Bryn was born in Vancouver in 1962, but his parents grew up some 7,000km away in the United Kingdom. His father was an engineer from Liverpool, his mother a farmer’s daughter from North Wales. Their relocation to Canada was driven by a tantalising job offer from a construction company.
A small sea-view cottage was bought in a remote part of West Vancouver with the plan to transform it into a substantial family home. When it was finished, his father would buy a boat. After five years toiling away in the tool-filled workshop, the refurbishment was complete, and a 28-foot wooden Herreshoff sailing boat called Bilidwca (Welsh for cormorant) was duly purchased. There followed endless adventures at sea on Canada’s beautiful West Coast.
“Although Mum willingly came along, sailing was not her passion, so I became Dad’s de facto first mate,” says Bryn. “With assistance from my younger brother and sister, we’d set the sails, take the helm and learn the rudiments of boat maintenance. After a while, Dad hankered after a boat he could use, rather than just fix, so he traded Bilidwcafor a less troublesome fibreglass Catalina 30 named Cariad– Welsh for sweetheart. Ironically, when I was 16, my sister 14 and my brother 12, my parents were no longer ‘sweethearts’ and they broke up.
“Dad was a member of no-frills Eagle Harbour Yacht Club and managed to leap from on-hand maintenance chap to Commodore. I have vivid memories of the annual Sailpast, where the entire EHYC fleet would exchange salutes and dipped ensigns with my father. All vessels had to remain out of the harbour until the Sailpast was complete, then the Commodore would lead them in, followed by a knees-up in the Clubhouse. Frightfully genteel.
“I was neither socially confident nor academically gifted and my high school was heavily into sport – what we North Americans call a ‘jock school’. I was in the wrong place. Lousy at football, tennis, golf, you name it, all I was good at was sailing, skiing and Boy Scouts. After graduation, I food-prepped in a restaurant, waited tables and moved behind the bar when I turned 18.
“Suddenly, I blossomed. I found alcohol, girls and, when I moved out of home, my independence. Age 22, I was doing rather nicely – a head barman with his own car – but an alarm bell was warning me I shouldn’t be serving drinks forever. On a Vancouver bus, I spotted a tear-off advert for the Canadian Coast Guard College and squirreled a strip of paper in my pocket to show my father.
“Dad’s impetus was for me to study an engineering degree at the University of British Columbia. I visited the campus, but it was too big, too scary and just too academic. No way. Instead, I put together a personal statement to apply for the Coast Guard. If accepted, I would commit to a three-year officer training programme followed by a minimum of three years active service. 2,200 individuals wrote applications, 220 of us were successful.
“I flew to the purpose-built campus on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, and was immediately wowed by the world-leading facilities, including simulated ship’s bridges, a planetarium, squash courts and football pitches. The instructors were senior mariners who’d moved ashore, and had a wealth of knowledge and anecdotes to share with us cadets. You could choose marine engineering or deck, I chose deck.
“After a few months, we were split off onto ships as officer cadets and, put off by the gruelling drill rig environment, loads of cadets quit straight away. I didn’t, I loved it, and flourished. In June 1987, 46 of the 220 graduated, with me ranked in sixth. They issued me with a trophy for Best Effort in a Second Language – French.
“It was time to decide where I wanted to be stationed. The West Coast was the most desirable, but the Laurentian region of Quebec was where all the Arctic icebreakers were based. Here, you would rapidly rack up sea time, quickly achieve key certificates, learn to navigate on a big river, the St Lawrence, and also improve your French. Thanks to my high rank, I got Quebec and, knowing it would take years, put in a transfer request to the West Coast on day one.
“We were 65 crew on a 115-metre ship and I went to the Arctic four times, usually as second officer. I also served on big offshore search and rescue ships, and the ‘buoy tenders’ which maintain the thousands of navigation aids on Canada’s coasts, such as buoys, lighthouses and fog signals. It was quite dangerous grappling with chains, cranes, cargo, and tides, on a daily basis, but I was sailing with a highly experienced team.
“Three years later, I finally got transferred out West and braced myself for the big homecoming. It was bittersweet, and I found the proximity to old family and friends stifling. I’d also observed the high rate of divorce and boozing in Coast Guard captains, many of whom were barely a few years older than me, and couldn’t see them retiring to make way for career progression. Despondency set in.
