Behind Every Nelson Is a Very Tolerant Partner

It took my dear husband several years to convince me to join the ranks of the boating fraternity. Not because I was fundamentally anti-boating, you understand, but because I had the good sense to recognise obsession when I saw it.

He, on the other hand, was born into it.

Boats were woven into his DNA from a very young age. Sailing ran deep in his family and by the time he was sixteen he had already sailed something in the region of 1,600 nautical miles; his father gave him his childhood passage log a few years back and it was incredible to see where they had been. His devotion was such that at sixteen years old he hand-built his first boat himself, refusing help from anyone, in what I now recognise as an early warning sign of things to come.

My own boating background, while not non-existent, was very different. Mine involved small outboard speedboats used for waterskiing on lakes, or beach-launched fishing trips along the Southern African coast. Boats, for me, were fun, practical, sun-drenched affairs, not objects of reverence.

So when we met, I was already aware that I was dealing with a man whose interest in boats went well beyond the casual. As a mechanical engineer, he had developed a particular and enduring idolisation of Nelsons in particular. He admired their sea-keeping capabilities, their classic lines, and their practical suitability for Solent conditions. Sailing, which he affectionately referred to as “sticks and string”, was most definitely not for him.

He wanted a Nelson.

Rarely did a week pass without him searching online for boats for sale. This resulted in me being hauled, often with admirable patience, all over the UK and occasionally Europe to view Nelsons that came onto the market. I wasn’t in love with them in the way he was, but I went along dutifully, viewing each one through the lens of what I would want from a boat, should we ever actually own one.

Years passed. Many trips were made. My resistance slowly wore thin.

At one point I very nearly agreed to buying a small, beautifully laid-out Seaward 23 that was only eighteen months old and sadly up for sale due to the owner’s ill health. It was charming, compact and sensible which, in hindsight, should have been my first clue that it wasn’t the right boat for us. There was very little that needed doing.

Then, in a rare moment of sanity, I declared it was simply too small. I had visions of inviting family and friends for weekends away, and this boat, lovely as it was, just wouldn’t do. And so we carried on looking.

Until one foul, grey, wet and bitterly cold day at Shepherds Marina in Cowes.

We stepped aboard Alliance with our dog on his lead. The weather outside was miserable, but inside the boat felt warm, safe and quietly welcoming. We made a cup of tea. We sat. And somewhere between that tea and my general tiredness, my resistance finally crumbled.

In what I can only describe as a moment of insanity, I capitulated.

We became the owners of a very fine, 40ft, 12-ton Nelson. A leviathan which, it soon became clear, was now the undisputed centre of my husband’s world.

Learning the Language (and Other Early Warning Signs)

During our many viewings we met some genuinely lovely people, and along the way we were given what turned out to be exceptionally sage advice: "use the boat for at least six months before deciding to do anything to it".

This, we were assured, would allow us to get to know her quirks and peculiarities, how she moved, how she behaved, and occasionally how she very firmly refused to do either.

We followed this advice and spent our first six months of ownership simply getting to know Alliance. For my husband this was a continuation of a lifelong relationship with boats. For me, it was a steep and occasionally bewildering learning curve.

I suddenly found myself having to learn an entirely new language. Words I had previously understood perfectly well in normal life now meant something completely different. Fenders were not car parts. Heads were not anatomical. A Painter did not arrive with a ladder. I learned port and starboard, bow and stern, cleats, bollards, lazaret, galley and more ways to tie ropes than I would ever have thought could practically exist. I soon got to grips with the navigational markers and the use of the radio – though we still argue about “over” – something I was not encouraged to say on my radio course, but let’s move on…

My husband, it must be said, was an impatient but diligent teacher. Like most couples thrown into a shared technical challenge, we eventually found a routine that worked for us, usually involving him doing the explaining and me not being quite as appreciative of being told what to do.

That first summer though, was an absolute delight.

We spent almost every weekend out in the Solent, proudly pottering about like people who absolutely knew what they were doing. Meanwhile, a list of “things that needed attention” was quietly growing at an alarming rate. Items rose and fell in priority as new discoveries were made on every trip. Some were practical. Some were cosmetic. Some were apparently urgent for reasons I never fully understood.

My chief irritation, however, was water.

Water that arrived through the windows.

Water that arrived through the myriad of holes.

Water that arrived despite everyone assuring me that this was normal.

