Also a lifeboat man

We are all part of the fabric of where we live, we become, slowly, members of the community; we join, we belong, we help, we organize, eventually we are at home with where we are.
I am not only Clovelly's Harbour Master, I attempt to fish for a living, or at least a small part of a living; I try to catch lobster during the Summer months and now as Autumn winds blow we wait for the herring to arrive. I'm also a boatman, doing what boatmen do best, toiling with tourists throughout the season, doing whatever it takes to get people on my boat and then off again. In my spare time, I'm also a lifeboat man. Since Clovelly's station was established in 1870 a member of my family has been involved with the boat, I myself have been on board for almost 20 years.
Being a lifeboat man is of course so much more than just going to sea on a fast boat; it's being a part of a tradition, it's about dedication and commitment, it's about putting others first whatever the weather, regardless of the cost, it's being one amongst many, proud to be involved, proud to serve, proud just to be. You follow the blue jersied, salty bearded sailors and sons that look out from the dark and dusty corners of days passed, men that took the oar and gallantly braved billow and swell; hour following exhausted hour of hard pulling and sailing to reach, help and save a stranger in distress. Being part of the lifeboat is about doing your best, preparing for the worst, whether that comes from wind or sea or the unknown lost or drowned; you must be the saviour, the comforter, the reassurance, the guiding hand, the one to trust. We are really, little different from the oar and compass men before us, we may have computated, engined, highly technical, over powered, self righting, everything you could wish for, singing, dancing, don't ask the price lifeboats, but we are up against the same elements, facing the same conditions, at the mercy of the same foe, we are still people; competence based trained, routinely assessed, regularly inspected, constantly evaluated, people. We carry the best equipment, have the best support, enjoy the finest Christmas dinners, but over the years I have searched in vain, recovered the lost, waited for tide, collected the abandoned but never abandoned hope, I've been on fruitless, endless errands and brought home the "So pleased to see us." Why do we do it? We do it because it's what we do. because we hope there's others that will be there for us, we do it because we can.
The lifeboat needs the community, the community needs the lifeboat, they belong to each other. Soon it will be Christmas and our merry crew shall be helping Father Christmas deliver small gifts of thank you's to those that support the station throughout the year, to those who without their support there may not be a lifeboat, to those who before us were the lifeboat, were and still are Clovelly.

The loneliness of command

I stand upon the old Quay wall, my stationary command, my static ship, my voyageless craft; sat upon its landheld shore with course and bearing set, full ahead for Autumn, bound for Winter.
I look back at all the quiet houses sitting, sleeping, each with their own history, their own reasons, their characters, their tales to tell; once the homes of fishermen and sailors, familiar with these stones and steps and groaning of the shore, now undisturbed doors remain closed.
Less tourists embark now and remark upon the birds and gulls still picking and choosing at old discarded plastic bags, searching for pasties, wishing for fish. The boats that so recently fought and jostled for space beside the steps, for the queueing trippers and anglers, divers and camping site survivors, are now seen heading across the bay destined for the bar and if lucky, a fresh coat of anti-fouling.
I keep a compass corrected, weather eye upon approaching gales or lulls, watch keeping, waiting for the breaking seas; I keep a dogwatch for the night time passing ships on course for other shores unseen. This is Clovelly's Quay, the place I work, the place I live, the place I stand alone, the place I battle storms and cruise through calms, where I walk the well worn walls, my unchartered, uncharted dominion, where it's no good sitting on the rocks waiting for a mermaid to swim by.
Now I must make my heading known, I must write my passage plan, the place remains the same , the destination changes; our next port of call is the "The Clovelly Herring Festival," which is here on the Quay on the 16th of November, a time to celebrate the king of fishes, the silver darlings, to eat, to drink, to be happy and reflect. I'll be there selling fish, I hope you'll join me.