“Sequestered to an office job, putting together an analytical report on search and rescue assets, I thumbed a copy of Yachting World and my juices started to flow. After two months at a desk, I didn’t want to go back on a ship. I daydreamed of the British Virgin Islands and realised that my time with the Coast Guard was over. I tried to quit, but my shoreside captain insisted I take a year’s leave of absence instead.
“I flew to Tortola and tried to relax, but, with just a large backpack, British and Canadian passports, and a few thousand dollars to my name, I couldn’t. Within a week I had my first job with King Charters. They had five 50-foot motorboats, four in operation, and one they stole parts from to keep the others going, I slept on the broken-down fifth.
“Life revolved around barbecues, bikinis and rum punches, I was really missing the icebreakers – not. I’d left a girlfriend, Sylvie, in Quebec, and flew her to the Caribbean. We started working for The Moorings, taking easy-to-please American guests out for charter trips. It was fun, but after a couple of years working in too-close proximity, I headed back to Vancouver where my brother got me work on a construction site. I was the lowest paid but they worked me like a donkey.
“Mercury Launch & Tug then hired me to drive the 50-foot Fulford Spirit. Towing log booms and chipper barges, often through the night, I had no time for a social life but, when I asked for time off, the boss was always quick to remind me how well paid I was.
“Through some rather seedy circumstances, I met a guy called Bob who had a 78-foot schooner Private Dancer. Bob was going through a divorce and his wife’s lawyer aspired to rinse him. He had a plan to get his boat out the country while the legalities went through, and wondered if I might be the right guy for the job. So I left the tug and took Private Dancer to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. My delivery crew drifted home and I was left alone with the boat for nine months.
“I met Gabi, an Austrian air stewardess with Lufthansa. While the plane was on the ground in San Diego, she took time out in Cabo and we had a fling. Bob called, his divorce was wrapped up and he wanted his boat back. With no crew, and no money, I took it as far as LA and, with the Caribbean and Mexico now ticked off my travel list, I flew to Europe.
“Gabi was in Innsbruck where I taught skiing for a bit before heading to Antibes. For a French-speaker, it seemed like a smart idea. It turned out that huge yachts weren’t my thing, and the language counted for very little, so I grabbed an Atlantic crossing and did Antigua Race Week.
“Given racing crew’s lopsided ratio of men to women, it was inconceivable that I should encounter the girl of my dreams, but I did, in a bar, and her name was, and still is, Linda. Dual nationality, with a Croatian father and an English mother, Linda was an incredibly bright intelligent woman with a keen interest in skiing, tennis, motorbikes and playing the piano. She also had her Yachtmaster. When we met in 1995, Linda had been working for a German clothing manufacturer in London for 20 years, and taken leave to participate in the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers. We parted, Linda back to London, and me on a delivery to Palma, but I continued to hold a torch for her.
“Feet on the ground in Palma, I thought ‘this is the place!’. Cosmopolitan and with a late-night party scene, I decided I needed to find a full-time captain job, learn the language, and buy a house.
“Concurrently, and without each other knowing, Linda and I broke the news to our respective partners that we couldn’t see them anymore and we started dating. And then, in December 1996, I got my first proper yachting job – captain of custom Jongert 26-metre Amir. I was finally on the map.
“Thanks to Linda’s seniority, her boss gave her the freedom to join me on delivery trips. On one such occasion, we were sat on a beach in Sardinia and Linda agreed ‘this’ was all rather cool and exciting – but was it actually going anywhere? The jigsaw pieces slotted into place, if I proposed to her, she would be my wife, and we would be going everywhere together. An engagement ring was duly purchased in Athens and, in 1999, we had a trio of wedding celebrations in London, Croatia and at our new home in Mallorca.
“Amir’s owner asked me to prep her for an extended Caribbean – New England itinerary, so Linda jacked in her job and we sailed to St Lucia. Upon arrival, Linda asked customs and immigration to recommend a gynaecologist. As it happens, she was four months pregnant, but preferred I focus on the crossing rather than our budding baby-to-be. Megan was born in Aruba in 2001, something our daughter remains rather proud of.
“On Megan’s first birthday, I was made redundant. Linda returned to her clothing career and I became a house husband in Mallorca. When Linda announced her second pregnancy, it was deemed sensible that I got a job. I joined 26-metre Atalantain Saint Martin and brought her back to Palma. Sophie was born in 2003 and I called my billionaire Spanish businessman owner with the happy news. He congratulated me then promptly asked me to take the boat to Sardinia. I was gone for six months. After a couple of years, I managed to turn my back on Atalanta.
