The boating holiday that was anything but plain sailing

Before I set off on a recent boating holiday on France’s famous Canal du Midi, I had two main concerns: That I’d somehow manage to sink the boat, or I’d be unable to park it without taking out a row of very expensive-looking vessels.

You don’t need a licence or prior experience to hire a canal boat in France. After a quick rundown on how the controls work – and a short test-sail – you’re handed the keys and sent on your way. Bon voyage! I’m no Popeye, but I did have a bit of previous boating experience.

Last year, I spent a highly enjoyable three days sailing around Lough Erne in Fermanagh. I absolutely loved it… except for the parking!

If Captain Nige was approaching a lonely mooring point, no problem. It didn’t matter if I failed at my first attempt; I could keep trying until I got it right without anyone there to laugh at my incompetence.

But I was extremely nervous any time other boats were nearby, mainly for fear of crashing into them and causing a floating pile-up.

So when my fiancée Emma surprised me with a boating holiday in Southern France to mark a milestone birthday, the only real apprehension I had was docking this very expensive piece of equipment.

To my relief, the first few days went surprisingly well. I was even beginning to feel a touch confident -maybe even a little smug.

I’d mastered the wheel, pulled off a few three-point turns and had gotten the hang of sidling into the mooring spots without much panic or profanity.

I was really enjoying the holiday. It was 33 degrees, hardly a breath of wind, and there was something about gliding along this beautiful 17th-century canal, flanked by tall trees and sleepy villages, that helped settle the soul.

But the serenity, as it turned out, was about to be short-lived.

The Canal du Midi has many locks that boats must pass through. These are essentially water elevators – enclosed chambers where boats are raised or lowered by opening sluices to let water in or out.

You sail into the lock, the gates close behind you, and the water level adjusts to match the next section of canal. Then the front gates open and away you go again.

It’s all very clever, and occasionally, very nerve-wracking.

Still, up to that point, we’d managed to pass through the locks without much incident.

Then came an early-morning assault on the famous Fonserannes staircase lock – a set of seven connected chambers that operate like an aquatic escalator.

It’s the Canal du Midi’s main event when it comes to locks, but I wasn’t too worried. My boating confidence had been growing by the day.

Even though it was only 8am when we started, the temperature was already pushing 25 degrees, and it only got hotter.

The hour-long descent down the seven-step staircase in sweltering heat was tense, requiring strong nerves and – crucially – good rope handling. Thankfully, Emma was up to the task, managing the ropes at the front of the boat with impressive calm while I took care of the rear.

The key to surviving these locks is keeping the boat steady as the water drops.

The ropes hold you in place, which is especially important as you’re normally sharing the space with two other boats.

We were so focused on surviving the gruelling staircase that we completely forgot to check what came next.

Turns out, it was ANOTHER lock just around the corner, and a lot less forgiving. I found out later it’s considered the most dangerous lock on the canal.

Already sweating from the staircase experience, we sailed in.

The lock-keeper directed me to a position behind a long boat and pointed to some white stripes painted on the wall, warning me that it was ‘bad’ to go behind them. He wasn’t wrong.

As the water began to empty, the back end of our descending boat caught on something. I didn’t notice at first – then came a loud crunch.

Suddenly, the front left of the boat began to drop as the water fell beneath it, while the rear right stayed stubbornly stuck.

A few seconds later, my feet were sliding. The boat was tipping.

The thought ‘I’m being sent for’ may or may not have crossed my mind as I scrambled away from the descending end, terrified of being thrown into the water. It was an enclosed lock. I could’ve drowned, been crushed by the boat – or both.

Looking on in horror, Emma was up above on the lock wall, screaming for help, but I didn’t hear her. Everyone later said I appeared calm during the incident, but truthfully, I don’t remember my thought process at all.

Adding to the chaos was the sound of smashing crockery as the contents of our kitchen cupboards slid violently to one side.

Thankfully, with a hard tug from the lock-keeper on the front rope – and maybe a minor miracle – the boat suddenly came unstuck.

It dropped with a violent thud, bounced a couple of times, and levelled out just as I grabbed the handrail.

That’s when I noticed a woman on the boat in front filming the whole thing on her phone… There’s always someone filming on their phone!

The lock-keeper shouted at me angrily, which only made me feel worse.

I sailed out in shame, picked up a visibly shaken Emma, and tried to process what had just happened.

To be fair, the group of Australians on the boat ahead made a point of checking on us.

They were furious with the lock-keeper, feeling he’d been negligent in where he placed our boat and inattentive to what was unfolding (he was apparently in his cabin when it all kicked off).

They also kindly gave us the 30-second video that the woman recorded, complete with her panicked commentary, which went exactly like this: ‘Holy f**k… f**king f**k… f**k!’

Post-trauma, things eventually calmed down. A technician from the boat company came to inspect our vessel.

Apart from broken plates and a flooded toilet – water had come in through its small window – the boat was still in one piece.

It was a terrifying experience, no doubt. But there were dozens of other memorable moments that made the trip worthwhile. (I REALLY wish someone had recorded my flawless reverse parking into a busy marina that same evening!)

There was no more boating after that. But moored up for the night with a glass of wine and the odd duck for company, I put on some tunes and watched the sunset feeling… a wee bit proud.

I’d captained the boat for 100km, conquered the locks (sort of), survived the insect bites, battled the heat, and lived to tell the tale.

Oh, and to the Australian woman who caught the incident on camera: Thank you. Your panicked expletives might just be the best souvenir of the entire trip!

‘The thought ‘I’m being sent for’ may or may not have crossed my mind as I became terrified of being thrown into the water’