Chapter 3
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.................................................But life carried on in the yard. Whilst we were occupied looking for a new boat, a craft of delightful character came up the Thames to moor beside the one good jetty that the yard had. One day, the moorings off the yard were their usual tatty, rusty self, supporting a raggle-taggle collection of decrepit boats of all shapes and sizes, the next, they were blessed by a the presence of a Queen of the South Seas. Sitting there, the waters quietly lapping around her proud, confidently jutting bows, she was a beautifully converted clinker lifeboat around thirty five feet long with low sheer sweeping dramatically up to her bows which were tipped with a long varnished bowsprit. Her white topsides which were stained with thousands of miles of voyaging were topped by a broad tapering red strake. The decks were laid Teak and her cabin was varnished Mahogany. She exuded such character with her rigging festooned with baggy-wrinkle, tufts of old rope, to protect the sails from chafe on long trips and her faded tanned red sails neatly furled on her spars. To complete the image, an old brass lantern hung over her stern - she was every young voyager’s dream, fresh from journeying across the Pacific and Atlantic and smelling of hemp, tar and salt. Her skipper matched his boat, with his long white beard, dark craggy face, old faded blue bonnet, ragged jeans and patched blue sweater. He was an old salt with bottles of rum to boot and stories of adventures on the high seas with much daring-do a plenty.

     We were immediately smitten; nay, we were in love. She was the epitome of our dreams and our aspirations. We skipped down the rickety old jetty to stare at her, chattering away like excited monkeys with our new found knowledge, gleaned from hours pouring over sailing books and catalogues.

‘Look Bob, she’s got a real Sestral compass in a proper gimballed mount! – wow!! Look at those navigation lights – they’re proper oil burners on real lighting boards too!. Cor, look at the ratlines, Bob – they’re real proper!’

     Our eyes feasted on her obvious sea kindliness as she fed our dreams whilst we danced up and down the jetty taking in all her obvious charms. Her name, Coconut Girl just exemplified her being; she took on a living, breathing entity in our hearts and became a lady of supreme beauty but with, at the same time, worldly wisdom and knowingness – a lady of deep sensual charm who has experienced legions of sailors and their lustful gazes in her time trekking around all the world’s most romantic ports.

     She didn’t stay long. She disappeared. To where, we don’t know, but she left a definite imprint on our minds and from then on, all boats were compared against her, as supposedly glamorous women are compared against the great feminine icons of our time. Coconut Lady became the Marylin Munroe and Ursula Andress of our boating world.

‘That boat’s not got the sheer line of Coconut Girl – l prefer the bowsprit on CG to this one. CG has a proper chain bobstay, not some mamby-pamby bit o’ string like that one!’

     Before she went, we got to know Coconut Girl’s skipper fairly well. Jim, we found out, was his name and he was a real old salt and, like many an old salt, probably stretched the truth somewhat. Who knows, but his stories of fighting through the Roaring Forties with a ‘mizzen gone by the board and o’er the side’, of surviving for weeks in the Doldrums with little food and fresh water ‘runnin’ so low, l ‘ad ter piss in a bucket to ‘ave sumat to drink’ and of swimming with dolphins ‘in waters so crystal clear yoo could see right to the bottom where yoo could see the wrecks of galleons of old’, enraptured us. The fact that he probably had never been further than the Isle of Wight did not matter at all. Appearances were all!

     Old Jim was certainly evasive on any detail concerning his past but we could not get enough of Coconut Girl’s aura. Just the smell of the sea which pervaded every part of her was like a drug and, having taken our first dose, we couldn’t stop. On fine evenings, we would sit in silence in her cockpit, simply absorbing through our skin, the experiences she had been through on distant shores.

     Her parting, sudden as it was, left a hole in our hearts and left the boatyard aesthetically devoid. One day she was there, the next, she was gone without explanation or warning and despite our searching up river on our bikes, she was not to be found or seen again. Painful though it was, perhaps a sudden unexplained parting, if it was absolutely necessary, was the best way. The loss is felt, but the agony of misunderstood explanations is avoided, explanations which can so often be more hurtful than the actual loss. Pity l was never such a bastard as to employ the same tactic with girl friends! Mind you, in truth, we were still a long way from having girl friends despite our emerging interest in all subjects sexual. When they did come along, few though they may have been in number for both of us, it was usually the other way round – they left us! But Coconut Girl’s going was felt like the parting of a much loved and sensual partner.

     She had flirted with us, shown us what a real woman could look like, raised all sorts of feelings within us, which, though she may have been a lump of wood, were sensual in nature.

     She was a true Queen, or at least a Princess, no matter how far or not, she had travelled.

     In her place came another converted lifeboat again about thirty feet or so in length, but this time without all the lipstick and makeup of an experienced world traveller. This boat did not even seem to have a name and was marked only by a lack of anything interesting about her decks. No lofty masts with lots of important rigging, no hardy deck winches or proud sansom mooring post. Not even a compass or a battered lifebelt hanging from lifelines. But she did do something which the much missed Coconut Girl did not do. She promptly sank at her moorings!............................................................

