Aha. So, there I was, living on a boat. In just two weeks, I'd got through a ridiculous voyage, survived a spider infestation, but still hadn't worked out how to turn on my lights and heating. I spoke to my brother, who's throwaway comment had inspired this madness:
"Hey, bud; how's it going?"
How d'you answer that? How do you admit that what seemed like the best, duck-filled idea was turning out to be a nightmare? Like this:
"It's like I've moved to Mars and I'm expected to go about my business as usual."
That pretty much summed it up. Every morning, I'd wake up at 6.30, have a cup of tea and then jump in a dinghy and row to land to go and look after my son. After a day's cooking, cleaning and playing, I'd head back to the boatyard, jump in a dinghy and row back. I was trying ot make it all seem perfectly normal in my head, but I knew it wasn't, not for me, a confirmed landlubber. But I got through May.
One weekend, very early on, I was sitting in my saloon (lounge, in real talk), contemplating again just how I was going to get out of this. And there's a knock at the door. A knock on the door of my boat, which is parked in the middle of the river. Who the hell is this? Postmen don't deliver to boats and I don't remember seeing a milk float chugging up and down the Thames. I opened the hatch and there's a guy standing in a dinghy, who introduces himself as Matt and asks if he can see my boat.
What?
What I didn't realise back then is that people who like boats like boats. What I perceived to be nosiness was a genuine interest in my tub. And, to be honest, I was glad of the company, so I invited him in and gave him a cup of tea and let him inspect the boat. Which passed muster. Over the next two days, there were more knocks at my door and more people, all very friendly, coming to see my boat. They all had boats moored along the boatyard and wanted to see what the new one was like. One of them mentioned that, in a few days, there would be the Annual Moorings Party on an island and was I going? I supposed I was.
So, a few days later, I went to this island to go and poke my face in and see who's who. And, sure as dammit, there's a party going on and people are introducing themselves and it's all very jolly. At one point, as I stood clutching my non-alcoholic beer, an older guy, about sixty, came and intriduced himself as Chris. Chris had the biggest boat on the moorings; a monster of a thing that overlooked everyone else.
"I've been watching you."
Great. I've got a stalker.
"Oh, yeah?" I replied, probably a little too quickly.
"Yeah. You don't know what the f**k you're doing, do you?" Although I don't think he was trying to be intimidating, he was doing a pretty good job.
"No, I don't." No point in lying.
"Well, if you need a hand with anything, let me know."
Bingo!
"Great! You couldn't come and show me how to turn my lights on, could you?"
Chris laughs, so I try again.
"No, really. I don't know how to turn my lights on."
After a little more persuading, I rowed Chris to my tub and he showed me how to turn my lights on. AND the central heating. AND how to turn the electrics on. Things are slowly looking up. But there was a price to pay: the moment I got Chris back to the party, the story was rattled around the island and so began my reputation as the Man Who Knows Nothing. Which I have proudly upheld for the last five years.
What I didn't know was that this was the beginning of my integration into the Boating Community. For anyone who hasn't experienced it, the Boating Community is exceptionally strong. Within six weeks I knew the names of pretty much everyone on the moorings and could stop and say hallo. If I'd moved into a flat, I still might not know my neighbours. Today, for instance, one of the guys Matt, actually) shouted across to see if I was alright, what with the cold weather and all. I asked someone once why the community was so strong and they told me that it's because, if you own a boat, everyone thinks you're a dick, so "we might as well all be dicks together." It's pretty self-effacing, but there's an element of truth to it and, regardless, I'm grateful.
The next week, there was a regatta upstream and a load of people were going and asked me if I was. No, I wasn't; there was no way I was sailing this damn thing for any longer than I had to, so I waved everyone off and tried to get back on with my Martian life. It was June.
