The Ship of Fools motors back again…
Mrs Relentlessly Cheerful wore her broadest grin. ‘Sleep well?’ Her head tipped from top to bottom in that nodding motion employed by amateur psychologists which is supposed to get you to nod in agreement. Her tussled blonde nordic hair curled fetchingly round her face without benefit of hairbrush. Her face was no longer the luminous green of ‘experienced sailors’, now a pleasing pink from fresh air and sea spray. Her Musto sailing gear was attractively tailored.
Ms Raccoon, whose own ‘Brillo pad on steroids’ now sat atop her head like an angry lavatory brush, whose cute little button nose was a painful blistering bulbous red, lay there and contemplated another day in the Paddington Bear outfit – and rebelled. ‘Er, no actually – haven’t slept – think I might have bitten off more than I can chew – and thinking of calling it a day when we get to Holland’, I said in my best ‘don’t care if you care or not’ voice.
She was appalled! You mean I wasn’t having fun? (I’ve had more fun at a funeral). ‘B-b-but today’s the day you get to climb the rigging’, she said. I think the misguided fool thought this was a form of encouragement – she had overestimated me. We were definitely not on the same wave length when it came to ‘fun’.
In fairness, she spent the next two hours expertly working on me. She hugged me, she produced tea, she checked the weather forecasts (initially ‘more of the same’ the message came back from the dour Captain), she explained the onerous paperwork the Captain would be involved in if I jumped ship (like I cared) and the extreme hardship that would be encountered getting myself back to Norwich from this unpronounceable Dutch destination; she did and said everything she could think of – and by the time she had run out of enthusiasm for ‘turning’ this mutineer (did she ever?) a miracle had occurred. We had moved into the lee of the land, the sun peeped out from behind the clouds for a split second, and – ding! dong! Avon calling! – the order went out over the tannoy – ‘all hands on deck’.
We were going to hoist sail. Mrs Relentlessly Cheerful was in her element. This lass knew her T’gallants from her Royals, her Yards from her Booms, and her Mizzen from her Flying Jib. The ‘BM is putting up the Spanker’ she exclaimed in delight – I looked suitably impressed…at least, I hope I did. ‘Oh, I do hope you’ll stay, its such fun’ she said. She was a great girl, and hopefully we’ll meet again – probably manacled to the floor of the guards van on the Kettering to Cardiff run, she’d enjoy that.
I pointed my own unerring compass in the direction of the tea-urn, acquired a cup of lukewarm weak tea, hoisted myself up onto a life-raft station, and puffed furiously on my e-cigarette. ‘Smoking only allowed on the lee-side’ said one of the ex-Royal Navy types. ‘Get stuffed’ I mouthed over the wind.
The next two hours was extremely pleasant under sail. (Bear in mind I was on this tub for almost a week!) My jeans dried out in the sun; I pulled ropes furiously under instructions. We bolted breakfast in double quick time on account of there only being 9 empty seats in the upper mess, and 7 officers and permanent crew were waiting for their breakfast….yes, I can count too. ‘Not with the oiks‘ I guess. We practised the evacuation drill, especially for the wheel chair users who might be marooned below deck in the event of no power – they required more rope hauling.
The trouble with my contrarian mind is that I always search for the other side of the equation – if you’ve been on duty for two months, if you have total responsibility for the safety of a cargo of lemons, you probably don’t want to chat pleasantly over breakfast.
An evacuation drill does require all hands at their correct muster station – but one of those hands was undressed, in bed, minus prosthetics, had been sea sick for two days with attendant loss of essential medication, and more to the point was a frail 86 years old… his ex-military mates, equally in wheelchairs. hollered in vain from the top of the gang plank – ‘leave old Bill in bed, haul me up twice, one occupied wheelchair is the same as another’ but orders from the captain is orders from the captain, and you don’t get cheap sailing to Hobart by disobeying orders. We learnt from a disgruntled volunteer crew member that somebody had died two weeks beforehand – (the chef’s veg locker on deck apparently…it’s coffin sized. I wondered too). You’ll be glad to hear that old Bill managed to dodge the veg locker, he’s now safely on his way back to Kent. He lives alone, in a wheelchair for many years, and told me that for all the tribulations on board, it was worth it to hear the sound of human voices all day every day. Even feeble ones crying out in the darkness ‘could somebody pass me another sick bag please’. Nothing like the military sense of humour.