........................................... With the last embers of the sun just glinting off the water, we sat slumped on the jetty where the boat we had rescued had not long before been moored. We had to let this particular dream go.

‘Well, at least we saved her.’

‘Wot do yer mean?’ Bob was very grumpy and fit to tear something apart.

‘Well, without our help, the boat would possibly still be swamped an’ starting to rot. We saved ‘er. Alright the owner wos a complete bastid, but the boat was saved to float another day!’

     With this entreaty concerning the soul and well being of a boat, our love of things nautical took on an almost religious nature. It took us sometime to loose our anger and frustration but eventually having eyed some passing ducks in a threatening manner we settled down. And what did it matter that this awful owner had ripped us off, it was the welfare of the boat that mattered! We would meet her another day and we would then smile at the memory of our labour and what it did for the boat………… not what it did for the owner!

     But despite feeling good about the boat, our backs and hands ached badly and we still had that lingering stench of human excrement about us. We had learnt a big lesson and in the future we were not to be above a little shenanigans ourselves!

     Next day, we were down on Maggie again. Dear old Maggie had served her purpose but being short in the length department she did not have enough room for Captain Bob to step out onto the foredeck, telescope extended and search for those far off islands without dipping her bow suddenly and depositing said captain ignominiously into the drink! And that’s apart from the fact that, when Bob was doing his Captain’s bit on the foredeck, there was no real room for his trusty shipmate ‘ta see where the flippin’ ‘eck ‘e wos steerin’, cos the capti’n’s legs would be in the flippin’ way; that’s just afore, the capti’n wos ditched into the briny!’...................

............................. When we turned round to where the twang had come from, there before us were the ends of the planks, normally gracefully joined at the bow to the wood stem, and now all sprung outwards like a fan. The planking had become so soft at the ends, that the screws holding it to the stem, had no longer been enough. The bow which had been a gracefully pointed front end, was now open, showing the insides of the fore cabin! The hood ends of the planking were decidedly rotten and the new owner was in for a lot of expense to put it right, by having much of the planking replaced before he could start his ‘smart new paint job!’

     Fortunately, this had not happened whilst the boat was in the water, although it did, to another hapless little craft; what had once been a nice little sailing dinghy, now owned by a clumsy and not very sensitive sailor. He was a man who ‘bounced’ his way back to land by hitting other moored boats and the jetties on frequent occasions. He would ricochet to where he wanted to be, rather than come in and moor carefully. But he tried this crude method of steering once too often. Having bounced off the jetty he was trying to come into, he shot back out into the river again. Trying to make another circuit in order to make a second attempt at ‘landing’, he sailed slap bang into a steel pile sticking up out of the water which he had often used before to throw a rope round, to slow his progress shoreward. The result was a ‘crack’, followed by several distinct ‘twangs’, as the hood ends of the bow planking of this little boat relieved themselves of their once close embrace of his stem post and opened outward, allowing Father Thames to rush inwards and wet his feet - then his knees and very rapidly, his bottom, followed by his chest and almost, his neck!

     His poor crew, we believe she was his wife but were never too sure, let out a yelp, jumped overboard and walked ashore, her soaking body rising from the waters like some raging sea goddess. Ignoring our titters, she never looked back, but simply got on her push bike and cycled off leaving Mr. Sprung Hoodend, drifting aimlessly, sitting on his once dry deck, now two feet under the water! We never saw her again, either the poor old dinghy or Mrs. Sprung Hoodend. The embarrassment must have been too much but we did see ‘Mr. S H’ a few days later, warming himself over a fire on the shore!

‘You decided to burn her then mate?’

‘What do you mean? No, these are just a few scraps of old wood l’ve cleared out of my shed!’

     I have to say though, that several of the half burnt pieces of wood looked definitely plank shaped............................

....................................‘MR. PRATT!’

‘And who wants him?’

     We turned, to find a short, bent man, one glass eye peering off sideways, the working one looking dead at us! He was curled round the entrance portico structure that had been tacked incongruously onto the starboard side of the cabin. It was made up from pieces of packing case but looked stronger than him!

‘Er, we are! W…we understand that she’s up fer sale. Heaven’s up fer sale?’

‘Hmmm, and you two propose to buy her, do you?’

‘Er, well, it depends on what she’s like, the hull l mean!’

‘And what the price is.’ I chimed in.

‘Hmmm’.

     He considered us for a while, obviously weighing up whether we were worth his time.

‘Come this way then, but don’t go touching anything and keep yer theavin’ little hands in yer pockets!’

     We moved round to the portico and just squeezed round and into the entrance lobby. Immediately, our nostrils were assailed by a mixture of odours, most not pleasant, ranging from very old cooking smells tainted with onion, to old, frequently worn, but unwashed socks and underwear!