“Up next was captain on 25-metre Camper & Nicholsons Mustang for a kind Swiss family. When I joined, she was for sale. A client came to view her – from Vancouver no less. I figured out the prospective buyer knew my father, and the boat duly sold to him in 2006. I put in a second stint as an unemployed house husband, albeit with a 12-month wage bonus from the grateful Swiss. I envisaged a fancy car, a swish family holiday, but sensible Linda said no, a down payment on a buy-to-let in Palma please.
“Aside from the icebreaker and the tug, I took on my first motorboat, steel-hulled 90-foot Atlantic Lady, followed by 26-metre wooden-hulled Mizar, which chartered for short busy summers followed by long quiet winters. I got laid off in 2007, the same year Linda was offered a senior administration job with Absolute Boat Care. But, with two girls in private education, one salary wasn’t going to cut the mustard, so I accepted a position on a Russian-owned yacht moored near Rome.
“It was clear that the crew had left in a hurry, pyjamas on the floor and festering food in the fridge, so I fastidiously cleaned her up before the agent arrived. He informed me that I’d wasted my time, as the boat had recently been traded in for a 37-metre across the harbour and I should hop on over. Having hired an all-Italian crew, as per owner’s wishes, our planned Italy-based refit was cancelled in favour of one in Istanbul. It quickly became apparent that Turkish tradesmen should be working on tugs, not superyachts, and the crew started dropping like flies. The responsibility weighed hard and I spent just 40 nights at home that year, while Linda juggled a nine-year-old, a seven-year-old, and a job back in Mallorca.
“Returning from a desperately-needed break, I was shuttling between the domestic and international terminals at Barcelona and the phone went. It was the captain of 32-metre Sunseeker Smooth Operator. He’d been fired and thought I was the right man to fill his sea boots. I feigned toothache and flew from Istanbul to Germany for interview, slipping back into the shipyard that same evening. I got the job.
“My new owner was a very wealthy German with a vineyard in St Tropez, villa in Mallorca, and a hotel-marina in Croatia. He had high expectations. I raised my game and, at first, I loved it. Year two, he gave the Hamburg-based management company the heave-ho and asked me to take over. Year three, he requested I look into his 90-footer in Croatia. While the Sunseeker was beautifully run – excellent crew, fine champagne, fresh flowers – his other boat was rubbish. I flew over, conducted a survey, and noted that it lacked, among other things, love. I replaced the entire crew and mentored them to excellence. Then COVID-19 came along.
“Smooth Operator’s rigid annual routine was haul out in March, recommission in April, leave for the Monaco GP and Cannes Film Festival in May, come back to Mallorca mid-summer, an August Med cruise, September in Ibiza, and then berth in Alcudia for the winter. This year, we did the bare minimum at haul out, a quick pressure wash and antifoul, and left for St Tropez on 8 July.
“In France and Italy the parties were getting wilder, our neighbours more annoyed and, after nine years at the helm, it all felt a bit downmarket. What was going on? He asked me to take Smooth Operator through the Strait of Messina and, before I knew it, we were parked up alongside his other yacht in Croatia. And this is where he intended for her stay. Turns out I’d had a massive hand in my own demise. The owner was looking for a simpler itinerary with local crew, the very crew I’d painstakingly mentored. We’re going through a slightly uneasy handover as we speak.
“So, what next? The important stuff always has been, and always will be, in place. I have an excellent marriage and a strong bond with two happy high-achiever daughters. The girls and their two cousins each got given 1,500 pounds as teenagers and both decided to spend it on a horse. So, five years ago, we started renting a small stables near our house and have a dozen or so horses to keep us busy. Spending outdoor time as a family is far preferable to being glued to the TV. Linda and I play tennis each week, and on Sundays I get my fill of adrenalin and camaraderie with Airsoft, a tactical shooting game in the woods, similar to paintball in concept but without the paint splatters.
“Career-wise, with two passports, Coast Guard training, three languages, and 20 years in yachting, I have several pokers in the fire. The natural tendency is to gravitate towards a bigger yacht, but I also find myself drawn to the stability of the land. Refit management could be a good path, particularly with the benefit of a captain’s perspective. Whatever happens, Linda will support me. She’s used to me being away and, between Absolute Boat Care and the stables, has quite enough to keep her occupied without needing me to be constantly by her side.”
Sarah Forge, hello@sarahforge.com
