Phew! The day I rescued Boris the windsurfer for a grateful nation
IT WAS the summer of 1981 and the family was on holiday in Corfu. One morning, Boris went windsurfing in the bay and headed straight for albania. when we saw him, far out to sea, fall off the windsurfer and fail to restart, I said to Jenny: ‘I’d better get out there.’
My swimming technique is slow but serviceable – ‘crawl’ is le mot juste – and it took me about 20 minutes. I think Boris was pleased to see me. The strait between Corfu and albania is only about two miles wide at that point. If he had gone much further, he might have found himself in a Maoist prison. ‘Leave it to me,’ I panted.
while Boris swam back, I heaved the sail up in the approved fashion. amazingly, I kept my balance. The windsurfer took off, heading, of course, even closer to the albanian coastline.
Half an hour later, I had given up all attempts to sail the windsurfer. Instead, I lay on the board face-down, having jettisoned the sail, using my hands to try to paddle it back.
I wasn’t making much progress. In fact, I was wondering whether I might not have to swim back myself, when I heard a shout. ‘I say, aren’t you our Euro MP? Freddie, come over here and take a look. That’s Stanley Johnson, isn’t it?’ I’m not making this up. I looked up to see a group of English, holidaymakers gazing down at me from the taffrail of a pleasure boat. I recognised one of them at least. what on earth was Freddie Emery-wallis, the leader of Portsmouth City Council, doing on that boat? He had a gin and tonic in his hand. ‘Can we get you a drink?’ he shouted.
In the end, they threw me a line and towed me to shore. Phew!