Grockleogue

Gone now the Sheffield Smiths, the huddersfield Hathers, the Applegarth Orchards, gone the pretty sighted sight seers, the been befores and come agains, the sat about enjoying the views; the tourist, the visitor, the grockle, the walking ramblers, campers, holiday camp themed parkers. Gone the sunny families, fresh faced from work and school and motorway, bottle tanned, seeking out the well worn weathered corners of the long discovered village too familiar with the questions and the comments, getting greeted with a smile and a scowl and a fee. Gone also the much stopped coach trippers, geriatric, cattle trucked and shuffled through; "Don't forget to send a postcard," nice card, local scenes, views of the neighbourhood. Gone are the six-pack, sat back, heat-stroked, need an ice-cream grockles; the bad shorts, loud shirts, buggy pushing fathers; the higher heeled, lower cut, need a sit down and a cup of tea, mothers; the "Don't throw stones!" throwing, Quay wall clambering, boat rock and rolling on the cobbled sea shore, seagull chasing, children.
The harbour is quieter now as boats stay moored, no more trips to run, no more views of the neighbourhood, no more "See the village from the sea," no more "15 minutes of pleasure with a sailor!" The rumbling Red Lion sleeps now, busy bustling pints and pasty lunch times over, replaced by time to think.
We that live by the grockle must die by the grockle, ones' season's disease, another season's cure as many a grockle makes a local happy; many a grockle visits year after year, grand parents who came with their children, who now come with their own children; strangers that become friends for a day. Day trippers, weekend breakers, long stayers, hotel dwellers and bed and breakfasters, season's enders, still braving the Autumn chill, back packed picnic hardy, crowd dodgers, late break takers, all thats left of the annual crop, the yearly stock. It's time for the village to hibernate, as tourists return home to snooze and visitors go back to sleep, until next year and once more we wait for the grockles to return.

A random trip

"Are you coming with us?" Clive Pearson, affable skipper of the charter boat, Jessica Hettie, asked as I stood drowning in the rain! "Oh! put on some oilskins and get on with it!" He told me, and so I found myself all aboard and bound for the Isle of Lundy.
It was a pleasant crossing, the sea was uncomplaining as were the passengers, heaped, huddled and happy as the Island came into view. We undertook the mandatory watches for the passage, radio watch, radar watch, dolphin watch, mind you don't spill your tea watch, we even missed a few ships that purposefully tried to run us down, give or take a mile or three! Some of the intrepid travellers had journeyed miles and undertaken great feats of bravery to join this trip, such is the attraction of Lundy and of course Clive who was taking some of them swimming with the seals.
For me the trip meant I could see my eldest daughter Emmie, serving her time in the Marisco Tavern, she was unaware of my impending arrival. I trudged the long beach road passed the Millcombe house, passed the cold bleak church and called into the Tavern. To my dismay Emmie was not at work yet, so I decided to conquer the Island, with my best foot forward and a chocolate bar in hand I started out.
The beauty of Lundy is in its remoteness, its still silence, its aching gales, its lack of crowds, its absence of supermarkets, its Tavern, its Lundy ale and lamb pasties! Lundy is a place of windswept acres, turbulent coastlines, of unsmiling granite carved cliffs, but also sheltering harboured headlands that offer welcome protection to troubled mariners. A grave place of sorrow, yet the salvation of the wrecked and the wretched.
As I bound along the ever growing island, it seems longer than the stated three miles! I pass Baa baa black sheep and his family, I pass walkers, watchers, birders, climbers, clamberers and ramblers, all doing their best despite the weather, which had dried up, sorry! it's drizzling again! A landmark was reached when I discovered Tibbets, an isolated outpost where a jolly jersied lady appeared from within, waved her arm in the air and declared, "What a wonderful day!" I walked swiftly on; continuing passed granite markers, treading my way through heather and bracken, gorse and goats, until it was there, the unreachable North end, I had made it, an unequalled achievement, with noone to witness my success bar a few seagulls and terns. It is from a point such as this that you can look back at what Lundy is, the timeless Isle, a symbol of strength and the cause of peril, a two sided land, Atlantic faced or Bristol channelled, both have claimed their fair share of ghosts.
Time for the Tavern, I head back leaving behind the crying shame remains of old forgotten homes, stone blank and staring out to sea, inhabited only by jackdaws and the past. The looming towers of the old lighthouse and church beckon me on, leading me to a well earned pint of Lundy ale and Emmie, surprised and happy and working. Following good food and catching up and just one more pint, I spent the rest of the day exploring parts of Lundy I'd only ever seen from the sea before, Brazen Ward, Mousehole and Trap, the silent quarries where a tablet lies beside a fading wreath in memory of a lost son. I see the Knoll Pins half submerged and Gannets Coombe, I wonder at the slugs and beetles, are they so different from their mainland cousins or are they a breed apart, is it this that makes them so good to eat!!
So soon it is time to leave the pretty treacherous, cliff worn walks and find my way back to my waiting ship, with hugs and goodbyes for Emmie we departed for Clovelly, where it was back to radio watch, radar watch..... See you soon watch.

