more like contestants in some bizarre military-sailing reality show. And it wasn’t even 10 o'clock yet.

Before lunch, the four of us were summoned upstairs to brief the Chief Instructor on our cunning plan for the week. He wanted everything covered—where we’d sail, what we’d do if someone fell overboard, who was on sunburn watch, and what we’d try if someone decided mutiny was preferable to seasickness. Most of all, he pressed us on contingencies if the balloon went up. We assured him—hand on heart—that we could be back at Chicksands quicker than he could shout “All hands on deck!”

Aye, and I couldn’t resist mutterin’, “Quicker still if the Naafi bar was open.” Vinka gave me the look, so I shut up sharpish. Didn’t stop a couple of the others grinnin’, though.

Then came the all-hands safety brief. The Chief Instructor delivered it with the full weight of RN authority, planting our twenty would-be sailors in the lecture room and running through the essentials: lifejackets, lifelines, fire extinguishers, flares. His refrain was simple: “The sea is trying to kill you, so don’t help it.”

He went on about port and starboard, bow and stern, the usual ABCs of boats. But the real highlight was when he pointed at the flare box. “No one touches the red handle unless you fancy a fireworks display that’ll get us banned from Portsmouth Harbour for life.” That woke a few of ’em up.

And finally, his pièce de résistance: the lecture on the heads. “Gentlemen and ladies—pump before you flush, or you’ll discover why sailors are a superstitious bunch.” The collective shudder that ran round the room suggested the message had landed.

Formalities complete, we herded everyone to the Hornet Sailing Club for lunch. Chips, sandwiches, and mugs of tea vanished in record time—ten minutes flat, the kind of speed only a Battalion on scoff drill could manage. Then it was back down to the pontoons, lines slipped, and sails cracked open for our first leg: an afternoon hop across the Solent to Cowes Yacht Haven.

Now, officially, it weren’t a race. Unofficially—well, you try tellin’ Marlin and Vinka that. They had their sails trimmed tighter than a drumskin and their crew grinding winches like they were in the America’s Cup. Me and Johan? We were apparently left “admiring their wake.” I still say the tide was against us. Funny how no one ever believes me.

By the time we glided into Cowes, the sun was dipping and the marina was bustling with weekday sailors. All four boats tied up neat and tidy—apart from one slightly over-enthusiastic fender deployment that went off like a cannon and startled half the pontoons. But no harm done: boats secure, crews intact, and morale high.

Day one—Monday—chalked up as a success. And if anyone asks, it definitely wasn’t a race.

After checking in with the Ops Room—who, thankfully, reported that the world had not yet descended into chaos—we did the dutiful thing and let the Joint Services Centre know we’d arrived safely. With the admin boxes ticked, priorities swiftly rearranged themselves: straight to The Anchor for dinner and a couple of pints.

By then the crews were lookin’ the part—damp oilskins strung up like scarecrows after a bad harvest, salty hair stickin’ out at angles you couldn’t iron flat, and woolly hats dragged down so low they looked like they were tryin’ to rob the place.

Conversation flowed as freely as the beer—half the table boasting about who’d trimmed their jib best, the other half moaning about the cold. Steaming plates of fish pie and shepherd’s pie made the rounds—though after the second pint no one could remember which was which.

At one point I leaned across the table, smirkin’ like I’d just invented sailin’. “See? Smooth day. No dramas. Not even a mutiny.”

By the end of the evening, the younger lads were already slumping into their pints, eyelids drooping like tired sails. The rest of us—seasoned professionals in both seamanship and bar work—were still holding court, embellishing our Force 7 war stories until they sounded like epic odysseys. Eventually, we shepherded our bleary flock back down the pontoon, the slap of halyards and the creak of mooring lines rocking us into that rare kind of sleep you only find after salt air, teamwork, and just enough ale.

Tuesday dawned bright, and better yet—no world in flames. Always a comfort when the Ops check-in comes back “all quiet” instead of “pack your bags and leg it.” Bacon was on before half the crew even had their boots on. You could smell it clear across the marina—best alarm clock in the world, that.

By 1000 sharp we were squared away: gear checked, breakfast stowed, crews briefed. Lines slipped, fenders tucked, sails drawing, bows pointed west along the Solent. The plan was simple—man-overboard drills. Nothing says “good morning” quite like hurling a fender into the sea while bellowing “MAN OVERBOARD!” with full theatrical panic.

Aye, and nothin’ sobers up a lad faster than seein’ his “casualty” floatin’ off the beam while he’s still wonderin’ which way the sheet runs. Forget hangovers—the quickest cure’s the shout of “Helm to leeward!” and a scramble for the boathook.

The first attempt was a shambles. One crew tacked so enthusiastically they nearly scooped up the wrong fender, while another forgot the golden rule—never take your eyes off the casualty. Cue four sets of binoculars scanning the Solent for a very smug yellow buoy drifting cheerfully toward Portsmouth. Still, practice makes sailors. After a few more runs—first under power, then under sail—the rhythm clicked. By the last drill, you’d think we were auditioning for the RNLI.

