tonybarebones
Member
A SHORT STORY
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE FOG – BY W..J. TURTON
As I unlocked the club gates a sudden cold shiver ran quickly down my back and away into the even colder ground. The shiver was not , I think entirely due to the cold, foggy winter evening, but produced partly by the loneliness of the site. The clubhouse looked like a mortuary, with its' swirling shroud of fog. The muted calls of the seabirds searching for food and the mournful warning of the Cardiff Dock Entrance foghorn, all helped to produce within me an increasing feeling of apprehension
An earlier phone message had simply stated, ' I think you need to check Sixpence's moorings ' I hadn't chosen to come alone but my regular crew member was sick and my sons were out Punk-rocking somewhere.
As I got back into the car and drove towards the compound, the headlights briefly woke up the clubhouse, providing a white curtain across the river, before settling upon the Compound gates, its' wire meshing was glistening with water droplets like a huge patterned spider’s web. As the gate bolt dug its' furrow slightly deeper into the compound floor, the water shook free from its' wire host and pattered quietly to the ground.
With the car pulled into a small clear area left and the engine freed from its' labour , there came a total silence. As I stood there putting on my oilskins and seaboots, I became aware that the compound was not silent, it was alive with the sound of water dripping from each and every shrouded hull . Whistling nervously, I pulled my dinghy to the head of the slipway, It was a big tide and I was able to launch her easily , slipping the oars through the rowlocks, I pulled away and started my trip up the river. As I rowed up and across the river, I could dimly make out the berthing lights on tne Esso jetty. 'They must be expecting a tanker in. What a night to be a pilot . What a night to be on the river at all! “Oh the joys of boating!”
Approaching the club moorings , I first picked up the slim white form of 'Sanda', followed by the more chunky outline of ' Sixpence '. It was like meeting an old friend. As my hand touched her rubbing strake, I lost that lonely slightly apprehensive feeling that had followed me throughout my journey up the river . Making the painter fast to the lower guardrail , I stood up grasped the lower mast stays and pulled myself up and aboard.
It took scarcely a minute to turn on the battery isolating switch and then bathe the saloon with welcoming light. Taking a flashlight from its' clip above the chart table , I went back up on deck and checked the bow and the stern lines , the mooring buoys and bridle . Everything was O.K.
I could only assume that the person who had left the message about 'Sixpence's moorings had seen her about half and hour after the flood had floated her , when a back eddy causes her to lie for a short while across the tide, with her bows towards the River bank
Satisfied that everything was in order, I went back below. I immediately noticed a strong smell of disturbed mud. The smell had not been apparent when I first opened the cabin, I had the sudden feeling I was not alone. There was no possibility of any one else being aboard but I couldn't shake off the feeling.
I felt silly but still I shouted " Hello ! Hello ! " . The muddy smell was even stronger , then I saw it ... a quite distinct muddy seaboot print on the teak cabin sole. Now I was frightened. I knew I hadn't brought it aboard , the tide had been quite high . In fact it was high tide when I launched my dinghy from our concrete slipway. The nearest mud would have been about lOft under water, but still hopefully I looked at the soles of both of my seaboots. They were clean!
I looked more closely at the footprint, it was formed by black oily mud, the type that clings to your boots when you're digging in your moorings at low water.
"Hello !", I shouted again . I took a heavy spanner out of the engine tool box, looked quickly into the toilet. No one there. Then I checked the wardrobe, the oilskin locker and finally I pulled the sails from the foscle, where they had been loosely folded. There was definately no one aboard.I took some toilet roll and wiped the mud up . Then I washed the cabin sole clean but I couldn't manage to remove the oily stain. It appeared to have penetrated the teak
I stepped into the cockpit to throw the muddy toilet roll overboard when I heard the sound of a dinghy being rowed. Then I saw it, an old fashioned clinker stem dinghy being rowed upriver by an elderly gentleman dressed in black oilskins. He was accustomed to rowing, the dinghy was moving easily, his strokes were firm and steady though I could distinctly hear him gasping for air.
"Ahoy there! ", I shouted, “Nasty night to be out, isn't it ?" He gave no answer nor by any movement gave the impression that he'd even seen me but continued rowing and disappeared into the fog. Throwing the muddy paper overboard I observed that the ebb was now running out fast, making the old man’s rowing even more impressive.
Thinking about him I wondered if this was the chap who had been breaking into the boats on our upper moorings. I hadn't recognised him or the dinghy and for what other reason would a stranger be on the river in this weather. The fact that he was so old probably had a lot to do with my decision to follow him up river. So locking up ' Sixpence ' I stepped into my dinghy and pulled up the river.
