I’m pretty well used to the reactions I get when I arrive somewhere to captain a charter or flotilla. The base manager usually stretches his hand out to the nearest graybeard and says, “Hello, you must be the captain.” When all eyes turn to me, there’s always surprise, sometimes disbelief and occasionally a chuckle.
Misogyny aside, however, whenever I meet a group that expects me as a captain, not a family member, to be taking on the responsibility of getting them around safely for a week, I have a number of advantages: even when the crew’s expectations extend to me cooking, running them ashore, applying Bandaids, fixing their masks and snorkels, saving them from themselves and providing endless entertainment to stave off boredom. In short, there’s a separation that makes…