We finally docked in Holland. Of course the Lord Nelson hasn’t got bow thrusters. I’ll leave that one for the sailors to figure out. We hadn’t actually been told that we were going to Holland when we signed up, just that we would require a passport, presumably to leave and enter British territorial waters. Amazingly we had some 11 euros between 30 of us when we emptied our pockets, and a whole free day in Holland. I volunteered to take a walk, OK, I got onto to dry land as fast as possible, dodging the Hell’s Angel who arrived on a Harley Davidson and in a neat bit of marketing, proceeded to roll an enormous joint whilst stationed at the bottom of the gang plank – we got the message.
I walked, hopped, swayed, stumbled, for the best part of a mile through industrial fish packing stations – still no sign of a cash point. Inquiries showed that there was still another mile to go before I would find one. That game of Ludo came to mind again. The inquires also showed up that there was a first class restaurant hidden amongst the warehouses that would accept my debit card and less than 100 yards from where the ship had docked. I really didn’t care how much it cost.
A motley band of wheelchairs, walking zombies, ‘buddies’ and carers, set off over the cobbles to catch two buses and a tram in order to find the cash point and lunch – praying that the 11 euros would achieve this. They had a dickens of a day, Holland is not the most wheelchair friendly environment and certainly not in the vicinity of the docks. Meanwhile, Ms Raccoon had alerted a fellow ‘mutineer’ to the presence of this restaurant. ‘Sod it, let’s go’ he said.
It was, without a doubt, the best fish restaurant I have ever been to. I’m going to take Mr G back there – beats anything in France. Mind you, I’ve also ascertained that we can travel in the most expensive ‘captain’s suite’ back and forth across the North Sea in a bloody great ferry with stabilisers and everything, for a third of the price of the Lord Nelson…
We had a magnificent lunch, and an equally magnificent bottle of Chardonnay, in wonderful surroundings, and excellent company. 35 euros for the two of us! People smiled at us, and we mellowed. Neither of us had been expecting anything like that on board, but it was great to get away from the ‘borstal camp for truculent teenage boys’ atmosphere on board. We glanced round the restaurant, glad we hadn’t accompanied the intrepid hordes on the route march to the Hague and Macdonalds. Guess what we saw? A table laid for twelve in a sunlit window. Guess who trooped in to occupy it? Yes, the bloody crew. Ask us to join them? Paying oiks? Perish the thought.
The captain had changed his plans by now, and we left that afternoon, ready to motor back across the North Sea in conditions marginally better than before, but ahead of an even worse storm. We anchored the next night off Dunwich beach – the last place I ever spent a night under the same roof as my parents, near 60 years beforehand. I felt positively emotional, wondering if the churchyard still gave up its ancient bones after every storm washed away a little more of it, and whether anyone would ever let a nine year old girl camp out alone, under canvas, in the sand dunes again….I hadn’t expected that trip down memory lane.
We did put up half sail again the next morning, but still motored towards Great Yarmouth and a new earlier rendezvous with the Yarmouth pilot. The grey sky drizzled water, but the jack-up rigs at Yarmouth could be seen through the fog – wonderful sight, and I finally understand why Mr G is so fond of them. Home! I’ve got myself into some dire situations over the years, but never anything I had so profoundly regretted as this.
I baled out as soon as we berthed at Yarmouth, as did the other ‘mutineers’ as we called ourselves. (When the lifeboat called to see us, out of interest, off Dunwich, one had tried to bribe the lifeboatmen with £100 to take him ashore – he could see his house, his nice hot bath, his bottle of wine, from where we were moored…) Everybody else had to be off the ship by Saturday morning. Why? Well, a reception was being held for the ‘generous Trustees’ of the charity on the Saturday night. Everything had to be shipshape to receive them.