The fog appeared to be getting thicker, but by rowing alongside the boats which were moored quite closely in line, I was always aware of my exact position on the river. I was finding pulling against the ebb quite an effort and could feel perspiration building up . This no doubt caused as much by my apprehension as the effect of my rowing.
I had reached the point where the river takes a bend to the northwest when I heard a small splash, it came from the other side of the river putting my dinghy’s transom parallel to the nearest boat's hull, I rowed directly across the river . I soon picked out the large black shape of the ‘Peggy’ and tied astern its' clinker planking, slaping quietly on the ebb was the black dinghy.
The 'Peggy', an ex- Bristol Channel Pilot Cutter, belonged to Allan Savage, a friend and fellow club member. She was as originally built and still rigged with dead eyes. The black dinghy was lying astern looking as if she belonged there, like a duckling following its' mother.
Grasping the 'Peggy's port chainplates, I tapped hard on the planking and called 'Anybody aboard!'. Almost immediately I heard the hatch slide back and a stream of pale yellow light flowed into the fog. ' Who's there?', the question came . ' I,m the owner of 'Sixpence', moored across and lower down the river,' I answered, ' Can I come aboard.?"
I thought that if he was up to no good that this should panic him, but no. "Certainly ", he answered, " Drop back to abreast the cockpit and I’ll put out a boarding ladder ". Thinking to myself this is a stupid thing to be doing, he could push me into the river as I’m climbing the ladder, I nevertheless still found myself boarding 'Peggy’.
The old man that I’d seen rowing the dinghy was standing in the companionway, " Come below, the kettle's on. " As I dropped down into the large warm cabin, the first thing I noticed was the very strong smell of disturbed mud. The old man had removed his oilskins and was dressed in heavy twill trousers and a blue oiled wool seaman’s jumper.
I’m looking after the 'Peggy ' while the skipper's laid up, " he said, he broke his leg when she pitched into a rough sea last time out".
"Oh" I replied, " I am sorry, give him my regards when you see him. I’m sure he's very grateful you're keeping an eye on the 'Peggy ' for him ".
“Its what I’m paid for,'' he answered, handing me a pint sized mug of steaming tea. " Sit on the companionway steps, then you won't have to take off your oilskins ", he suggested . Complying, I sipped my tea and looked around the cabin.
Alan had done wonders since I was last aboard, a solid fuel stove was glowing against the far bulkhead. The cheap electric lamps had been taken out and replaced with solid brass oil lamps, the deckhead was painted white and all the hardwood bulkheads, berthsides, doors and timber fittings were brightly varnished It looked as if the Cutter had just left her builder's yard. It looked lovely, cared for, however although it seemed immaculately clean, there was still a definate muddy smell.
“ I haven't seen you before “, I ventured.
“I only started about a week ago ", he replied
Would you like to keep an eye on 'Sixpence' as well and keep her pumped out and aired. I’m willing to pay ."
"That's alright Sir," he answered, " I come up most tides, its no trouble".
"How much would you want?, I asked.
"Just a little for some tobacco ", he said ,"I,m already being paid.
As soon as I put my empty mug down, he quickly picked it up rinsed it out, dried it and replaced it in the galley fitting.
"I’m sorry Sir but you'll have to leave now the ebb's well on its' way and I have to leave if I’m going to make the halftide steps.”
A deep memory stirred, I remembered the steps, set into the pitching on the North side of the Penarth Dock entrance . I had used them once about thirty years ago, but silting had hidden them for many years now.
You use them now ? ", I queried
"Of course Sir , I help to keep them clean.”
By this time I had reboarded my dinghy and the old man cast off my painter and hauled the boarding ladder on deck. As I drifted away I shouted my thanks for the tea. He never looked up or answered but started to haul his dinghy alongside . The 'Peggy', the dinghy and the old man disappeared into the fog. I fitted the rowlocks, took up the oars and settled down to row quietly with the ebb, towards our club pontoon, hoping I’d make it before the tide left it high and dry. If not I’d have to use the dinghy slipway which was available for another hour's ebb but meant a long tiring haul through the mud.
Amazingly, the black dinghy emerged astern. The old man was making much better progress than I. As he passed me I waved and shouted goodnight. He neither slacked his stroke nor looked towards me, it was if I didn't exist and he was quickly gone from sight.
The next day I rang Allan Savage to check if he minded me asking asking his man to keep an eye on 'Sixpence .’, I have no one looking after 'Peggy ,' he said , and when I told him of my visit and much I admired the way he'd restored the interior, he informed me that she was still in a sorry state inside . No solid fuel stove, no brass oil lamps and, of course , when I asked him about his leg, no broken leg either.
I never saw that black dinghy or that old man again. It was a strange episode, but stranger still, from that day I never had to pump ' Sixpence' out, nor Allan his 'Peggy'.
I,ve got used to it, but visitors to 'Sixpence' often complain of a muddy smell.