Waking up to find that your house has risen by 11 feet is an unnerving experience. But, it was the flash-floods of 2007. Of course I'd heard the rain. When it rains on a boat, it sounds like you're being attacked by a nation armed with pea-shooters. But, for some reason, I hadn't considered that water falling out of the sky will increase the water on the ground. And how fast it flows. The gentle, pond-like river was now an angry torrent, surging around my home, bashing bits of tree and debris into it. This wasn't good.
What also wasn't good was that I had to row across it. In a plastic dinghy with no anchor. For the first day, I didn't have to be anywhere, so I stayed on board and thought it would all be OK by tomorrow. Tomorrow came and the river was still racing, so I took my life in my hands and climbed in my little dinghy - and pushed off.
Within seconds, I was racing downstream with no chance of going anywhere else. Fortunately, I had enough presence of mind to try and steer myself towards shore and managed to grab onto a moored boat. I then rang Chris, who came out in his dinghy, propelled by a beautiful, shiny...outboard motor.
Before I got home that evening, I promised myself I would have one.
How wrong can you be?
Wednesday 8 February 2012
Wednesday 18 January 2012
Living on a Boat, Part 6
At least there were no spiders. At least I could try and get some sleep.
How wrong can you be?
Each night I'd settle down, still questioning my sanity, but ready for a restorative snooze. And each night, for the first two weeks, I'd be woken at midnight, 2 am, 4 am and 6 am by A Noise. Now, the times I've given for the Noise are approximate, but it happened between two and four times a night. But let's not get ahead of ourselves - there were other things that happened before bedtime.
Opposite my boat was - and still are - pleasure boats; the ones that take people out for boozy nights on the River. I'd hear the engines start up about 8 and about half an hour later, hear the sounds of Tina Turner's 'Simply the Best' or some other crowd-pleaser fading down the Thames, underscored by cheers, out-of-tune singing and whistles. This was a bit of comfort for me; my boat is moored in the middle of the River and you can feel a bit cut off from the rest of the world, if you're not careful. The sounds of people enjoying themselves reminded me that all was not lost and there are good times to be had.
The other thing that helped me through my darker hours was Russell Brand's Radio 2 show. Love him or loathe him, the man is an infernal optimist and it's quite infectious. My Friday night treat was to sit and listen to him with a big bar of chocolate and try and lose myself in his madness. It was quite a blow when he got taken off.
But there were things happening I didn't understand and, being one of nature's cowards, things I don't understand tend to scare me. The first was that the boat would suddenly lurch at about 11 pm, slamming into the piles with some force. I didn't mentally connect the dots joining this motion and the arrival of a pleasure ship about 15 minutes later. I didn't know about 'bow-waves' - why should I? So, until I worked it out, as far as I was concerned, the boat was sinking every night at 11 o'clock.
The other thing was the sound of breaking glass at midnight. Lots of it. I'd already heard whispers of 'River Pirates', so I'd eye-up my entrance-hatch, wondering just how I could make it more secure. More dots I didn't join and these turned out to be the empties from the pleasure boat being disposed of.
But, the Noise... It sounded to me like ropes being stretched to breaking point; that sort of 'D - d - d - d -' sound you get just before there's an almighty snap and your boat goes shooting off downstream. Given that my boat was secured by ropes with knots that I'd tied and therefore didn't trust, this meant that I'd shoot out of bed, grab a torch and stand on the rear deck, checking the lines. Twice, three times a night. And I won't mention the fact that I don't wear pyjamas in bed. Or anything else, for that matter.
Two weeks of this went by, with me getting more and more paranoid, probably due to exhaustion. One night, I think about 3 am, I was doing my usual naked check, when I happened to shine the light along the side of the boat. There, in a lovely little line, was a row of ducks. Nibbling the weed off my hull. Making a 'd-d-d-d-d-d-' noise. Not my ropes snapping. Not at all.
Still, it was another one to cross off the list and it was June now and Spring was on its way.
Anyone remember the flash-floods of 2007..?
I do.
To be continued...
How wrong can you be?
