A search-and-rescue helicopter

Anyway, so there we are, ten miles south of Portland Bill (which any sailor will tell you is an bad place to get into trouble). Force 6 or 7, eight- to ten-foot waves (wind against tide, so nasty steep ones), and I'm on the foredeck reefing (no roller gadgets on Piccolino)... when back in the cockpit the tiller snaps off at the base. (...A doorway closes behind us in hell...) We don't have a spare and can't jury-rig one, and it's getting dark. So we end up making a Mayday call. Hoping for a tow, we get not only the Weymouth lifeboat but a search-and-rescue helicopter on standby (pictured).

...and that's when the fun really starts. Being towed across (well, OK, along the edge of) the Portland Race and the Shambles bank is like nothing you've ever experienced at Alton Towers, nor would ever wish to. By the time you've puked up for the tenth time, the fun has worn off.

But the boat came through pretty well. She's a tough old lass, and we love her.
And all our thanks to the Weymouth lifeboat. Great people, and a great sailing destination, on happier days.

(The title quote is from Joseph Conrad, 'The Shadow-Line'.)

(Any sailor reading this might reasonably ask why we were south of Portland Bill with an adverse tide.The answer is that, coming from Salcombe with a strong wind behind us, we were a couple of hours ahead of schedule. The intention had been to pass south of Portland with the first of the next flood tide. Even the coastguard agreed that the wind was far stronger than had been forecast.)