It was when making the Indian Ocean passage from Singapore to the Red Sea in February 1982 with my wife and two teenage boys that I became aware of an undercurrent of humor aboard decidedly at the skipper’s expense.
Our yacht is a 46ft cutter, speedy and indeed luxuriously appointed but suffering one small defect. While there is no doubt that the Taiwanese builder felt exceedingly generous in including a 6ft berth in the after cabin, the question remains - which way around does the average 6ft 3” Australian skipper sleep? In my book, he has little choice but to rest with his head aft under the low deckhead, allowing his feet to arch gracefully into the space at the end.

So far, no problem, I can wrap them up in cold climates - and there is even the bonus of leaving one’s boots on between watches. But… stand by for the real catastrophe in the shape of the two teenage crew.
Under ship’s orders, all crew shall wake the skipper just prior to any imminent disaster. My understanding wife has learnt to whisper, ‘Darling we have a ship to port,’ and I am able to slip from berth gently without so much as touching the deck head 30” above to observe the ship.

My two teenage sons, however, have taken to calling, ‘Dad, Dad!’ in a most urgent manner. The resultant mirth at seeing their father sit bolt upright, only to bounce back to the horizontal after painful head contact with the deck head, can only be described as disrespectful.
It is perplexing problem and, not being given to discouraging my youthful crew, I have taken to wearing a crash helmet to bed while awaiting a better solution.

PS: Dad mad me type this a penance. MATTHEW