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE FOG – BY W..J. TURTON
As I unlocked the club gates a sudden cold shiver ran quickly down my back and away into the even colder ground. The shiver was not , I think entirely due to the cold, foggy winter evening, but produced partly by the loneliness of the site. The clubhouse looked like a mortuary, with its' swirling shroud of fog. The muted calls of the seabirds searching for food and the mournful warning of the Cardiff Dock Entrance foghorn, all helped to produce within me an increasing feeling of apprehension
An earlier phone message had simply stated, ' I think you need to check Sixpence's moorings ' I hadn't chosen to come alone but my regular crew member was sick and my sons were out Punk-rocking somewhere.
As I got back into the car and drove towards the compound, the headlights briefly woke up the clubhouse, providing a white curtain across the river, before settling upon the Compound gates, its' wire meshing was glistening with water droplets like a huge patterned spider’s web. As the gate bolt dug its' furrow slightly deeper into the compound floor, the water shook free from its' wire host and pattered quietly to the ground.
With the car pulled into a small clear area left and the engine freed from its' labour , there came a total silence. As I stood there putting on my oilskins and seaboots, I became aware that the compound was not silent, it was alive with the sound of water dripping from each and every shrouded hull . Whistling nervously, I pulled my dinghy to the head of the slipway, It was a big tide and I was able to launch her easily , slipping the oars through the rowlocks, I pulled away and started my trip up the river. As I rowed up and across the river, I could dimly make out the berthing lights on tne Esso jetty. 'They must be expecting a tanker in. What a night to be a pilot . What a night to be on the river at all! “Oh the joys of boating!”
Approaching the club moorings , I first picked up the slim white form of 'Sanda', followed by the more chunky outline of ' Sixpence '. It was like meeting an old friend. As my hand touched her rubbing strake, I lost that lonely slightly apprehensive feeling that had followed me throughout my journey up the river . Making the painter fast to the lower guardrail , I stood up grasped the lower mast stays and pulled myself up and aboard.
It took scarcely a minute to turn on the battery isolating switch and then bathe the saloon with welcoming light. Taking a flashlight from its' clip above the chart table , I went back up on deck and checked the bow and the stern lines , the mooring buoys and bridle . Everything was O.K.
I could only assume that the person who had left the message about 'Sixpence's moorings had seen her about half and hour after the flood had floated her , when a back eddy causes her to lie for a short while across the tide, with her bows towards the River bank
Satisfied that everything was in order, I went back below. I immediately noticed a strong smell of disturbed mud. The smell had not been apparent when I first opened the cabin, I had the sudden feeling I was not alone. There was no possibility of any one else being aboard but I couldn't shake off the feeling.
I felt silly but still I shouted " Hello ! Hello ! " . The muddy smell was even stronger , then I saw it ... a quite distinct muddy seaboot print on the teak cabin sole. Now I was frightened. I knew I hadn't brought it aboard , the tide had been quite high . In fact it was high tide when I launched my dinghy from our concrete slipway. The nearest mud would have been about lOft under water, but still hopefully I looked at the soles of both of my seaboots. They were clean!
I looked more closely at the footprint, it was formed by black oily mud, the type that clings to your boots when you're digging in your moorings at low water.
"Hello !", I shouted again . I took a heavy spanner out of the engine tool box, looked quickly into the toilet. No one there. Then I checked the wardrobe, the oilskin locker and finally I pulled the sails from the foscle, where they had been loosely folded. There was definately no one aboard.I took some toilet roll and wiped the mud up . Then I washed the cabin sole clean but I couldn't manage to remove the oily stain. It appeared to have penetrated the teak
I stepped into the cockpit to throw the muddy toilet roll overboard when I heard the sound of a dinghy being rowed. Then I saw it, an old fashioned clinker stem dinghy being rowed upriver by an elderly gentleman dressed in black oilskins. He was accustomed to rowing, the dinghy was moving easily, his strokes were firm and steady though I could distinctly hear him gasping for air.
"Ahoy there! ", I shouted, “Nasty night to be out, isn't it ?" He gave no answer nor by any movement gave the impression that he'd even seen me but continued rowing and disappeared into the fog. Throwing the muddy paper overboard I observed that the ebb was now running out fast, making the old man’s rowing even more impressive.
Thinking about him I wondered if this was the chap who had been breaking into the boats on our upper moorings. I hadn't recognised him or the dinghy and for what other reason would a stranger be on the river in this weather. The fact that he was so old probably had a lot to do with my decision to follow him up river. So locking up ' Sixpence ' I stepped into my dinghy and pulled up the river.
The fog appeared to be getting thicker, but by rowing alongside the boats which were moored quite closely in line, I was always aware of my exact position on the river. I was finding pulling against the ebb quite an effort and could feel perspiration building up . This no doubt caused as much by my apprehension as the effect of my rowing.