Naturally, Ms Raccoon has been ferreting away to see what she can find about these Trustees. In fairness, none of them take a salary for their Trusteeship. I was pleasantly surprised. Still interesting to see how these things work though. Some 20 of us had paid £20,000 collectively to motor across the North Sea. Fair enough, we’d been fed as best you can be when you work in a kitchen that is turning through 180 degrees every few minutes. One plate gets the egg yolk, the next one the egg white….
Whereas, Jacquetta Cator who was married to the Vice-Chairman of the merchant bankers Schroder Wagg & Co, takes over the £850,000 loan previously granted by Barclays Private Bank – and reissues it to the Jubilee Sailing Trust, charging them £9,996 in interest a year, and that is ‘doing good works’ for which the Trust are ‘incredibly grateful’…and the ship gets cleared of messy oiks so that a reception can be given for her.
I’ll get the hang of this charity business one day – don’t give them money, lend them money.
For all that, it is hard to think of how they could do things any differently; given the constraints of time, tide, and disabilities. Yet they need to – the business model needs people like me and my fellow mutineers to come away saying how wonderful it all was and persuade our friends to give it a go.
They offered me a virtually free trip down to Southampton – they have too many ‘disabled’ booked, and not enough paying punters to help look after them. By then, I’d learnt some salty language in my time at sea. I used it.
*Graphic courtesy of the inimitable Blocked Dwarf.
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September 10, 2015 at 9:35 am -
As my dear old mother used to say after every misfortune, “Never mind, worse things happen at sea.”
Now I see what she meant!
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September 11, 2015 at 5:14 am -
Well, I dunno; there doesn’t seem to have been any Raft of the Medusa/ Dudley and Stephens cannibalism involved, despite the suspicious number of people missing various prime cuts.
Perhaps Mrs. Raccoon is saving that up for next year’s booking, although given the rather unenthusiastic tone, I’d caution against it; it’s all very well eating other people – as Flanders and Swan pointed out, if God hadn’t intended us to eat other people, He wouldn’t have made us out of meat – but there’s always the risk that we ourselves might end up being served with the vegetables. I would suppose that rather than drawing lots they go for the most ornery first.
I’d be very nervous of chef’s vegetable locker because it’s such an obvious excuse: ‘I was feeling a little peckish on the dog watch, so ambled along the deck and fixed myself a sandwich. Imagine my surprise later when what I thought was cold beef sandwich turned out to be old Bert’s left buttock. As for the pork sausage… .’
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September 10, 2015 at 9:42 am -
Oops, sorry! Probably not the time to be making a comment like my last one. Apologies for insensitivity after awful refugee perils and drownings at sea.
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September 10, 2015 at 9:59 am -
Never apologise. Never explain.
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September 11, 2015 at 5:19 am -
‘Never apologise mister, it’s a sign of weakness’ – John Wayne in ‘She wore a yellow ribbon’
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September 10, 2015 at 10:02 am -
£10k a year interest on £850k is just shy of 1.2%. Sounds like quite generous terms.
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September 10, 2015 at 10:11 am -
Indeed, but foregoing taxable income not quite the same as a donation…..
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September 10, 2015 at 2:31 pm -
That depends on the rate of interest the Trust used to pay to Barclays for the same loan. The Trust may still be better off.
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September 10, 2015 at 10:03 am -
Wonderful stuff! And I am going to save that graphic….!
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September 10, 2015 at 10:46 am -
September 10, 2015 at 9:29 pm -
Let that sorry tale be a warning to you, Gildas ! When you were pouring out your heart about your dire financial straights, I took pity on you and posted a message saying you were welcome to come and have a freebie with me on my yacht. Just as well you didn’t take me up on the offer !
Offer still stands for you, of course, Ms Racoon ! She’s down in Greece, so you can report on the migrant crissis at first hand.