My solution was simple and efficient: disposable puppy pads and large quantities of old towels. These were strategically deployed throughout the boat, although there were moments when even this system felt wildly optimistic.

The plan on our first day as the proud new owners, was to enjoy the boat and tackle a few jobs each year. Slowly. Sensibly. Until, in time, she would be exactly as we wanted her.

I now understand the naivety of this plan, and why it is said that the first casualty of any plan is the plan itself.

How a Rope Became an Eight-Year Refit

At the end of that first glorious summer, we took Alliance to Swanwick for a couple of days so we could attend the Southampton Boat Show. On our return journey from the Hamble to Gosport, in weather that can best be described as decidedly unfriendly, we picked up a rope around a propeller.

The shuddering was so violent I was convinced the boat was about to shake herself apart.

My husband, however, was calm, collected, and reassuringly composed. He shut down one engine and got us safely back to our home berth on the other. He immediately understood what had happened and, without hesitation, decided to don his diving gear and see if he could cut the rope free himself, in the marina.

When he resurfaced, the news was not good.

The nylon rope had melted itself firmly into place and Alliance would need to come out of the water. Unfortunately, our marina couldn’t lift our heavy girl, so arrangements were made to have her lifted at Hayling Yacht Company.

And this, is where things escalated.

While she was out of the water, my husband casually suggested that it might “make sense” to have the years of old antifoul sandblasted off the hull.

I am not entirely sure how we went from rope around the prop to an eight-year refurbishment project, involving the removal of virtually the entire engine room, the removal of the windows, and the removal of every skin fitting on the boat.

I just know that somewhere along the way I learned a great many new skills.

I learned how to scrape paint from GRP.

I learned how to fashion a makeshift boiler suit from bin bags.

I learned how to clean thick, disgusting sludge from fuel tanks.

I learned to cut and fit ceiling vinyl.

I learned about “while we’re at it...”.

My husband, meanwhile, was in his absolute element. This was literally his dream come true.

The Price (And Why We Paid It Anyway)

There comes a point in any project of this scale when a quiet but unavoidable conversation has to take place - usually late in the evening, often over a cup of tea about the sanity of spending eye-watering amounts of money that you will never, ever recoup.

And yet… you do it anyway.

As joint participants in this entirely insane venture, we made a conscious decision to stop keeping tabs on how much we were spending. As an entrepreneur, with a very clear understanding of cost versus payoff, I realised fairly quickly that I genuinely didn’t want to know. Ignorant bliss felt like a far healthier state of mind.

From that point on there was only ever one question when the next job inevitably arose: what does it cost?

If we had the money, we did it.

If we didn’t, we waited.

And so it took eight years. Eight years and thousands of hours of work.

It would be easy, very easy, to conclude that it wasn’t worth it. That the time, the money and the sheer effort outweighed any sensible return. But the price we paid was never just financial.

I don’t regret the money. I don’t harbour animosity towards the time or the endless sacrifices. But I also won’t pretend it was easy.

What price do you put on the happiness working on this boat brought my husband? He has always been about the journey, the problem-solving, the challenge, the quiet satisfaction of making things right. I, on the other hand, am far more interested in the destination. I am not especially invested in the journey itself.

And yet.

Through boating we have met some truly wonderful people. We have built friendships that would never otherwise have existed. And out on Alliance, we have created some of my most treasured memories, moments of calm, laughter, shared effort, and quiet pride.

We consider ourselves incredibly fortunate to have her. And we look forward to many more years afloat.

The Final Word (For Those Still Wondering What Just Happened)

So this is for the partners, the wives and long-suffering other halves, who have found themselves standing in a boatyard holding a spanner they didn’t ask for, listening patiently to a detailed explanation they didn’t request, while quietly wondering how this became their life.

And it’s also for the proud Nelson skippers themselves.

We see you. We know you are not reckless or irresponsible. We know you are thoughtful, passionate, and deeply committed, just not always to the things happening directly in front of you. We understand that this is never really about the boat. It’s about the challenge, the problem-solving, the quiet satisfaction of getting something right, and the peace that comes from being out on the water.

For those of us who live alongside this obsession, the sacrifices are real. The time, the money, the weekends, the holidays, the patience. But so are the rewards, the friendships formed, the memories made, the shared pride when it all finally comes together.

And while we may occasionally roll our eyes, sigh deeply, or mutter “of course you are” under our breath, the truth is this: we tolerate the madness because we love the man attached to it.

After all, every great Nelson deserves a tolerant crew.