I had reached the point where the river takes a bend to the northwest when I heard a small splash, it came from the other side of the river putting my dinghy’s transom parallel to the nearest boat's hull, I rowed directly across the river . I soon picked out the large black shape of the ‘Peggy’ and tied astern its' clinker planking, slaping quietly on the ebb was the black dinghy.
The 'Peggy', an ex- Bristol Channel Pilot Cutter, belonged to Allan Savage, a friend and fellow club member. She was as originally built and still rigged with dead eyes. The black dinghy was lying astern looking as if she belonged there, like a duckling following its' mother.
Grasping the 'Peggy's port chainplates, I tapped hard on the planking and called 'Anybody aboard!'. Almost immediately I heard the hatch slide back and a stream of pale yellow light flowed into the fog. ' Who's there?', the question came . ' I,m the owner of 'Sixpence', moored across and lower down the river,' I answered, ' Can I come aboard.?"
I thought that if he was up to no good that this should panic him, but no. "Certainly ", he answered, " Drop back to abreast the cockpit and I’ll put out a boarding ladder ". Thinking to myself this is a stupid thing to be doing, he could push me into the river as I’m climbing the ladder, I nevertheless still found myself boarding 'Peggy’.
The old man that I’d seen rowing the dinghy was standing in the companionway, " Come below, the kettle's on. " As I dropped down into the large warm cabin, the first thing I noticed was the very strong smell of disturbed mud. The old man had removed his oilskins and was dressed in heavy twill trousers and a blue oiled wool seaman’s jumper.
I’m looking after the 'Peggy ' while the skipper's laid up, " he said, he broke his leg when she pitched into a rough sea last time out".
"Oh" I replied, " I am sorry, give him my regards when you see him. I’m sure he's very grateful you're keeping an eye on the 'Peggy ' for him ".
“Its what I’m paid for,'' he answered, handing me a pint sized mug of steaming tea. " Sit on the companionway steps, then you won't have to take off your oilskins ", he suggested . Complying, I sipped my tea and looked around the cabin.
Alan had done wonders since I was last aboard, a solid fuel stove was glowing against the far bulkhead. The cheap electric lamps had been taken out and replaced with solid brass oil lamps, the deckhead was painted white and all the hardwood bulkheads, berthsides, doors and timber fittings were brightly varnished It looked as if the Cutter had just left her builder's yard. It looked lovely, cared for, however although it seemed immaculately clean, there was still a definate muddy smell.
“ I haven't seen you before “, I ventured.
“I only started about a week ago ", he replied
Would you like to keep an eye on 'Sixpence' as well and keep her pumped out and aired. I’m willing to pay ."
"That's alright Sir," he answered, " I come up most tides, its no trouble".
"How much would you want?, I asked.
"Just a little for some tobacco ", he said ,"I,m already being paid.
As soon as I put my empty mug down, he quickly picked it up rinsed it out, dried it and replaced it in the galley fitting.
"I’m sorry Sir but you'll have to leave now the ebb's well on its' way and I have to leave if I’m going to make the halftide steps.”
A deep memory stirred, I remembered the steps, set into the pitching on the North side of the Penarth Dock entrance . I had used them once about thirty years ago, but silting had hidden them for many years now.
You use them now ? ", I queried
"Of course Sir , I help to keep them clean.”
By this time I had reboarded my dinghy and the old man cast off my painter and hauled the boarding ladder on deck. As I drifted away I shouted my thanks for the tea. He never looked up or answered but started to haul his dinghy alongside . The 'Peggy', the dinghy and the old man disappeared into the fog. I fitted the rowlocks, took up the oars and settled down to row quietly with the ebb, towards our club pontoon, hoping I’d make it before the tide left it high and dry. If not I’d have to use the dinghy slipway which was available for another hour's ebb but meant a long tiring haul through the mud.
Amazingly, the black dinghy emerged astern. The old man was making much better progress than I. As he passed me I waved and shouted goodnight. He neither slacked his stroke nor looked towards me, it was if I didn't exist and he was quickly gone from sight.
The next day I rang Allan Savage to check if he minded me asking asking his man to keep an eye on 'Sixpence .’, I have no one looking after 'Peggy ,' he said , and when I told him of my visit and much I admired the way he'd restored the interior, he informed me that she was still in a sorry state inside . No solid fuel stove, no brass oil lamps and, of course , when I asked him about his leg, no broken leg either.
I never saw that black dinghy or that old man again. It was a strange episode, but stranger still, from that day I never had to pump ' Sixpence' out, nor Allan his 'Peggy'.
I,ve got used to it, but visitors to 'Sixpence' often complain of a muddy smell.
