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| second in command | |
| By ellyb39 | ||||||||||||||||||
| 26 November 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||
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This may be a bit of a cliche, but enjoyed writing it. I've been away for a while, ready to read all the latest stories now! Pushing through the crowd of drinkers by the bar he returned to the table with two full glasses frothy and comforting. The sun low lit the still water in front of the pub with a wash of crimson, we were still in shorts, the light evening breeze tickled our legs, brown and salty from the days sailing. It had been a grand day. We had raced over to the island and back, yacht creaming along on top of the waves, translucent sea water cooling our faces dancing back to port. Sails packed away, boat washed down, we were now free to enjoy this most precious of moments, when the waves seem subdued as darkness falls, and the sky sinks into the horizon. The beer was going down well; the lethargy that follows a long summer day was overtaking us echoing the last light spilling over the water, coating it with a golden layer. ‘That was a great day’ he murmured. ‘Our summers are so fickle; you can understand why everyone is always talking about the weather!’ Smiling I agreed. ‘You know it was about this time a couple of years ago that I had a crossing in very different circumstances…’ I looked at him quickly to make sure that this was not the beginning of a joke; very prone to the wind up was Don. His expression seemed almost grim, unusual on a face normally littered with smiles. ‘I bought the boat about ten years ago from a guy in Plymouth. He was really sorry to see his boat go, he had renovated her himself, you know my boat was built in the sixties, iroko on oak, the hull is. Of course I have done a lot of work myself as you always do with a yacht that age. He took me to his house; he lived away from the marina in an old cottage, slightly tumbledown but with an amazing garden, lush and unexpected. Palm trees in sheltered spots underlined by bluebells, green vegetation slightly out of control. His house was the same, warm, shabby but welcoming. He lived alone and as he walked in front of me I could see the effect that arthritis had tortured him with. He had difficulty opening the tea caddy but I left him alone, this was an independent man. He begged me to take care of the boat and of course I agreed. His wife had also been a keen sailor right up to when she died and they had cruised a lot around the south coast and Brittany. There were photos of the boat in frames on the walls, along with a large photo on a side table of him holding the tiller, cliffs in the background, massive grin on his face. I felt almost guilty buying the boat, it had been his whole life you could see that. Anyway we did finish the negotiations, sealed by a quick tumbler of whisky and I left him holding onto the gate as I drove off ready to forget him and make the boat my own. When my wife left me the boat was my salvation, every weekend down to the marina, meeting friends, cruising over to France, and constantly working, working, stripping wood, varnishing, in the bowels of the engine repairing and patching. Clearing out pipes bilges and toilets until I felt as if I had touched or mended every inch of her. Sometimes I cursed horribly as some supposedly simple job had gone horribly wrong, hoping no one had heard me afterwards, and vowed to sell the heap of junk, but always that moment when I let go of the ropes and slid through the water out of the marina to the open sea, my choice where I went, paths unfolding across the water charts studied, tides dissected, wind filled sails pulling us along , made me forget everything. I had started this crossing back to England alone because my crew, a young chap from the office, had been so sick on the way over he refused to return with me. I tried to tell him it would be flat calm but he wouldn’t risk it. This meant a twelve hour passage back would be a lonely business but I knew I could cope with what should be a fairly straight forward trip. Leaving the first entrance behind me the sea was oily calm, the boat split the silk lined surface leaving a trail which slowly dissipated. Warm sunshine filtered onto my back, as the land slowly became a grey reminder in the distance. To a sailor the sea is never featureless and seems to change every few minutes. In your minds eye the chart with all its navigational warnings and signposts is overlaid over the sea, helped nowadays with chart plotters, radars and gps all telling you exactly where you are every moment. Yachts have become as self reliant as a ships’ bridge with instrumentation which was unheard of even up to the 1970s in a small boat. I was musing these advances when I noticed that there was a large fog bank ahead. Fog is one of those things which mean total concentration from the skipper, with the motor chugging away the power loss from the radar was not a problem. The day wore on and I managed to avoid several large ships, appearing from the gloom huge and deadly. Darkness fell imperceptibly, half light changing to black. Every so often I would go down below, check the navigation and of course keep an eye on the radar. After a while the wind got up so I was able to put some sail up, the sea was beginning to kick up a bit as well, the boat was sailing nicely at about 6 knots, another 5 hours to get there. It was on one of the trips down below, just when tiredness really had begun to affect me, eyes straining to close, singing all the songs I knew, that it happened. I had stupidly left a chart on the step and in the dark I didn’t see it at all, I put my foot on the top step and slid down the steps, I felt myself crawling out of a huge chasm of darkness, the pain in my foot was unbelievable and blood was trickling down my face. I realised that I had lost consciousness for a while, I tried to open my eyes and it seemed as if a bright light was flashing and blinding me. I managed to roll over and slowly regained my vision. Glancing at the instruments I could see an hour had gone by, horrified I tried to drag myself up to the cockpit. Leaving a boat sailing in the busiest sea way in the world was not a good idea, I could be about to be run down any second. Stomach clenched, mouth dry and hands shaking I pulled my head up to the deck level, knees pushing on the cold steps, hands feeling like claws, foot pulsating with pain,. Disorientated I looked up. The guard rails around the cockpit were the first thing I noticed. Birds of every description were perched around the rail, fighting for space. There were cormorants wings held out like upside down umbrellas, seagulls pale in the darkness, even homely looking pigeons, and some I didn’t recognise. I recoiled, my hand over my eyes. The birds made some sounds. Raucous in the dark. Magpie eyes stared at me curiously as if I had no right to be there Then I saw him, he was sitting by the tiller, hand steady, eyes tranquil and relaxed. Fog swirled around as the boat lurched and the birds hung on for a better grip. I recognised him straight away and was suddenly glad I had kept the boat so up together. . He smiled and cleared his throat. ‘Glad you’re keeping her up boy. Should be more careful you know, almost lost it tonight!’ The figure seemed solidly alive, companiably smiling, I took my eyes off him for a moment when a huge blast of a fog horn tore into the night, I scanned the horizon to see a container ship about 300 yards away, suddenly alert I jumped up into the cockpit to see the birds above me flying off as one mass, and an empty seat where I had seen him. I grabbed the tiller and bore away from the ship imagining the captain on the bridge shaking his fist and swearing at ‘bloody yachties’. As dawn began to lighten the sky I tried to tell myself that I had imagined it, a mixture of sleep deprivation and the head injury. Soon it was properly light, the sea was kinder and I began to feel more cheerful. As the dawn light turned into morning it revealed a terrible mess of droppings. I stared aghast, my heart hammering in my throat. Hurriedly I pulled a bucket of sea water and whooshed it over them. Watching them dissolve chalkily in the clear water. By the time I had reached land I had become calmer and more philosophical but did not discuss it with anybody else thinking that they would find me slightly strange. Over the next few years I never saw another bird land on my boat again.’ ‘*********************************************************** Don put down his pint and stared into the darkness of the still summer evening. ‘I found out later he died soon after selling me the boat, his ashes scattered by the local lifeboat’ he lapsed into silence. ‘Its funny how attached to our boats we get isn’t it? ‘ He asked . I could only nod in reply trying to stop my shoulders shivering as we swallowed the last mouthfuls of our beer looking out over the sea.. ‘
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Very enjoyable.
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