of the Jim when I put out to sea.
I wondered if Jim had more sense than I did, and I hung on to the tiller as the waves and the current yanked at it and I felt scared and sick. We wallowed south-west along the coast and turned inside the Portishead breakwater, watching the tide rip by, sending fingers to snatch us and throw us spinning into the Atlantic. Through the sea lock, into the marina, and as day broke we fell into our beds and chairs and kennels and went to sleep.
Twice a day the Severn fills, the salt sea-water passes by
. In eight hours we would be out on the new tide, which should carry us up to Sharpness lock, and on to the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal, where the sea can’t get you any more.
At Portishead the estuary is five miles wide, narrowing to one mile at Sharpness. The first bridge is at six miles, and the second at ten miles, and Sharpness is twenty miles away.
IN THE MERCHANT MARINE THERE ARE TWO hundred words for slow. As we waited at the sea lock a tug entered the other side at the speed of continental drift. I stood at the tiller for an hour with Robin. It was not easy for either of us. The sun was hot, I was nervous, and I was not interested in talking about the immigrant problem. Also I wanted Robin to man the tiller only when there was danger and Robin had decided to sail the boat all the time. And he was falling all over me when I needed to manoeuvre and how can I say to a bloke of sixty-two who had commanded oil tankers You can’t stand there on a narrowboat for Christ’s sake?
When we got out of the lock we were late and Robin told me to go hard. The engine began to bellow and we headed for the first great bridge on the horizon. The sea was blue, and there was no swell.
If we arrived at Sharpness after the top of the tide we would not be able to get into the lock and we would have a night on the mud. The prospect of this, with Jim and Robin aboard, was dreadful indeed. I brought the engine up to eighteen hundred revs, about six knots plus the eight-knot tide. Warp nine—
She cannae take much more of this Captain Kirk—ye cannae change the laws of Physics
.
I have got Sharpness here, said Robin, his VHF radio to his ear—they think we’ll be too late for the lock. I remembered what Joe had said—Run at normal speed, don’t hammer the engine and it won’t break. I put my weight on the throttle handle—two thousand, twice cruising speed. Warp ten—Sorry Joe. In the pandemonium of the engine-room Clive watched the dials and prepared himself spiritually for changing a belt in an estuary on a spring tide.
The lower Severn Bridge crosses the channel where it is three miles wide. It hangs from cobwebs between two white towers. As we rushed onwards it retreated further and further away. Robin had said it would take fifteen minutes to reach it but after half an hour it had almost vanished. Then out of airy nothing it began to take form, inhabiting the sky; the cobwebs turned to girders, the towers to sunny cliffs, and Monica drove the
Phyllis May
under the first of the great bridges.
In the front deck Jim lay in his bed in his life jacket looking like one of those orange-and-black liquorice allsorts. If you can imagine a terrified liquorice allsort then you have him spot on. I had argued a spell on the tiller for Beryl and we were drawing near the next bridge: smaller, simpler, white and beautiful. When I looked back Robin was on the tiller again. My greatest challenge still lay ahead. I had decided to drive the boat under this bridge myself.
I worked along the gunwale and stood by Robin, crowding him, ready to elbow him into the current. He held on to the tiller and put his radio to his ear, nodding and frowning. That’s Sharpness again, he said, we mustn’t slow down. Righto, I said, but you are going to let me take her under this bridge. Robin looked at me, wishing he had been on Clifton Suspension Bridge earlier, but he moved to one side. As we passed the
I wondered if Jim had more sense than I did, and I hung on to the tiller as the waves and the current yanked at it and I felt scared and sick. We wallowed south-west along the coast and turned inside the Portishead breakwater, watching the tide rip by, sending fingers to snatch us and throw us spinning into the Atlantic. Through the sea lock, into the marina, and as day broke we fell into our beds and chairs and kennels and went to sleep.
Twice a day the Severn fills, the salt sea-water passes by
. In eight hours we would be out on the new tide, which should carry us up to Sharpness lock, and on to the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal, where the sea can’t get you any more.
At Portishead the estuary is five miles wide, narrowing to one mile at Sharpness. The first bridge is at six miles, and the second at ten miles, and Sharpness is twenty miles away.
IN THE MERCHANT MARINE THERE ARE TWO hundred words for slow. As we waited at the sea lock a tug entered the other side at the speed of continental drift. I stood at the tiller for an hour with Robin. It was not easy for either of us. The sun was hot, I was nervous, and I was not interested in talking about the immigrant problem. Also I wanted Robin to man the tiller only when there was danger and Robin had decided to sail the boat all the time. And he was falling all over me when I needed to manoeuvre and how can I say to a bloke of sixty-two who had commanded oil tankers You can’t stand there on a narrowboat for Christ’s sake?
When we got out of the lock we were late and Robin told me to go hard. The engine began to bellow and we headed for the first great bridge on the horizon. The sea was blue, and there was no swell.
If we arrived at Sharpness after the top of the tide we would not be able to get into the lock and we would have a night on the mud. The prospect of this, with Jim and Robin aboard, was dreadful indeed. I brought the engine up to eighteen hundred revs, about six knots plus the eight-knot tide. Warp nine—
She cannae take much more of this Captain Kirk—ye cannae change the laws of Physics
.
I have got Sharpness here, said Robin, his VHF radio to his ear—they think we’ll be too late for the lock. I remembered what Joe had said—Run at normal speed, don’t hammer the engine and it won’t break. I put my weight on the throttle handle—two thousand, twice cruising speed. Warp ten—Sorry Joe. In the pandemonium of the engine-room Clive watched the dials and prepared himself spiritually for changing a belt in an estuary on a spring tide.
The lower Severn Bridge crosses the channel where it is three miles wide. It hangs from cobwebs between two white towers. As we rushed onwards it retreated further and further away. Robin had said it would take fifteen minutes to reach it but after half an hour it had almost vanished. Then out of airy nothing it began to take form, inhabiting the sky; the cobwebs turned to girders, the towers to sunny cliffs, and Monica drove the
Phyllis May
under the first of the great bridges.
In the front deck Jim lay in his bed in his life jacket looking like one of those orange-and-black liquorice allsorts. If you can imagine a terrified liquorice allsort then you have him spot on. I had argued a spell on the tiller for Beryl and we were drawing near the next bridge: smaller, simpler, white and beautiful. When I looked back Robin was on the tiller again. My greatest challenge still lay ahead. I had decided to drive the boat under this bridge myself.
I worked along the gunwale and stood by Robin, crowding him, ready to elbow him into the current. He held on to the tiller and put his radio to his ear, nodding and frowning. That’s Sharpness again, he said, we mustn’t slow down. Righto, I said, but you are going to let me take her under this bridge. Robin looked at me, wishing he had been on Clifton Suspension Bridge earlier, but he moved to one side. As we passed the
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