Aye, once the penny dropped, they went from Laurel and Hardy to lifeboat heroes. Fenders plucked from the briny with all the drama of a rescue at sea. Even had a lad shoutin’ “I’ve got ya, mate!” like he was pullin’ Nelson himself out the drink. Not bad, considerin’ half of ’em couldn’t tell port from starboard yesterday.

Satisfied no one was going to let their crewmates drown—at least not without a decent chase—we dropped anchor in Newtown Creek for lunch. The sun shone, the kettle hissed, and the only sounds were the clink of enamel mugs and the occasional snore from someone who’d taken “stand easy” a little too literally.

For a moment it felt like we’d stumbled into a recruitment advert—blue skies, happy crews, teamwork, and the faint perfume of teabags and diesel. A far cry from the buzzing war rooms back at base.

After a cracking afternoon on the water—with everyone taking turns on the helm and winches, and only one minor incident involving a rogue sheet, a pair of sunglasses, and vocabulary not found in the RYA handbook—we ghosted into Ocean Village Marina just after five.

The marina staff must’ve taken pity on us—or maybe just wanted the noise contained—because they packed us into four berths side by side, neat as a row of tin hats. Lines made fast, fenders squared away, and the usual round of phone calls: Ops Room first (still no sign of World War Three), then Joint Services. Safe, afloat, and—believe it or not—bang on schedule.

With the admin done, the mood shifted instantly into shore leave mode. Oilskins were swapped for fleeces, boots for trainers, and suddenly the marina walkway looked less like a military expedition and more like a school trip. Destination: Wetherspoons.

Ah, the hallowed halls of British seafaring tradition. Forget rum, sodomy, and the lash—our lot celebrated with mixed grills, curry clubs, and pints of Doom Bar under the glittering chandeliers of some converted bank. Nelson would’ve wept… or joined in.

We’d long since learned the hard way that cooking proper dinners onboard a yacht was about as sensible as attempting to deep fry something in a Force 6. The chaos, the smoke, the swearing—it just wasn’t worth the effort. So we kept to the tried and tested system: breakfast and snacks onboard, dinner ashore. Simple, reliable, and far less combustible.

Saved time, saved tempers, and saved us from the horror of scraping burnt pasta off a “non-stick” pan with the edge of a credit card. More to the point, it kept morale in the green. A hot pub meal and a pint at the end of the day did more for team spirit than any number of “mandatory fun” lectures.

It also stopped the younger lads from imagining Pot Noodles were an acceptable food group. Instead, they discovered the joys of local fish and chips, pies, and anything else the pub could shovel onto a plate.

Boil-in-the-bag rations never stood a chance against a pint and proper chips. Morale of the story? Feed ’em well, and no one complains about cold oilskins in the morning.

Wednesday dawned with that perfect kind of blue sky—sharp, clear, the sort that makes sailors grin and landlubbers reach straight for the sunscreen. While the crews fuelled up on bacon butties and instant coffee, we ran the usual check-in with the Ops Room. Still nothing dramatic on the horizon, which meant we were cleared to stick with the day’s plan: sail west to Yarmouth and finish with dinner at the Blue Crab. In our completely unbiased opinion, it served the finest fish and chips on the south coast. Possibly the world.

Lines slipped at 0930, sails drawing not long after, and suddenly the Solent was ours. The wind was playful but steady—just enough to keep everyone busy without sending mugs of tea skitterin’ across the cockpit. By mid-morning, the crews were trimming sails with all the focus of America’s Cup contenders. Only difference was, their “communication style” sounded more like market traders arguing over cabbages.

We mixed in a few navigation exercises, kept the charts busy, and threw in a string of tacks to sharpen reflexes. They were starting to look like a team—lines coiled properly, winches handled with confidence.

Mind you, not every move was poetry. One gybe nearly fed someone’s hat to Neptune, saved only by a last-second grab that had the whole cockpit cheering. Graceful? Not quite. Entertaining? Absolutely.

The sail over was glorious, the Solent behaving itself for once and everyone properly getting stuck in. Just to prove we hadn’t gone soft, we set ourselves a challenge: entering the Beaulieu River under sail alone. Marlin and I went first, all precision and calm, dropping the hook like we were auditioning for the cover of a yachting magazine.

Then me and Johan had a go. Let’s just say it was “textbook—with amendments.” Bit of mild panic, some colourful Anglo-Saxon that’d never make the RYA syllabus, and somehow we still ended up lookin’ smooth at the finish. Crew gave us a round of applause anyway—though I reckon half of it was relief we hadn’t pranged anything.

Lunch was simple but perfect: sandwiches, crisps, mugs of tea, and the gentle flap of sails overhead while gulls squawked and wheeled. It was the kind of pause that made the whole expedition worthwhile—calm, sun-warmed, and shared.

