|
by Miles McGrevy of S/Y "Stella By Starlight"
With the holiday season beginning to sag at the knees and gasp for altitude, I must say I have to sit back and admire the human race for its dogged determination to enjoy
itself.
The yachtsman is unique in this respect, towering a full head and shoulders above even the most ardent of
landlubbers.
The sight of a grown man, ankle deep in a muddy quagmire, rainwater rapidly filling the seat of his pants, desperately trying to fathom out which pole fits where, on his Tornado Campmate, whilst the
little lady (with whom he is no longer on civil speaking terms) cowers, like Count Dracula with prey, under a flogging groundsheet, pumping hopelessly at the Primus stove, her transom hovering perilously close to the, as yet unseen, cow pat, is as the stuff of nursery schools when compared with the fate of the luckless foredeck
hand.
Embracing the bowsprit, as he rises through the spume, oilies spouting brine like a clapped-out garden sprinkler, miserably he inches his way for'ard for the unenviable marine cabaret of hauling down the
jib.
The sea, for my grandfather, was more of a vocation than a vacation, so holidays, for us, entailed a bone-shaking journey down to the West Country in Pops' battle-wearied Austin
Sixteen.
The journey would be peppered with bouts of pushing the wheezing old car up steep hills, whilst
the womenfolk brought up the rear, like Bedouin camels, laden down with the
baggage.
Standing at the foot of the notorious Porlock Hill, was as intimidating for most as it must have been for a page boy staring up at Queen Victoria's vast
frontage.
At times, during the season, the hills of Devon and Dorset took on a somewhat bizarre similarity to the evacuation during the siege of
Stalingrad.
Still, there were times when we took other people on their holidays, afloat, and it was on one such occasion that Pops took a cross-Channel charter.
At the tender age of twelve, this was my first taste of 'going foreign' , a term that, nowadays, conjures up visions of shady deals with the financial
Rand, or a covert visit to the Try-A-Thai escort agency. Back in the late 1950's it was a whole new world, opened up to all and sundry in the wake of the Normandy
landings.
As a wide-eyed, spotty, fledgling, the only thing I knew about France was that Brigitte Bardot lived there and was
causing a healthy stir in the groin of the entire male population of my country. Further north, even, than Watford
Gap.
Our charter arrived for the long weekend, all berets and phrase books.
Charter vessels, these days, seem to be designed from the inside out and, what with GPS, shaver plugs and laptop
computers, one might well be on board the Space Shuttle.
Not then, though.
I showed the guests to their pipe-cots. Their jaws dropped a bit, when they realised I wasn't joking, but they soon settled in, despite the odd
hollow thud on the deck beams.
I knew it wouldn't be long before they took on the familiar shape, and gait, of a shuffling human question-mark, a trait peculiar to those aboard small boats, moving below
decks.
We set off across the channel, running in light airs on a warm July evening.
The trip started off with something of a pantomime feel, as heads popped up through hatches, laughing hysterically, but was soon brought back down to earth when Mrs.
Travers-Smythe asked where the 'loo' was and Pops handed her a bucket.
After that, things went strangely quiet, apart from the occasional muffled murmur from a dark corner. Pops just puffed away at his pipe and I fell asleep in the cockpit, thinking about Brigitte
Bardot.
The next day, we sighted the French coast, just off the Cherbourg peninsula. We made for the small fishing village of
Barfleur, about twelve miles east of Cherbourg.
Entering a foreign port, nowadays, is all red tape in triplicate, a padlock on the Baby Blake and a port clearance on your
anti-foul but, back then, we just followed the fishing fleet in at high water and fetched up on the northwest
quay.
Pops brewed up and I went below to awaken the 'crew'. Our guests slowly crawled up the companionway, eyes blinking as though they were emerging from a dose of 'solitary' at Sing Sing.
I helped them into a sitting position and Pops stuck a mug of steaming tannin under their noses. It's amazing how the good old
'cuppa' can bring the English through any crisis.
If only Hitler had had the foresight to bomb our tea warehouses instead of our cathedrals, the war might have turned out a little more favourably for
him.
