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?