Then, with a bit of theatrical flair, we sailed cleanly off anchor and pointed our bows across to Yarmouth. The harbourmaster clearly fancied a laugh, so he rafted us up two by two—the girls’ boat snug on the inside, ours tied alongside like the rowdy cousin at a wedding reception. Lines made fast, gear stowed, and just like that we were settled, ready for another crackin’ night ashore.

Once we’d checked in with the Ops Room—still no sign of global catastrophe—we dutifully called Joint Services, then tucked the boats up for the night like proper yachtsmen. Sails were flaked, lines coiled neat, fenders puffed up like marshmallows. With everything shipshape, we set off on our customary Yarmouth wander.

We must’ve been a sight, troopin’ past the ferry terminal. Tourists gave us that look—tryin’ to work out if we were Navy, Coastguard, or some stag DO that had gone badly wrong. Past the Royal Solent Yacht Club we went, marchin’ like we owned the place, straight into sacred territory: The Blue Crab.

Dinner was everything we’d promised the crews. The fish arrived in golden armour, the chips were stout enough to take on a Royal Marine and win, and the tartar sauce actually tasted of more than mayonnaise. Plates vanished in record time, laughter rolled across the tables, and the weariness of the day melted into warmth.

Then it was down to The Bugle for a couple of pints. Locals listened politely as we spun our sea stories, smilin’ and noddin’ in all the right places. Proper professionals at humourin’ sailors, they were. Didn’t stop us stretchin’ the truth a fair bit—Force 5s were Force 8s by the end of the night.

Eventually, with the sort of contentment only good food, good ale, and a steady berth can provide, we ambled back along the cobbles and collapsed into our bunks—well fed, well watered, and quietly chuffed with ourselves.

Come breakfast, the smell of what we called tactical bacon drifted through the cabins. Tea, toast, fryin’ pan cracklin’ away—it was better than reveille. We rang into Ops—still no apocalypse brewing. The PM was sweating on telly, but that weren’t our problem just yet. Green light for one last full day afloat.

The plan was simple but sweet: meander east across the Solent, drop the hook somewhere scenic for lunch, then carry on to Gunwharf Quays for a suitably posh final night ashore. And what a day it turned out to be. Sunshine, a steady breeze, and crews who, by now, worked like well-oiled winches instead of the startled meerkats we’d set out with. Lines handled with quiet confidence, sails trimmed neatly, tacking drills that looked more like choreography than chaos.

We swept back through the Solent, sails drawin’ proper, and dropped the hook in Osborne Bay for lunch. Crackin’ spot, that. Tradition demanded a dip, and apparently none of us had any sense of self-preservation. One by one we piled over the side, shriekin’ and swearin’ as the cold hit us like a slap. I reckon the gulls learned a few new words that afternoon.

Once we’d hauled ourselves back aboard—dripping, shivering, and loudly insisting we “felt refreshed”—we sailed off anchor like seasoned pros and kept the engines silent until it was time to line up for Portsmouth Harbour. A quick call to the Queen’s Harbour Master gave us clearance through the inner swashway, and after a textbook crossing from Ballast Pile we glided into our berths at Gunwharf Quays. Precision worthy of a Royal Navy gun salute—though with a few more rope burns, a couple of near misses, and sadly no band to play us in.

Once tied up, we flipped straight into “tidy-up-and-get-out-fast” mode. Did just enough to keep the Joint Services staff happy—not a whisker more. That night we treated ourselves to a proper sit-down at Gunwharf. No greasy spoons this time—plates, cutlery, the works. One last drink, a few belly laughs, and then back to the boats for an early kip. Even sailors know when to pace themselves.

By 0700 the next morning, we were across the harbour, cabins stripped, gear packed, decks scrubbed. All four yachts were handed back with military precision by 0900.

And by 0910 we were piled into the minibuses, heading north with one mission in mind—beat the Friday traffic and get back to Chicksands before some bright spark dreamed up a new acronym and dragged us into a meeting.

Because we were running ahead of schedule—rare as hen’s teeth in military circles—we made a tactical breakfast stop at Loomies, the legendary biker café perched on the A32 A272 junction. Famous for fry-ups, infamous for its coffee, it had been one of our regular haunts back in the motorbike days. It didn’t disappoint. Bacon: crispy. Sausages: sizzling. Mushrooms: possibly tinned, but at that moment nobody cared.

Morale suitably restored, we rolled on—droppin’ a few unlucky souls in Aldershot (poor sods) before pointin’ the convoy back to Bedfordshire. By the time we pulled into Chicksands, it was just shy of lunch. Post-sarnies, we even gave the minibuses a wash. Well—more enthusiasm than usual, anyway. Someone actually found a pressure washer that worked.

Keys handed back to MT, check-in with the CO and Ops Room complete, and then—miracle of miracles—we were cut loose for the weekend.

Five days at sea, no mutinies, no casualties, no summons from Ops. And a weekend off. That’s about as close to a perfect exercise as you’ll ever get.