AREN’T the best things in life always done in private — like inviting your friends to join you on your yacht in the Mediterranean for an exclusive party? Not in that tax bracket? Neither am I, but I still managed a week’s private charter with my husband, David, and three other couples along Turkey’s aptly named Turquoise Coast last summer.
It may sound swanky, but forget yachts, which are either too pokey (think of Ellen MacArthur), or too flash (think of Philip Green). The secret is to hire a Turkish gulet (pronounced “goolet”), a handsome replica of the wooden boats that once plied the trade routes, and let your crew take the strain. Until Turkey joins the EU, it remains a relatively inexpensive country, which is why we could afford the charter of Tersane II for the eight of us, even though it sleeps 16.
Tersane, which means “boatyard” in Turkish, is a glamorous diva, and one of the biggest beauties trawling the Lycian coast. She is 37m (120ft) long with polished teak decks, mahogany cabins with better showers than many four-star hotels, and comfy blue upholstery for snoozing and tanning on the vast sun deck, which we christened the toast rack.
She is so gorgeous that people stare in envy every time we pull into harbour. Unashamedly rising to our new status, we soon perfect our pouts, condescending nods and cries of “pass the fizz, daaaahling”.
We had the time of our collective lives, but it didn’t start out well. We were flying over Prague when the captain announced a return to Gatwick to repair a technical fault. With visions of spending the first night of our week in an airport hotel, I burst into tears. I know it wasn’t my fault, but I’d booked the trip for the eight of us, a diverse bunch of middle-aged mates, aged from 50 to 59, with jobs ranging from horticulturalist to opera critic. We don’t meet up that often and I longed for it to go well. I rarely find anything good to say about airlines, but those marvellous people from Monarch found us another plane and had us airborne again within an hour.
We arrived at Dalaman to lots of sympathy and smiles, were whisked into a minibus, arriving at Fethiye harbour at 11.30pm, or 9.30pm UK time. The crew popped the corks on the chilled white and served us a midnight feast of barbecued sea bream, rice and salads. As the moon rose above the mountains, lighting up the Lycian tombs carved into the rock face with an amber glow, we toasted our luck and had a silent group hug before bed.
Next morning we got better acquainted with our five-man crew. They included Emre, our handsome, urbane captain, chef Hickmet, known to everyone as “Cookie,” plus their three assistants, Ali, Rambo (Ramazan) and Monet (Muharrem), who did everything from haul on the ropes to washing up, mixing cocktails and even acted as impromptu dance partners.
After breakfast I was below in my cabin searching for a book when laughter and commotion brought me rushing back up to see Ali and Monet, with wide smiles, hoisting the Jolly Roger. Someone in our party had raided their local joke shop. We applauded and whooped as the skull and crossbones unfurled in the breeze. As captives on a pirate ship, didn’t we have a licence to misbehave? It was the perfect ice-breaker, and a signal to the crew that we were there to have fun. Cookie, the well-practised joker in the team, was the same age as us, but in charge of the toy box. It wasn’t long before he was dropping plastic spiders down our necks, taunting us with wriggly wooden snakes and squirting us from the galley window with a water pistol. Childish? Of course, but nobody was forced to take part.
()The first day started, as did the others, with a short breezy cruise to a nearby island for a mid-morning dip, followed by drinks, a delicious lunch, usually of vegetarian meze, and a siesta. Later we’d watch the sun set from prawny pink to aubergine as Ali served wine and vodka cocktails, while Cookie fired up the barbecue for dinner.
Emre usually moored for the night where nobody could see us acting daft and we could regress in private. By the evening of Day 1 we had already thrown our inhibitions overboard. I’m not known for my nifty footwork, but someone put on the Chieftains after dinner and I decided to demonstrate a few Riverdance moves. Soon we were all dancing to Sounds of the ’60s. Having no children, or anyone else, to embarrass was gloriously liberating.
If you long to take the helm, talk nautical and mess about with ropes, then get a friend with a proper yacht: gulet sailing is not for you. In a week on Tersane we never lost sight of land and I’ve felt more seasick on a garden swing. This is about gentle cruising of short distances each day with lots of swimming stops in bathtub-calm sea against a backdrop of misty mountains and emerald islands.
Emre seemed to have a knack of moving off every time we overheated and needed some breeze, or finding us something silly to do when the momentum flagged. There was time to laze, but we also went parasailing and tried to pretend we were young enough for the bouncy banana. We weren’t. We had our own private tender for shore stops and got extra-silly on a trip to the Turkish baths in Marmaris, where we danced on the hot marble slab, giggled like pubescents as we were loofahed and hosed down, and played tickling games in the communal baths.
On our final Friday I celebrated my birthday. Nothing could have made it better, or sillier. A private boat — by now we were used to such elitism — came to pick us up for a day trip to the Dalyan delta with Cookie as guide. We swam from the beach for a change then visited the Roman baths and amphitheatre at Caunos, where we had the sweeping magnificence of the delta to ourselves.
Then we hit our first crowds of the trip at the famed sulphur mud baths, said to have rejuvenating powers. Pictures of a youthful-looking Sting smeared in black slime with his arm draped round an equally youthful Dustin Hoffman persuaded most of us to take the plunge. Pointless really, as it doesn’t work and we didn’t need anything to make us act younger.
That night, our last, the joke store shoppers unleashed their treasures. My present was a pirates’ dressing-up kit, including a fake Captain Hook’s hand and an eye patch, recommended for three to ten-year-olds. Someone had made tricorn hats for the crew from an old newspaper, and we all had false moustaches.
After an unforgettable starlit dinner of crabs and barbecued swordfish, we were almost sick with vigorous (and very bad) dancing on top of fizzy wine and sticky cake. There is nothing much to do with a hooked hand except peek down men’s trousers, and naturally I’m embarrassed when I think of it now. Still, a week partying on Tersane had proved a point. You can misspend your youth only once, but hopefully you can go on regressing to the end. Just remember to do it in private.
Need to know
Jill Hartley and friends travelled to Turkey with Tapestry Holidays (020-8235 7800, www.tapestryholidays.com) and Monarch Airlines. A week’s sole charter of Tersane II costs from £9,350 for one week, or £585pp sleeping 16, £1,069pp sleeping eight.
The cost includes return flights to Dalaman, private transfers, full board, plus coffee, tea and bottled water with meals. The bar stocks both local and imported spirits, as well as wine and beer. Upgrades to Monarch Premium Class cost £120. Costs for watersports are paid locally.