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September 10, 2015 at 11:22 am -
Hope to read today’s post whilst babysitting Granddaughter2 this afternoon but in the meantime and in a return to previous topic about them nasty A-rabbs acomin’ over here and stealing our culture, it seems refugees from Syria ain’t the only INVADER we have to worry about. I found this in the Bestes Ayran Frau Daily Xenophobe today: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-3228041/Britain-high-RACCOON-alert-mammal-pest-devastate-native-wildlife-expert-warns.html
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September 10, 2015 at 11:28 am -
September 10, 2015 at 12:25 pm -
Not many, if any, bones come out of Dunwich cliff these days, as they’re all in the sea, along with John Brinkley Easey’s gravestone, which was the solitary one on the cliff edge. Like everywhere else round here, what’s left is all “twee-d up” for the London, Essex and Home Counties hordes, regulated and, of course, charged for. Camping truly ad hoc and al fresco under leaky canvas is past.
A pity that there is only one full-time fisherman on Sizewell beach, and none at Dunwich now, as they would have torn your shipmate’s arm off for £100. For another £50, they’d likely steam to Lowestoft, Orford or Yarmouth. -
September 10, 2015 at 12:26 pm -
That definitely comes under the heading of ‘experience’. We’ve all had ‘experiences’ which, having had the benefit of having had them, we have had no inclination since ever to have them again.
I put pot-holing & caving into that bracket – ‘experienced’ once on a so-called ‘management team-building event’, it struck me as one of the most uncomfortable, unpleasant and pointlessly dangerous things to do on the planet. I even had to put my fags in a waterproof ammunition-box and drag that through the icy-cold sumps just so I could have a dry smoke when we eventually got to the ‘target cavern’, another phrase for a slightly bigger hole in the rocks where you could actually stand up – that was it, no bar, no dancing girls, no burger-van, no spectacular views, just a bigger hole. To my question ‘Why?” they had no acceptable answer.
Sounds like life under the friggin’ riggin’ fits in the same box. Glad you survived the ‘experience’ – I’ve learnt from it too. -
September 10, 2015 at 1:16 pm -
Thank you, Ms Raccoon for confirming my prejudices against life afloat so very entertainingly!
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September 10, 2015 at 5:10 pm -
“E-cigarette”? Whatever were you thinking of, Ms Raccoon? If one is going to pop one’s clogs let one at least do it style and smoke a proper fag containing real baccy.
Which reminds me of the time I lit up, not so long ago, on the top deck of a cross-channel ferry, only to have some health and safety busybody in a flourescent yellow jacket (almost certainly related to your Mrs Mrs Relentlessly Cheerful, but lacking any obvious ‘cheer’) point censoriously at a sign on the funnel above me which stated that “smoking was strictly prohibited on the boat deck.”
I pointed in turn to the aforementioned funnel upon which the sign was fixed, which was, as is the wont of such things on cross-channel ferries, belching out clouds of black, oily diesel fumes. As the wind was abaft the shop, these enveloped much of the deck, except the corner I had chosen to smoke in.
Suffice it to say that the morose matelot slunk off with his hawser between his legs and left me to enjoy my fag in peace.
But back to the main programme. Your account of your nautical excursion is both rivetting and hugely enjoyable. Thank you so much for letting us all share in your adventures.
Finally, on the subject of sea-sickness, there is a cheap and readily-available nostrum that stops sea-sickness in its tracks. Why it isn’t more widely-known only the medical profession and Big Pharma know. That remedy is homeopathic tincture of ginger root, or fresh ginger does just as well. It also works for car sickness.
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September 10, 2015 at 6:19 pm -
smoke a proper fag …….on the top deck of a cross-channel ferry
The Landlady was obviously bottle fed as a baby and has taken to her ersatz-teat with gusto. She keeps it secreted, but handy, about her person at all times. You remember that illustration from Alice in Wonderland?
As far as I know, and just to help out a fellow smoker, the Harwich-Hoek ferry still has an actual, comfortable, clean, heated and enclosed Smoking Room next to the bar…
http://2khh4.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/for-p.html
and most people seem to spend the entire 7 hour crossing in there. On my last crossing about 2 years back, I enquired of the Dutch Barman whether there were any dastardly plans afoot to close said smoking room…and he gave me one of those ‘are you on any prescribed medication?’ looks that one normally only gets from teenagers.
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September 10, 2015 at 6:17 pm -
A wonderful tale of misery that only the landlady could transform into humour.
