I joined the local yacht club. There was a nice 37 foot deep keel jobba that had not sold in two or more years. It was cheap.
I found that it was impossible to handle that . . . and keep dry. One had to put on a mass of clothes to maintain body heat. One needed to row a little boat to get to the big boat. One needed to pull lots of strings - most of which had names One did not know. One needed to talk on the radio without saying Roger, or Wilko, or, climbing and descending. One especially needed not to find oneself saying, descending.
Buggah that.
Last flight in an Aerobat. Two big granddads upside down doing spinny things. Quite fun, but I'm size ten and he was size eleven. Shoulders pressed together. No, I want comfort, and not too much g. So, it didn't quite do it for me.
What then?
Well, Concorde's taken my fancy. After watching that Y-Tube the other day I concluded it would be a doddle to fly. Looking in the one at Duxford confirms this. Nothing there I couldn't handle - providing I managed the fuel as and when.
Just a matter of how I can steal one. With enough fuel. I could say Roger, and Wilko, and Queen Mike Dog as much as I liked. In fact, the more the better, t'would probably help with my defence - that and the underpants on my head and pencils up me nostrils.
God, I miss flying.