ParaHandy
Active member
Dear Heart\'s birthday cruise ...
Would the outboard run out of petrol (again) and would we loose our way crossing the atlantic? Read on and be awestruck by this gripping thriller ….
As it was, my brain had become disengaged in the enveloping cocoon of safety and comfort of the good ship Claymore. That day the cruise Red Coat, none other than the auld goat hi’self, had announced the evening’s entertainment – an overland trek to the pub at Clachan. We would sail the steam kettle to Puilladbhrain where we’d anchor and take the dinghy ashore.
I had volunteered to step into the dinghy to aid our leader as he wrestled with the outboard. Not getting a good swing at the pull start and with the intent of getting a better purchase, he stood up. I felt the bow of the dinghy rise and paw the air like a stag mounting a hind in heat. The Force 7 whistling through Puilladobhrain was about to tip us over so I shuffled forward, although not through anticipating that danger, but to avoid collecting a black eye from his elbow which I thought the more immediate danger. However, it eventually coughed itself into life and our wives safely boarded. I looked back admiring the good ship Claymore and pondered the efficacy of a Bruce anchor. Knowing now of the mishap to Mirabella I am convinced that although it appeared that our captain just chucked it he was, in fact, applying a life-long experience and skill to the matter. We putt-putted briskly toward the shore but the first frisson of fear struck as looking back into the teeth of this gale I wondered if the auld goat had put enough petrol in the outboard as I didn’t fancy our chances of rowing back particularly, as, in a previous cruise earlier this year, we had narrowly avoided losing one of our comrades in the situation I was envisaging and, furthermore, had found the rowlocks worse than useless. In fact, it was only by my prompt and timely action of putting my foot on the up-button of the anchor winch, so that we could speedily go to his rescue, that he still lives to tell the tale.
With consummate skill our leader brought the dinghy ashore and without the girls getting their feet wet for which I was truly grateful. The last time I had carried my wife across any sort of threshold was many years ago as I lugged her over the doorstep of a rented flat, shortly after marrying her, as I had read somewhere that newly weds did this sort of thing. Sniffing the air and eyeing the handy signpost, our leader pointed the way and we set off laughing and carefree in the bright sunshine. But, was there enough petrol in the outboard to get us back? We were, though, confident in our leader who had piloted us thus far. The sun never failed to shine and it had been glorious; all served to make the near disaster about to unfold, the more capricious.
We climbed up beside a forest and over a ridge and then down into Clachan, passing the bridge over the Atlantic, and into the pub. After a convivial evening we prepared to return. Outside, the confident demeanour of our party leader inspired. But, it was pitch black and we had no torch or compass and had had a few. Which way home? At first, our leader confidently strode off until, politely at first, and then in mutinous unison we demanded he turn back. He mumbled some management-speak more suited to his young charges about this being a life enhancing experience. This fell on stony grounds which would have been preferable to the peat bog we were currently standing in. Was our blind faith in the auld goat’s path-finding to be our undoing? Forced to consult the other members of the party, agreement was swiftly reached as to which direction was appropriate. The auld goat strode of, harrumphing and in a deep sulk that his authority had been questioned. But, thinking that a call to the Mountain Rescue should be avoided at all costs (I already was picturing the headline in the Oban Times) we resolved to attach ourselves to each other which our leader thought unnecessary but discretion got the better of him and a little gracelessly, we thought, he acquiesced. There being no rope handy, we held hands. With Claymore in the lead but with specific directional guidance and myself in the van, we set off. In this mode, the party swiftly and competently reached the shore.
But, would there be enough petrol in the outboard to get us back …….. ? Humph .. there was ….. and the cruise continued in the same glorious weather and good company ….
It seems current practice to ask what lessons one can learn from this but, I can think of none ………
<hr width=100% size=1>
Would the outboard run out of petrol (again) and would we loose our way crossing the atlantic? Read on and be awestruck by this gripping thriller ….
As it was, my brain had become disengaged in the enveloping cocoon of safety and comfort of the good ship Claymore. That day the cruise Red Coat, none other than the auld goat hi’self, had announced the evening’s entertainment – an overland trek to the pub at Clachan. We would sail the steam kettle to Puilladbhrain where we’d anchor and take the dinghy ashore.
I had volunteered to step into the dinghy to aid our leader as he wrestled with the outboard. Not getting a good swing at the pull start and with the intent of getting a better purchase, he stood up. I felt the bow of the dinghy rise and paw the air like a stag mounting a hind in heat. The Force 7 whistling through Puilladobhrain was about to tip us over so I shuffled forward, although not through anticipating that danger, but to avoid collecting a black eye from his elbow which I thought the more immediate danger. However, it eventually coughed itself into life and our wives safely boarded. I looked back admiring the good ship Claymore and pondered the efficacy of a Bruce anchor. Knowing now of the mishap to Mirabella I am convinced that although it appeared that our captain just chucked it he was, in fact, applying a life-long experience and skill to the matter. We putt-putted briskly toward the shore but the first frisson of fear struck as looking back into the teeth of this gale I wondered if the auld goat had put enough petrol in the outboard as I didn’t fancy our chances of rowing back particularly, as, in a previous cruise earlier this year, we had narrowly avoided losing one of our comrades in the situation I was envisaging and, furthermore, had found the rowlocks worse than useless. In fact, it was only by my prompt and timely action of putting my foot on the up-button of the anchor winch, so that we could speedily go to his rescue, that he still lives to tell the tale.
With consummate skill our leader brought the dinghy ashore and without the girls getting their feet wet for which I was truly grateful. The last time I had carried my wife across any sort of threshold was many years ago as I lugged her over the doorstep of a rented flat, shortly after marrying her, as I had read somewhere that newly weds did this sort of thing. Sniffing the air and eyeing the handy signpost, our leader pointed the way and we set off laughing and carefree in the bright sunshine. But, was there enough petrol in the outboard to get us back? We were, though, confident in our leader who had piloted us thus far. The sun never failed to shine and it had been glorious; all served to make the near disaster about to unfold, the more capricious.
We climbed up beside a forest and over a ridge and then down into Clachan, passing the bridge over the Atlantic, and into the pub. After a convivial evening we prepared to return. Outside, the confident demeanour of our party leader inspired. But, it was pitch black and we had no torch or compass and had had a few. Which way home? At first, our leader confidently strode off until, politely at first, and then in mutinous unison we demanded he turn back. He mumbled some management-speak more suited to his young charges about this being a life enhancing experience. This fell on stony grounds which would have been preferable to the peat bog we were currently standing in. Was our blind faith in the auld goat’s path-finding to be our undoing? Forced to consult the other members of the party, agreement was swiftly reached as to which direction was appropriate. The auld goat strode of, harrumphing and in a deep sulk that his authority had been questioned. But, thinking that a call to the Mountain Rescue should be avoided at all costs (I already was picturing the headline in the Oban Times) we resolved to attach ourselves to each other which our leader thought unnecessary but discretion got the better of him and a little gracelessly, we thought, he acquiesced. There being no rope handy, we held hands. With Claymore in the lead but with specific directional guidance and myself in the van, we set off. In this mode, the party swiftly and competently reached the shore.
But, would there be enough petrol in the outboard to get us back …….. ? Humph .. there was ….. and the cruise continued in the same glorious weather and good company ….
It seems current practice to ask what lessons one can learn from this but, I can think of none ………
<hr width=100% size=1>