I am though, very confused by the following-“The ‘BM is putting up the Spanker’ she exclaimed in delight”- will someone please expunge the mental image I have of something very disturbing related to bowel movements.
And amongst all the humour, a sad recognition of the plight of 86 year-old “Old Bill” who despite the discomfort he undoubtedly experienced was happy just for the company his fellow crew. I cried, what a statement of todays uncaring attitude to someone who deserves infinitely better.
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September 10, 2015 at 6:30 pm -
He lives alone, in a wheelchair for many years, and told me that for all the tribulations on board, it was worth it to hear the sound of human voices all day every day.
That emotional gut punch of a sentence was carefully hidden away amidst the guffaw inducing humour and *SNORK*age. That might be the saddest thing i have read today.
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September 10, 2015 at 7:18 pm -
I avoided the sea, with its tales of ‘Rum, Bum and Concertina’ in lieu of wine, women and song… I joined another service entirely, made up of manly men and the occasional ‘popsie’. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!! Dakadakadakadakadaka!!
Now, I KNOW I was right. Oh, I know you didn’t join the Royal Navy but it is all one – messing about in boats, on an unstable element such as the sea, no wonder everything was less than shipshape.
One other thing… Nelson’s navy didn’t have ‘bow thrusters’ or any such device, they had lots of Able Seamen and the cat’o’nine tails instead
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September 10, 2015 at 7:54 pm -
Yes, the “Relentlessly cheerful”. Awful people. I believe under an obscure clause of maritime law you’re excused the charge of mutiny if you put them over the side with a slit gizzard during the second dog watch.
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September 10, 2015 at 8:44 pm -
A splendid account of your adventure on the ocean waves (which sounds exactly as I imagined it might be)! You may remember me muttering – before you embarked on your “once-in-a-lifetime-voyage” – that I would rather crawl across broken glass with my eyeballs on fire than embark on even the most brief and luxurious ‘sailing experience’, let alone endure what now sounds to me like a short-week’s worth of self-funded Community Service!
It’s been a joy to read all about it. You should have your own blog!
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September 10, 2015 at 9:29 pm -
Before I prattle on: why call her ‘Lord’ Nelson? After whom else would she be named: Nelson Rockefeller; Willie Nelson? H.M.S. _Nelson_ was just so called and she had nine 16-inch naval rifles!
I noticed from the J.S.T. tracking site that for some time _Lord_Nelson_ seemed to be dead in the water. Our raccoon’s brilliant account of her experience explains much.
I’m surprised, on reading that account and bearing in mind not only her relatively tight schedule but also the almost total lack of seafaring experience of those on board, that the master didn’t tack. She must surely be capable of heading to within six points of the wind and the extra comfort from being bent to the wind would have done wonders for morale.
As I read through the three parts of our raccoon’s tale, I became ever more dejected: something that ought to have been of great enjoyment to all — the ship’s company, the handicapped and those, as Mme. Raccoon, paying for the privilege — seems to have been managed almost totally ineptly and without regard to the very thing that ought to have made it worth the while: the sheer pleasure of it.
Anyway: at least we have our raccoon back; it could have been worse.
All in all, it makes me feel our raccoon will quite look forward to it, should she opt for a flight in a Tiger Moth! She won’t have to dress as Mr. P. Bear (although she will be given a bomber jacket and a pair of gloves to wear). And, perhaps best of all, it lasts only about twenty minutes so, if she not like it (incroyable!), it’ll all be over within 1,200 seconds and she can repair to the terminal for a cup of coffee.
ΠΞ
En passant, Blocked Friend, I replied in no uncertain terms to that absurd article in the Davey Grail.
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September 11, 2015 at 7:48 am -
A naughty young lady named Banker
Fell asleep while the ship lay at anchor.
She awoke in dismay
when she heard the mate say
now lift up her top sheet and spanker. -
September 11, 2015 at 8:30 am -
Strewth, and I thought I was hard done by with my rain soaked August “holiday” in Devon last month.
I raise my sou’wester to you dear Landlady for your hardiness and determination and hope you enjoy the bliss of terra firma with the distinct advantages of stationary floors, dry rooms and no sick bags.
Are you still not tempted to do the Hobart run then?
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