Living on a Boat, Part 7

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?