     It was gloomy inside and we could only just see the edge of the small landing we were on. The entrance dropped almost vertically down a short ladder and into the main cabin. Having descended the ladder into the main cabin, the darkness made it difficult to see where to put our feet and l kept kicking things unseen on the cabin floor to the annoyance of the one eyed Pratt.

‘Just be careful. Boys are such a nuisance, such clumsy, noisy fellows! - such horrible, noisy pests! So be careful, beware, be cautious, or l’ll have ye off an’ over the side before you can spit!’...................................

......................................... Pratt climbed up the ladder, put his hand up awkwardly and opened a hatch which slammed back against a wall. He disappeared and Bob followed him. I went up so far and poked my head through carefully. It was the toilet, its smell announcing it’s presence with glorious and triumphant smugness, sitting and awaiting its use by only the desperate! Throne it was not, it was just a toilet seat, nailed to two cross beams at sitting height, probably the only concession towards comfort in the boat! A roll of paper hung on a string as the only other item necessary. There was no light; he obviously did not need that!  And no chain to pull – there was no cistern!  - just a seat with a hole in it and a clear drop to the river below. Simple! Effective! But smelling like a hundred unclean urinals and toilet bowls! Pratt sat on it, regal. It creaked loudly, the supporting beams surprisingly, sagging under his miniscule weight and pulling the old packing case sides of the enclosing box structure inwards. It all looked ready to collapse.

‘Right, boys, that’s it, that’s the tour, you’ve seen from one end to the other! If you can raise the cash, come by and give me a shout. If not, don’t tread my decks again! Now bugger off!’...................................

........................................ ‘Gonna be difficult getting’ back through this lot mate!’

‘Yeah, l know! Can you swim?’

‘Wot!’

‘Swim - can you swim?’

‘Wot you mean float about and splash a bit?’

‘No, l mean swim, properly, so’s you move forward without sinkin’.’

‘Why?’

‘It may be better, when we get to the flippin bank, jus’ to dive in, swim across an’ get out the other side and then walk round to get back to the bikes. Easier and a whole lot safer l think.’

‘Can you swim?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Wot do you mean, sort of?’

‘Well l can stay afloat fer a bit and splash my way forward, l think.’!

‘Not up to Olympic standard then?!’

‘Not quite. Wot about you?’

‘I sink!’

     There was silence for a while from Bob, as he contemplated my inability.

‘Well, if it comes to it an’ we decide to chicken out o’ goin’ back the way we came in, you’ll just ‘ave to sink to the bottom and run like bloody ‘ell, ‘til yoo get ter the other side!’

‘Thanks mate!’.........................................

............................................. ‘Bob, no yard would allow her onto their slip, even if you could get her there!’

‘Wot do yer mean?’

‘I mean, she’s such a wreck, no yard would allow her onto their slip, ’cause she’d just collapse and they’d never get her off again, not without burning her, that is!’

‘She’s just got one or two ‘oles to repair, they could be temporarily boarded up to move her.’

‘One or two holes! Bob ducks are floatin’ in and out of her starboard side, the holes are big enough for swans to float through without duckin’ their bleedin’ ‘eads!’

‘Yeah, but a few temporary planks nailed in place would allow her to be pumped out and refloated, then we could get ‘er onto a slip for proper repairs.’

‘And that will cost?!’

‘Well, we’ll have ter find out, ask around a bit.’

‘Bob, she’s rotten!’

     Exasperated, l went below again and waded to the barge’s side where l kicked at the edge of a hole. Despite the planking being near to 2 inches thick, a great chunk fell away.

I climbed back up again with the trophy in my hand and stuck my head through the companion hatch.

‘So where do you attach the new planking too - this bit o’ rotten wood, or another bit o’ rotten wood?!’..............................

.......................................... The dogs, their only wish, to sink their fangs into whatever part of our flesh they could get at, barked just inches from us, but thankfully on the other side of the fence. Now fearful of the appearance of their owner, carrying a 12 bore shotgun and a mean face, we gathered ourselves up and staggered off to find our bikes. Thankfully they were where we had left them. Before we set off, we sat back on the verge to chomp at some chocolate and recover our wind.

‘Jeesus mate, is this boating lark worth it? I mean l’m beaten, buggered and bruised, just to see a barge that turns out to be the ship from ‘ell!!

     Bob, looking the worse for wear himself and as incorrigible as ever, simply lay back - ‘don’t worry, l’ll find a new boat soon. We’ll be on the water again plying our way past that ol’ barge.’

     We lay in silence a while in the dark, thankful that we had survived another scrape. Finally, Bob raised himself up on one elbow and turned towards the direction of the Thames again.

‘Pity you know, but if we could get her out of the water on a nearby slip, l’m sure there’s enough solid boat left in her to repair. Just think what it would be like runnin’ down the Thames on that monster.’

‘WOT!!’