Big Adventures with Paula McGuire

THERE are many different points in my life when I reckon I should have been committed. I just didn’t have the dedication for the paperwork. In matters of occupation, I’m unashamedly butterfly-minded. Show me a hollyhock and I’ll fill my cocoon with the skills I need to cultivate it but, moments later, distracted by a shiny pansy, I’m off fluttering my antennae in its direction.

I’m a knitter, I’m a twitcher,

I’m a baker, and I’m a stitcher – basically I’m Steve Miller’s muse – but I’m also the very definition of a Jill of all trades. None can outmaster this dabbler.

That’s why I’m always amazed when I meet those for whom commitment is their daily bread and spread. And this week, not only did I meet a boatload of folk whose dedication was writ large, I threw on some waterproofs and jumped in, feet first, to join them.

If you’ve ever been to the coast, or read about the coast, or put your tea on a coaster, you’ve probably heard of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. While the location of the first RNLI lifeboat station is much contested, the value of their service is immeasurable. With lifeboat crews, lifeguards and flood rescue teams across the UK, the RNLI is known as the charity that saves lives at sea. But while I’ve visited its quaint little shops and held my chapter with their bookmarks,

I learned more in four hours spent onboard the Pride and Spirit on Monday evening than in three decades of trying to pretend the sea doesn’t exist.

Stop me if you’ve heard this before, but I’ve always been terrified of water. OK, I guess that particular phobia has featured pretty heavily in my memoirs, but it’s only because I don’t have the cash to pay for therapy. You’ll understand then that as I zipped myself into an oversized drysuit in the bowels of a lifeboat station on the Ayrshire coast, my own gastrointestinal tract wasn’t exactly fit for polite company.

Girvan Lifeboat Station, which celebrated its 150th anniversary last year, has a rich history of serving the community both on sea and land since its first boat, The Earl of Carrick, was launched in 1865. With many high-risk and high-profile rescues under its lifebelt, including the saving in 2015 of the fishing trawler MFV Spes Bona V in a force-nine gale and snowstorm, which earned second coxswain, Gary McGarvie, a distinction, there’s little doubt that the station is vital to any seafarers on its radar, but the crew themselves are an integral part of their local town. Police officers, supervisors, students: ordinary people just adding on that extra prefix.

Recent months have seen difficult times on our island’s waters, bringing to the fore again the importance of the service that RNLI lifeboats provide, but even when faced with news of their efforts, and acclaim for their recent Respect the Water campaign, I guess this aquaphobic city-dweller just never had cause to realise exactly how much the charity achieves and without any government funding.

That was all to change, of course, when I trudged down the Girvan dock towards the relief lifeboat for a weekly training session with the volunteer crew.

I should probably say that again: the volunteer crew. That was my first surprise – except discovering that yellow is quite slimming – each member of the crew is unpaid yet unbelievably dedicated. Only Bob McMaster, the coxswain and mechanic, is employed by the charity, and even he shows a level of commitment that bewilders me, not being able to leave Girvan’s quite narrow confines at any time without arranging for his role to be covered. Twenty-four hours a day, the crew carry pagers, and can at any point be called to an emergency by the launching authority, the inimitable Ian McClymont, whose enforced retirement from crew member at the age of 55 lasted barely until the end of the party.

Ian waved us off, as the eight-strong crew and I set sail for my first proper boat trip, after it had taken me an inordinate amount of time just to get the kit on. I tell you that because the average launch time for the team, from pagers to pontoon, is eight minutes. Just stepping on board the Mersey class boat turned my legs to pudding consistency, even though I was sporting a lifejacket that could float a lead balloon. But then, I suppose noticing my own get-up was just that bit different from everyone else’s wasn’t helping matters.

For the first few nautical miles at least, I barely moved from gripping the guardrail, just marvelling at the skill-set one 11.6-metre vessel can contain. Mechanics, navigators, first aiders and kitchen-sink enthusiasts: it’s no wonder there’s an unemployment crisis when these guys can do all the jobs. But, as crew member and press officer Craig Sommerville explained, when a call goes out they’ve no idea what to expect, so the RNLI provides training for every eventuality.

And lucky little me got the chance to try as much of the job as possible for a bona-fide lubber of the land, beginning with steering the ship.

No exaggeration, being in control of a million-pound lifeboat is a lottery-winner experience. With Bob, whose 26 years’ experience has never left him high and dry, by my side, I took the wheel and unleashed the engines, even managing to pick up a man overboard, as Gary selflessly jumped into the waves and flagged me down.

Filled with glee at having had the full rescuer experience, only then did I realise I was dressed for the full rescuee experience. Jumping from a fast-moving boat too much of a leap for this adventurer, I stood on the edge, of both the boat and my sanity, and, for the first time in my 35 years, somehow ended up in the sea.

I don’t remember the chill of the water, although I was later told I would have lasted barely

20 minutes without the protective suit, I only remember the fear. As the lifeboat took off, leaving Gary and I out of sight, I imagined myself in actual danger: the drag of the swelling waves, the terror of the depth below. And finally, the joy of that bright orange craft pitching towards us, the crew keeping us ever in eyeshot, then hauling us like jetsam from the water’s grip.

Only then did I recognise the true value of commitment. Without the time, focus and sacrifice of the likes of Callum Govus and John Tait, and trainees Sean, Liam and Greg, that battle with the sea would be lost every time.

Safely back on dry-ish deck,

I took direction in navigation from John and fired off some flares that made the Blackpool Illuminations look like the Blackhill glowsticks, then pointed the boat in the vague direction of the station as we headed back ashore. The commitment of the Girvan lifeboat crew really challenged my own lack of staying power, and if my life of adventure continues to allow me such inspirational experiences, surely that’s still a course worth charting.