Each night I'd settle down, still questioning my sanity, but ready for a restorative snooze. And each night, for the first two weeks, I'd be woken at midnight, 2 am, 4 am and 6 am by A Noise. Now, the times I've given for the Noise are approximate, but it happened between two and four times a night. But let's not get ahead of ourselves - there were other things that happened before bedtime.
Opposite my boat was - and still are - pleasure boats; the ones that take people out for boozy nights on the River. I'd hear the engines start up about 8 and about half an hour later, hear the sounds of Tina Turner's 'Simply the Best' or some other crowd-pleaser fading down the Thames, underscored by cheers, out-of-tune singing and whistles. This was a bit of comfort for me; my boat is moored in the middle of the River and you can feel a bit cut off from the rest of the world, if you're not careful. The sounds of people enjoying themselves reminded me that all was not lost and there are good times to be had.
The other thing that helped me through my darker hours was Russell Brand's Radio 2 show. Love him or loathe him, the man is an infernal optimist and it's quite infectious. My Friday night treat was to sit and listen to him with a big bar of chocolate and try and lose myself in his madness. It was quite a blow when he got taken off.
But there were things happening I didn't understand and, being one of nature's cowards, things I don't understand tend to scare me. The first was that the boat would suddenly lurch at about 11 pm, slamming into the piles with some force. I didn't mentally connect the dots joining this motion and the arrival of a pleasure ship about 15 minutes later. I didn't know about 'bow-waves' - why should I? So, until I worked it out, as far as I was concerned, the boat was sinking every night at 11 o'clock.
The other thing was the sound of breaking glass at midnight. Lots of it. I'd already heard whispers of 'River Pirates', so I'd eye-up my entrance-hatch, wondering just how I could make it more secure. More dots I didn't join and these turned out to be the empties from the pleasure boat being disposed of.
But, the Noise... It sounded to me like ropes being stretched to breaking point; that sort of 'D - d - d - d -' sound you get just before there's an almighty snap and your boat goes shooting off downstream. Given that my boat was secured by ropes with knots that I'd tied and therefore didn't trust, this meant that I'd shoot out of bed, grab a torch and stand on the rear deck, checking the lines. Twice, three times a night. And I won't mention the fact that I don't wear pyjamas in bed. Or anything else, for that matter.
Two weeks of this went by, with me getting more and more paranoid, probably due to exhaustion. One night, I think about 3 am, I was doing my usual naked check, when I happened to shine the light along the side of the boat. There, in a lovely little line, was a row of ducks. Nibbling the weed off my hull. Making a 'd-d-d-d-d-d-' noise. Not my ropes snapping. Not at all.
Still, it was another one to cross off the list and it was June now and Spring was on its way.
Anyone remember the flash-floods of 2007..?
I do.
To be continued...
Sunday 15 January 2012
Living on a Boat, Part 5
Given that I've been living on a boat for about five years now, I've learned to Dread and Fear the Winter Months. But, more importantly than that, I've learned to prepare forthem. But things was different way back when I was spending my first month on the water, Ho Yes! I suppose the one caveat I ought to add is that, if my actions seemed a little off-kilter, I was fresh from the wacky world of divorce - well, as near as you can get without being married - and having to get used to being without my son. But, back to the way it was...
I still had no lights or heating and, despite the fact that it was May, it was cold. So, each night would see me hunched over the laptop that I'd charged in the car, shrouded by towels and duvets and squinting through the candlelight, like something out of a Dickens novel. When I went to bed, my drfifting-off thoughts were "How am I going to get out of this one?" It was like I'd played a ridiculously expensive and character-crushing practical joke on myself.
My first Major Nightime Concern arrived on my first or second night and it sounded and felt like someone dropping grapes onto the bed and the floor. Unfortunately, I was operating by candles, so it was hard to identify the problem at first. But then, it became evident just what the reality of this grape-storm was:
Spiders.
I'll say it again:
Spiders.
