A Storm on the River Dart
A Life Aboard: March 2014
This is preposterous. I mean, it’s a harbour not the Bay of Biscay. What nincompoop said, “Any port in a storm”? - Well, I’d give this one a miss today, matey. Can’t they put doors across the entrance or something?
On the day of the worst storm, I wasn’t feeling well - even by my clapped out standards. It began with me gingerly feeling the raised welt on my forehead caused by one very loud and naturally unexpected thunderclap in the middle of the night (what is wrong with the weather in Dartmouth? - why does it do this?) which resulted in my shooting bolt upright into solid mahogany. I’d forgotten for a moment that I was not actually in a bed, like a normal person but wedged in a pitching coffin with another one a mere 8 inches above me. I received such a fierce crack on the noddle that I thought the mast must have come down.
CRASH!
Now what? The hull shuddered, I winced but feigned outward indifference for long enough until Hub sighed and said he supposed he would have to go on deck to check. (Well, one of us will. Not going to be me..obviously.) In driving wind and rain, you have about two minutes before being soaked through so it’s a choice of full foul weather gear or go out naked. Let us all give thanks that he usually chooses the former. (This is merely us “blow ins”– Dartmouth blokes are still in shorts and T shirts until February) He stomped about a bit and dragged things around. When he came back in, I thought he must have fallen overboard. He said he had weeed all over his head. I daresay. All this water gets me a bit like that. Anyway, he was confident he had fixed it and after a brisk rub down with a copy of the Boating Life, he was drying off by the fire.
CRASH!
Same problem. I sniggered, he swore and my conscience drove me, reluctantly, up on deck. I opened the door and was immediately shot painfully in the face. Sandblasted, you might say, by hailstones. Of course – why not? We’ve just about had everything else. Oh well, every cloud etc. - I won’t need to exfoliate for quite some time. The effect was as if thousands of ball bearings had been poured onto the deck and to my alarm, I began to skate erratically towards the prow. En route, my glasses were snatched off and clattered to a brief halt several feet away. In my efforts to grab them before they flew through the cover board I opened my shin on the blade of a spare propeller and rang the ship’s bell loudly with my elbow. I ended up crawling inches from a large sheltering gull. It leered at me. I was tempted to wring its greasy neck for it.
During the next storm, I was a little concerned to see that Hub’s hat was bobbing rapidly up river as it occurred to me that he may still be wearing it, in which case the manufacturers of our expensive life jackets will be shortly in receipt of a very sharp letter from me. I rushed to the rescue - currently my “man overboard” plan doesn’t amount to much more than bleating “I can’t see you - Are you O.K.? (I am working on it) and he appeared. Bizarrely, he was promptly blown over backwards. These storms must be affecting me as I honestly haven’t laughed so much since a titled friend rushed up to me at our local agricultural show proudly announcing that she had come first in “Rough Bitches”. (It was her Irish Water Spaniel, happily.)
Oh dear. A lifebuoy started bashing the rat lines when Hub was still ashore. I couldn’t undo the knots so I took a machete to it (as you do) and then, as per his dratted “pre-storm prep list,” went round the deck lashing up this and that as yet another Hooley was heading our way. When he came back he was quite aghast, asking what on earth had happened and felt that the rigging now resembled some sort of mad cobweb. I had only just received Holy Communion but the lies fairly tumbled out of my mouth and I declared it was a sudden gust. He looked sceptical but a bacon sandwich soon had him smiling.
Men are, unlike boats, quite simple to handle, I think, yet equally demanding. He asks me to lash things tightly and then has the audacity to say that it’s to be hoped we won’t need the lifebuoy or boat hook as it would take ten minutes hard work with the ships axe to release either…..Our losses so far then: 3 shackles, a rowing boat, a fender, an inflatable, a damaged engine cover, 2 cleats, 4 ropes, 2 oars, a petrol can, a key flotation device, the leg of my glasses, one woolly hat and my will to live.
When I see people on the news climbing out of their bedroom windows down a ladder into a dinghy on a raging torrent, I assume they are off to do the shopping. It’s what I do every day and return with a hefty sack of coal on my back. But then I recall that I chose this lifestyle. Must remember to ask Ma if there is any known insanity in our family.
We decided two things at the start of our adventure: one was that we were not afraid of a piece of wood be it wet, dry, rotting or snapped. The other was that to express fear of the elements was pointless and so the most we do is exchange a wry glance. Therefore, I’m ashamed to say I let out a loud gasp when we rolled to 35 degrees – I really thought that was it. But discussing this relentless battering with her previous owner he told me sternly that you have to trust your boat and he is quite right of course. She’ll take it and so must we. Rum helps. Will anybody believe me when I say I have only ever wanted to sit quietly and read……?
But, here’s the thing - when we first bought the boat it seemed not unreasonable that we would mostly loll about on deck absorbing the amazing beauty of the Dart and adding to the rivers of alcohol we have consumed since our youth. It’s turned out to be much more “exciting” than we expected but here we are after the wettest summer, coldest spring, worst storms - the stars are out, the view is stunning and we have re-stocked the bar. On balance, give me this port in a storm any day!
And we now regard a force 8 as a dead calm…
First published By The Dart March 2014
