We were up early conscious of the fact we had to move. Our plan was to do so first thing and then go to Negombo, the spa resort, for the day. After breakfast we shut all the hatches and stowed our gear securely, then sat around, because it seemed a bit early to disturb people by coming alongside them. John went along to see what was happening in the marina office and arrived back to say we were off. We ran the engine for a bit, then John released the lazy line and I slipped both stern lines. John puttered out into the marina, whilst I coiled the ropes. One of the marineras waved at us from the usual pontoon, but from the opposite side to usual. I switched to the starboard side rope and John backed us slowly in. The lines went ok, but we were too close to the pontoon, so the marinera came aboard to help John pull up the lazy lines. The lazy lines are awkward here in that each thread from the shore is attached to two manky lengths of rope, one to go either side of the prow. It’s a good system for holding the boat, but it’s not obvious which hank of dripping grot goes to which side, they can get wound round each other if you guess wrong, and each one takes some pulling before it can be secured to a cleat. It was heroic of the marinera to volunteer to help with such a messy job. Though it meant that as I stood at the wheel ready to deploy the bow thrusters or move us forward I had two men telling me what to do, and they had different ideas. Anyway we ended up docked at number 122, Mum and Dad’s address, which gave me a pang. The marinera left us to it and we started to connect to shore power. John was just looping the lengths of cable round the stern when our man came back in his dinghy, his walkie-talkie spitting feathers. ‘Not to carry on! Very sorry, we were the wrong side. Please to come here by Callisto Rose.’ We prepared to go again.

Callisto Rose is another sailing yacht, but smaller than us and slightly lower. John reversed into the space next to her and we began the palaver all over again. I became concerned that our fenders needed moving to the middle to hold us off the smaller boat and as both men seemed happy enough at the front I left the wheel and adjusted them. I was going back to my post when the marinera came past me muttering to himself in Italian , clearly agitated. What on earth had John said to him? I looked forward. There was no John. I looked from side to side. He was just not there. It dawned on me he must be in the water, then I heard splashing on the starboard side and a familiar voice shouting ‘Turn the engine off!’ This I did and the three of us convened at the stern, we lowered the ladder and John climbed out dripping, but none to worse for wear. Turns out one of the lazy lines had caught on the anchor and in reaching to free it John had passed the point of no return and executed a perfect swallow dive into the harbour. Our man was clearly upset and motored about to retrieve John’s cap. Then Fausto arrived from the office looking very cool in his casuals, but also concerned. We made jokes and assured him all was well. Finally John could have a shower whilst I washed his clothes and dried out his phone, which fortunately also is no worst for the dip.

It was not the man overboard drill we had practiced, or indeed imagined. Thankfully John was completely unscathed, but it was scary how easily it happened and very eery realising he was gone and that I hadn’t heard him go.

After such an exciting start to the day we felt we deserved the spa and relaxed on a sun bed, dipping in and out of the various thermal pools till the sun passed the yard arm.