I HATE spiders. Not dislike or am made uncomfortable by - HATE. I realise they are just insects with extra legs and no abdomen and they have as much right to be around etc, etc - but, really. These things are evil: they look evil, move evil and probably swear. And there were dozens of the swines dropping onto my bed. Cue night on sofa, mummified in sleeping bag.
The next day, I went into a boat shop, which I have since learned is a chandler's. Trying not to sound like the wimp I am, I marched up to the counter:
"I've got spiders on my boat."
"It's a boat."
"So?"
"Spider love boats."
This was news to me. Spider love boats? This didn't tally with my Rosie and Jim visions of things. But, alas, it would prove to be all too true. Spiders LOVE boats. And I HATE spiders: a Conflict of Interests. Another thing I've learned is that spiders can swim. As if they weren't bad enough, the little fiends use their front and rear legs like rudders to choose direction and the remaining four as oars, without breaking the surface tension of the water. What next, I ask you? Rocket packs? The problem was that, while my boat was sitting in a marina, waiting for me to buy it, it had been cleaned daily. Once I'd secured the deposit, it was one off the staff to-do list; it was left to gather dust and harbour stowaways.
Anyhow, I asked old Matey behind the counter if he could supply me with something to get rid of the infestation.
"Humane or chemicals?"
This was a bit of a wrestle for me; I like to think of myself as one of the good guys and I don't like killing bugs, even if I HATE them.
"Humane."
Matey then sells me an Electronic Spider Scarer. Apparently, you turn them on and they emit an ultra-high frequency that is the same for spiders as a workman using a pneumatic drill is for us when we're watching the telly. Brilliant! So, equipped with my Scarer and some AAA batteries, I went back to the boat to exact my terrible revenge.
Fast-forward another sleepless night of the sound of fat bodies dropping onto my bed and I'm back at the chandler's the next morning.
"This thing doesn't work!"
"Oh."
"Yes! I had it on all last night and they're still there!"
Matey now eyes me like people eye firearms.
"These take between six to eight weeks to have any effect..."
Two months? Two months of living out William Shatner's finest B-movie, Kingdom of the Spiders??? I don't think so.
"What chemicals have you got?"
Matey sells me some Spider Spray. The label tells me that it will kill on contact and set up a repellent barrier for up to 8 months. Kay.
However, clinging to my 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' policy, I felt so guilty that I went around the boat, armed with a dustpan and brush, a glass and a piece of card. Those found were swiftly and fearfully evicted and sent on their way, which is how I learned they can swim. I must have got rid of about 150 of the creatures. I'll put it in word, so there can be no doubt: one hundred and fifty. No exaggeration. Then, like the slightly-unhinged person I was/am/can be, I stood and announced:
"Right - you've got thirty minutes to leave. I'm coming back with chemicals. You have been warned." This monologue was based on something nother arachnophobe had told me about spiders leaving if you talk to them. Something to do with them being able to translate the vibrations in your voice. This theory is, I now realise, complete arse.
So, I shoved-off for thirty minutes like I said I would and came back, armed to the teeth, with aerosols of something that should probably be withdrawn by the EU. As per the instructions, I sprayed everywhere, focussing on the entry points, and left for two hours. When I came back, it was like a scene from a massacre - there must have been about 30 balled-up little bodies dangling from threads of just lying on the floor. Out they went.
Having not slept properly for two days, I was looking forward to a decent bit of kip that night. I crawled into bed, secure in the knowledge that there were no more than two legs on this boat and that tonight I would sleep like a log. How wrong can you be? I'd reckoned without... The Duck Incident!
To be continued/drawn-out/harped-on-about....
I still had no lights or heating and, despite the fact that it was May, it was cold. So, each night would see me hunched over the laptop that I'd charged in the car, shrouded by towels and duvets and squinting through the candlelight, like something out of a Dickens novel. When I went to bed, my drfifting-off thoughts were "How am I going to get out of this one?" It was like I'd played a ridiculously expensive and character-crushing practical joke on myself.
