I’ve written a short piece about a canal boat holiday. It happened years ago, so long ago that the photographs below are stuck in an album and we look like youngsters. The story is true… although I may have embroidered the middle bit just a little… but it really did happen.
We were enjoying our canal boat holiday in Norfolk. It’s a sedate
way of travelling. Put on the kettle, wander along the towpath, gaze into the impenetrable
brown. There’s no current to move boats along, only the steady chug of the
engine, horse power but no longer literal. And then we saw the sign.
'Report to the lock keeper. You
are about to enter a tidal river.'
We knew it was approaching. The Great Ouse. We’d been warned
about it but the sun was shining, the lock keeper was cracking jokes. How bad
could it be? I love rivers, all that rushing water, all that life. While waiting
our turn we were given our instructions, 'Turn
right. Head for the orange flag a few metres up river.' A few metres? No
problem! 'Have your engine on full rev. You’ll need it,' he added.
The lock filled. The gates opened. Our metal boat was
punched by a watery fist. Wind kicked its frame. Our engine roared. Spray slapped
my face. The orange flag was a long way off. I turned to look back but all I
could see was a blur of water. This river was predatory. I was gripping the
side rail, trying to push away thoughts of my mourning family. Who would tell
the kids? How would they manage? Then Mr A’s voice shook me back to reality. 'Get up
here! Help me hold the tiller! We’re heading out to sea!'
Together we leant on the tiller then I lost my footing
on the slimy metal deck. He reached out to help causing the boat made a violent
lurch. 'I’m ok!' I
yelled. 'Get the tiller!' Grabbing the rail, I hauled myself up. Water dripped
from my clothes and hair, I squinted into the spray. 'The flag!
Look!' I pointed. I’d never been so pleased to see an orange flag approach. Two
men in life jackets were by the lock.
'Throw us
your rope!' one called. I edged my way towards the bow, unhooked the hefty coil
of rough, water-sodden rope and tried to swing it out to them. The rope landed
with a thud on the water. I hauled it in. I tried a second, a third time. My
hands hurt with the cold, the wet, the rope, the indignity.
'I can’t do it,' I sobbed.
'Come and take the rudder!' yelled Mr A. I edged back towards the stern but the wind was pushing me,
pinning me against the boat and we were being buffeted away from the flag,
towards the open sea once more.
At that moment the boat listed to one side. If we took on
water here we’d drown, I knew that. But then, just as it looked as if the water
would flow over the side, a hand appeared on the rail followed by an
orange-jacketed body and there, on the deck, stood one of the lock keepers.
With an expertly aimed throw the rope was tossed to the shore and our boat was hauled
away from the currents and into the lock.
On the other side we moored up, brewed up, changed into dry
clothes and walked back to view the scene of our tidal terrors. We picked our
way along a narrow path down to the very edge of the river. The sun glinted on
each crest of each tiny wave. A fish, unidentifiable in the bright light, wove
past us. There was a smell of salt, a tang of seaweed. I could feel the tension
draining from my body. I do love rivers.