Anyway, the guests were gradually breaking into limited animation and were, slowly, starting to recognise shapes and
colours, but the sight of ol' Pops, tossing bangers, beans and eggs into an old, blackened and encrusted, frying pan, that had seen previous service as a caulking ladle, seemed to speed up the resuscitation process,
tenfold.
Our guests excused themselves, rapidly, in very high-pitched tones, but only on the grounds of repletion after the previous nights' meal of corned beef, suet and
pickle.
I helped them down the gangplank, at the end of which they accosted a Frenchman on a bicycle. Mrs.
Travers-Smythe spoke slowly, but sternly, at him, quoting her phrase book. He stared blankly back at her, as though she were the Times crossword. I could see they had a long day ahead of
them.
The guests returned periodically, throughout the day, bringing aboard enough duty-free to stock a sheep station at Alice Springs.
Mr. Travers-Smythe had exchanged his beret for a white-topped sea cap that made him look more like Ernie the Milkman than Bogie in Key West.
I half expected to see him appear next with a curled-up stick-on moustache and onions over his
crossbar.
Pops and I sat back in the cockpit, watching a group of seals loafing around on the concrete slipway, awaiting scraps from the fishing boats.
Later that afternoon, we were moved out, to raft alongside a French Viviar which wanted to draw alongside the quay and offload her holds.
It wasn't long before Pops and I were on board, splitting a bottle or two. We drank a strange green substance which, when mixed down with water, took on an appearance deceptively similar to that of milk. Not much later, my bottom lip went strangely slack and my brain ceased to function, but I do remember Mr. and Mrs.
Travers-Smythe coming down the gangplank.
They had obviously been at the 'vino collapso', as Mr. T-S. was having to carry Mrs. T-S., a task that, due to her enormous bulk, must have been like trying to manhandle a
waterbed.
The last time the couple had ventured down that gangplank, the cockpit of 'Saucy Jane' had been at the end of it. This time what awaited them was a fish
hold.
With his cap over his eyes and straining at the gills...well, what happened next is probably best left to your
imagination.
Amid a melee of 'Sacre Bleu's and the odd 'Mon Dieu', we hauled the pair back on deck. The stench was unimaginable. Someone decided that a fire hose was the quickest solution but, catching them between wind and water, with five hundred pounds per square inch, sent them sprawling over the rail like a couple of fairground Aunt
Sally's. The seals picked up the scent and a large bull playfully nosed Mrs. Travers-Smythe towards the concrete
slipway.
Boats were lowered and, amidst flailing oars and white foam, the Travers-Smythe's honour was
saved.
We set off for Cowes, at the insistence of our guests, after large crowds had begun to gather at the quayside, many with cameras at the ready. It was drizzling rain and the wind blew up to about a six, as we got out into the channel. Sprinting along, on a broad reach, with twenty-five knots of wind blowing, it wasn't long before the after-effects of the plonk and ersatz chocolate turned the scene below decks into something akin to a field-hospital at
Gettysburg.
I, myself, felt as though a herd of cows had left something nasty in my cranium, and was more than a little relieved to sight the Trinity House buoy. Not long after that, we were in the fairway and making fast to the pontoon at the Folly Inn. A touch of reality
here.
As we helped the walking wounded ashore, Pops asked if anyone cared for some fresh
oysters.
Clapping hands over mouths, they waved aside their duty-frees and sank to their knees on terra firma, offering thanks for their return to whoever might be
listening.
My grandmother had told me not to drink the water in France, but I am not sure that she had ever been there, otherwise she would, surely, have known that there were a lot more dangerous things to drink than water.
Now, over thirty years later, as I think back to that trip, I've decided that I'd like to be reincarnated as a
seal.
What an idyllic life, eating and drinking as much as you like; without so much as a thought to
mal-de-mer or gathering girth; lazing around in the sun, surrounded by a bevy of beauties...
You never know, the way the 'Save The Seals' campaign
went, I might even have had a hug from Brigitte Bardot...
Heartfelt thanks to Miles McGrevy for that. He was kind enough
to let us have another short story, too, which we will save for the next issue.
Do you have a story readers might enjoy? We'd love to have it.
|