My first Major Nightime Concern arrived on my first or second night and it sounded and felt like someone dropping grapes onto the bed and the floor. Unfortunately, I was operating by candles, so it was hard to identify the problem at first. But then, it became evident just what the reality of this grape-storm was:
Spiders.
I'll say it again:
Spiders.
I HATE spiders. Not dislike or am made uncomfortable by - HATE. I realise they are just insects with extra legs and no abdomen and they have as much right to be around etc, etc - but, really. These things are evil: they look evil, move evil and probably swear. And there were dozens of the swines dropping onto my bed. Cue night on sofa, mummified in sleeping bag.
The next day, I went into a boat shop, which I have since learned is a chandler's. Trying not to sound like the wimp I am, I marched up to the counter:
"I've got spiders on my boat."
"It's a boat."
"So?"
"Spider love boats."
This was news to me. Spider love boats? This didn't tally with my Rosie and Jim visions of things. But, alas, it would prove to be all too true. Spiders LOVE boats. And I HATE spiders: a Conflict of Interests. Another thing I've learned is that spiders can swim. As if they weren't bad enough, the little fiends use their front and rear legs like rudders to choose direction and the remaining four as oars, without breaking the surface tension of the water. What next, I ask you? Rocket packs? The problem was that, while my boat was sitting in a marina, waiting for me to buy it, it had been cleaned daily. Once I'd secured the deposit, it was one off the staff to-do list; it was left to gather dust and harbour stowaways.
Anyhow, I asked old Matey behind the counter if he could supply me with something to get rid of the infestation.
"Humane or chemicals?"
This was a bit of a wrestle for me; I like to think of myself as one of the good guys and I don't like killing bugs, even if I HATE them.
"Humane."
Matey then sells me an Electronic Spider Scarer. Apparently, you turn them on and they emit an ultra-high frequency that is the same for spiders as a workman using a pneumatic drill is for us when we're watching the telly. Brilliant! So, equipped with my Scarer and some AAA batteries, I went back to the boat to exact my terrible revenge.
Fast-forward another sleepless night of the sound of fat bodies dropping onto my bed and I'm back at the chandler's the next morning.
"This thing doesn't work!"
"Oh."
"Yes! I had it on all last night and they're still there!"
Matey now eyes me like people eye firearms.
"These take between six to eight weeks to have any effect..."
Two months? Two months of living out William Shatner's finest B-movie, Kingdom of the Spiders??? I don't think so.
"What chemicals have you got?"
Matey sells me some Spider Spray. The label tells me that it will kill on contact and set up a repellent barrier for up to 8 months. Kay.
However, clinging to my 'Thou Shalt Not Kill' policy, I felt so guilty that I went around the boat, armed with a dustpan and brush, a glass and a piece of card. Those found were swiftly and fearfully evicted and sent on their way, which is how I learned they can swim. I must have got rid of about 150 of the creatures. I'll put it in word, so there can be no doubt: one hundred and fifty. No exaggeration. Then, like the slightly-unhinged person I was/am/can be, I stood and announced:
"Right - you've got thirty minutes to leave. I'm coming back with chemicals. You have been warned." This monologue was based on something nother arachnophobe had told me about spiders leaving if you talk to them. Something to do with them being able to translate the vibrations in your voice. This theory is, I now realise, complete arse.
So, I shoved-off for thirty minutes like I said I would and came back, armed to the teeth, with aerosols of something that should probably be withdrawn by the EU. As per the instructions, I sprayed everywhere, focussing on the entry points, and left for two hours. When I came back, it was like a scene from a massacre - there must have been about 30 balled-up little bodies dangling from threads of just lying on the floor. Out they went.
Having not slept properly for two days, I was looking forward to a decent bit of kip that night. I crawled into bed, secure in the knowledge that there were no more than two legs on this boat and that tonight I would sleep like a log. How wrong can you be? I'd reckoned without... The Duck Incident!
To be continued/drawn-out/harped-on-about....
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