Kathleen and May

Elegantly, she lay at ease upon her mooring, rolling drunkenly in the soft, lazy swell. Her pirate black hull reflected in the still calm, the sun shining gold upon her tall masts. About the hard scrubbed decks stood her crew busying themselves with barnacled tasks while dangling helpless fishing lines over the side.

A gathering crowd of would-be salty sailors, paying for the experience, wait with painfully fixed smiles for the chugging water taxi that was to transport them back in time.
This is where I come in, in my chugging little boat, the tide being low I waited for the hurriedly mobilized landing stage to struggle into position. The master mariners step lively aboard. Some had waited all day for this trip, others their whole lives, the chance to sail aboard a vessel well into her pension too great to miss.

Clambering inelegantly aboard, the hearty sons and daughters of toil gather. The feel of the tilting decks filling them with the dusty postcard nostalgia of a black and white age and seasickness.
Once all the passengers had boarded, I moored off my craft and scrambled up, over the bow to join the ship. Mooring lines were slipped and Bosun and Mate calls were made to lean on lines. Blindly keen and enthusiastic volunteers heaved arm over arm until the great tanned sails were swaged into position and filled with the late afternoon breeze. Slowly the Kathleen and May eased away from Clovelly.

The Kathleen and May, the last original three masted topsail schooner in the country, restored and owned by local business man Steve Clarke and run by a qualified and dedicated crew; had been bound for France, she was running for a cargo of wine, but last minute complications had brought an abandoned channel course and a hurried relocation at Clovelly on the possible off chance of a few sailings, in the vain hope of salvaging something from the voyage.
A lightening poster campaign had brought to Clovelly this unlikely but very excited crew.

Undersail; fore, main and mizzen, staysail, jibs and flying jib, helm over, swashing and buckling across the bay. People gaze up into the rigging, seagulls follow forlornly, ignored. Hands on the wheel feeling the push and pull of the sea. The enthusiastic crew, never wanting to miss an opportunity bring out the spoils of voyages past. Bottles of red, white and pink breeds of plonk, of various labels and strengths, were presented to the passengers on the hopeful chance of a sale while undersail. The obvious use of a built for cargo, ship, being used for the carrying of a cargo of wine, is a plaudible and admirable one and one that many of our sailors for the day were glad to take advantage of as bottle followed bottle to the glass.

The Master headed up into the breeze intending to tack, but without the winds momentum to bring her around we failed and so swung the wheel to wear ship and put the helm over for Clovelly and home. Passengers took up stations all about the ship, photo opportunities taken, beside the helm, glass in one hand, wheel in the other; crowded along the bowsprit, waving madly; or stood with the crew, evidence of their time at sea. It couldn't be helped but to reflect on how civilised the evening was, cruising in the beautiful Bideford Bay on a warm June evening, on a wonderful ship with a glass of eco-friendly wine; but few can imagine the hardship, the tiredness, the endless days and nights working to push and drive the ship from port to port, beating against the winds and tides to carry their goods from one end of the Bristol Channel to the other and further across to Ireland or down around the land to the English Channel ports. Life was hard, days were long and rewards were few.

Why is it then, that we queue to "Experience" sailing aboard ships like the Kathleen and May? Probably because like the men that worked these ships, it's not the grim reality of the life or the back breaking work with no promise of a return, it's the ships themselves that draw us; they live and breathe, talk and feel, they rely on us as we rely on them, no plastic imitation can possibly come close and we love them, whether watching from the shore or heaving heartily on the lines, we love them.