Preparation

I'm at the end of my tether, blackened by foul bilge water, back aching by abstract bending, twisting and kneeling. Frustrated by hose pipes dribbling like noses, tired of, "Cheaper Brand," washing up liquid, in a futile attempt to scrub the dead shell debris of last year out of my boat. Why is it, the last job you'd want to do is the first job you must do? But what this means is; it has begun, there is no going back, cleaning, washing, scrubbing, knuckle scraping, sanding, painting, anti-fouling, cut the line in, trimming, caulking, fitting, engine maintaining, glossing, varnishing, finishing, floating, finally floating. How good will it feel to be once again floating, once again boating.

The harbour fills with the wailing screech of competing outboard motors, rivalling that of the hard done by gulls, as the days thicken with ice cream tourists. The Trinity House Captain arrives for our annual lighthouse inspection and passes us fit once again for business, safe for ships to visit. Lime wash whitened walls brighten the village, redesigned signs sprout up showing which way not to go. windows and doors are thrown open letting in the spring sunshine and the worn thin winter is folded up and put away, soon to be forgotten. Shops fill with the recently delivered trade fair souvenirs, cheap gifts, cheaper sweets and the same old familiar view postcards.

Important meetings are held and drank through, organizing the organizers of the season's forthcoming festivals and events, taking minutes to write up memorandums to forward to the interested parties so they can be organized; and we mustn't forget the, "Celebration of Local Ales and Ciders," from the 23rd to the 25th of May.

So I sit parcelled in my tight knit village, staring out at the blue, blind sea, waiting for the equinox weather to settle upon the lobster rocks and a mermaid to return to my shore. Working towards the next day of my life, that shall be as full of the thoughts of tomorrow as today; watching as a boat burdened by lobster pots slips away to sea, passing the pasty watching seagulls and the unseeing tourists too busy thinking of the journey back to the top. But for now I must continue, cleaning, washing, scrubbing, knuckle scraping!

The Lonely Cygnet

A skeletal mast stripped of sail motored into view as the first yacht of the year, the "Cygnet," came bound down channel for Clovelly. As they made good their approach they fendered down their starboard ready to lay alongside, but unaware, thanks to the winters gales, of a bank of stones built up across the harbour entrance, and late on tide, the yacht taking a wide berth in order to have a look into the unfamiliar harbour ran in and grounded before any communications could be made as to the vessels draught. Oh dear!!

A hurried attempt to get a small local boat off its moorings and out to assist was heavily watched by those quicker to condemn than to help, but with purposeful endeavour and a sharp knife! Lines were freed and............Too late! The yacht had freed itself of its pebbly burden and put out into deeper water. Sensibly deciding that a safer option was to re-enter on the top of the following tide, in the meantime they took a mooring and came ashore, pub bound, in their tender.

The night settled peacefully with calm seas and still winds lulling the bay; until a phone call from another cruising yacht, requesting assistance for a sick crew member threatened to ebb away the peace. The tide had drained from the harbour so I was unable to get out to them myself and with the added worry of the crew developing chest pains, they decided it would be prudent to contact the Coastguards.

The Lifeboat crew mustered quickly, responding to every call with equal dedication, whether a calm sea and simple evacuation or terrible gale and night long ordeal, the training, the commitment, the service, is why they turn up night or day, wind or wet. With the tide at low water it meant a clanking, shaking launch over boulder and stone, but when afloat the Lifeboat sped quickly to the grateful casualty and rendered assistance. Such is the start of another season and the duties of the mariner, to be ready to assist others at all times.

The "Cygnet" eventually made good her entry and remained weather locked for the next four days. Her crew enjoying the roaring Red Lion delights, until the briefest of lulls saw them make good their escape. Plymouth being their destination, a long passage down around the land; and a pleasant summer cruising, their intention.

Our first yacht of the season, our first shout of the season. No one knows what the season will bring, no one knows what adventures are yet to be had, but as we wave farewell to one yacht you can rest assured that there will be another one heading our way very soon.

Spring Cleaning

Now as we settle into the arrogant youth of spring we look forward to the impending heady days of tourists, ice cream and sunshine, the slow waking harbour creaks as the tides wash away the winter blues, bringing with them the first promise of white sails on the horizon. Fishermen talk as if an imminent departure is looming, long forgotten paint brushes find a use once more and the smells of varnish, tar and glass fibre fill the air. Lobster pots are dusted off, meticulously repaired and prepared for sea, fathoms of rope are pulled, measured, stretched, cut, knotted and spliced; buoys, flags, balls and floats find themselves galvanized into action. Engines are discussed, inboards, outboards, horse power, fuel consumption, fuel costs, winters overhaul and summers expectation. Who's got enough bait to start fishing and who hasn't? How much per kilo? How much per pound? Will Lobster be sold locally or shipped off to France? Fishermen lean against the Red Lion and gaze longingly out to sea; but for now, who's got the kettle on? It must be time for a cup of tea.

It's not only the fishermen who get excited, the hibernating, long time no see boatmen, the Code of Practice Coastal Skippers, Ocean Masters and Charter boat men are also stirring, rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they forage around claiming territory, talking of Nominated Depature Points and Lundy Island, Wrasse off Welcombe, Bass off Hartland, Conger on the wrecks and dogfish everywhere! Of how many trips already booked and how many were cancelled last year and will there be enough car parking spaces and are there too many boats and not enough passengers, anglers, divers, survivors! Liferafts are ordered, charts corrected, pyrotechnics are examined, inspectors inspect and licences proudly displayed like badges of honour; and everybody moans as the harbour dues are called for, £6.50 per foot plus VAT. Final checks on the chains, moorings renewed, shackles tightened, Kettles boiled, you can feel the excitement.

Of course there are also those who have a boat just for fun; they start off brimming like school children, making best laid plans for summer voyages and bountiful catches; supplying the poor, starving locals with their proud mackerel haul. Filling their craft with rods and lines, boxes and bags, sun cream and glasses, lifejackets in their packets. But who forgot the paddles, the anchor has no warp and where do they put the outboard? The boats are usually destined to lie upon the beach all summer long, filling with green rainwater and rocked by picnicking visitors who row across the beach for photographs. They'll be left sad and abandoned, forgotten dreams until next spring.

Spring is always the same, the same hopes, the same dreams, the same doubts, the same sense of longing, the same wish to belong. After such a poor summer last year we poor boatmen and poorer fishermen can only hope for better this year; and maybe we'll even see you out on the water. But for now, isn't that kettle boiled yet?