A veritable feast

We must have looked a sight, making absolute and complete pigs of ourselves, we devoured, partook, scoffed, guzzled on lobster, gorged on crab, feasted on mussels, breakfasted, lunched and suppered; delighted in all the produce on display throughout the day. There was; Laughing Lobster fish cakes, scrumptious cheeses, intoxicating local ales, subtle wines for tasting, live shellfish, cooked shellfish, wet fish, smoked fish, fresh caught, cooked in Clovelly, on a plate with a bread roll fish, a day full of and for local products. This was the Clovelly Lobster and Crab feast.

We even let in the French connection, with their cider and bread, their olives and garlic, their crepes and their proud Tricolour, a little corner of France.

Lobster lunches were available and greedily consumed at the Roaring Red Lion Hotel, while local celebrity fisherman, "John Tuna Ad Glover," was seen dressed as a chef, serving lobster risotto and lobster bisque to eager, hungry, customers,

Hope Coves' Sue Morgan, willow lobster pot maker was displaying her craft and her wares, using skills once common amongst small fishing communities, now the creation of the old and the enthusiast. few fishermen remain that have the traditional skills and knowledge of the bygone lobsterman.

The day continued with people keen to join the magic show, interested in the maritime bird boxes on sale, browsing along the Clovelly Silversmiths stall, fascinated by the hypnotized lobster, Intrigued by the lobster quadrille, a Wonderlandful experience with children and parents led by Alice on a merry dance around the beach.

Seabourne melodies with haunting nautical lyrics float across the quay pool, filling the day with a sense of tradition while remembering that the fish that are caught are hard won and fought for, through endless, thankless days of summer winds and winter storms, many the fisherman lost, many the widow left behind.

But everyone that came went home the better, everyone that visited left happy, contented, full of the atmosphere of the day, brimming with shellfish, stuffed with crustacea, satisfied by molluscs, bloated by indulgence, pleasantly exhausted with the lively, jovial, end of season happiness, that filled the harbour and the village. It was a successful day, a good day, and one that we wait expectantly for next year.

Remembering Lifeboat day

Slowly the Summer that almost was ebbs away, leaving us with tide fresh memories of the places we have been and the events we held. We have time to recall and reflect on the many celebrations that are held throughout the season in order to delight and enlighten the paying, attentive tourist and local alike, for us harbour rats, the celebration of our Lifeboat has to be the focus of the year. She sits within her house, a quiet and unassuming craft, waiting patiently for the call that may take her onto the finest sea or into the cruellest gale.
Salty and damp the day began, eager to please, eyes full of long lost sleep, yellow booted men huddle together waiting, talk of coconut shies, barbecues and long sponsored swims, flow alongside Lifeboats, heroic deeds and bunting hung up the night before by the girls. This is lifeboat day; a day to praise and raise a fund of; "Thank you's," "Bless you's," and "We alway's support you's." A day of fun and games, showing off and flying flags. Our organizer appears, our Sharon, with her hair, her bosom, her voice and that way about her that no man says no! she points and she directs, like a Hollywood mogul she activates the huddled crowd to construct the day. The day begins; stalls of treats, stalls of sweets, balloons, second hand books, unwanted clothes, unplayed with toys that'll soon be replaced, contests, so many contests; guess the lifeboat station, over 220 to choose from, Compromising photographs in the "caption competion," 'Don't let Mrs Dunn enter, she's alway's winning it.' Hook the ducky everyone's lucky, cake stalls, tea stalls, cuddly toy stalls, don't miss a bargain you'll regret it in the morning stalls, somebody battered the rat, buy a burger in a bap, try a hot dog, make sure it's not your dog, kids stalls, lifeboat guild stalls, something for all stalls.
Now the day has begun, warmer now, Sharon loud upon the microphone, welcoming all the unsuspecting, visiting crowds as they pour cheerily down the cobbled street into this day, this lifeboat day. Lifeboat men and lifeboat women are at hand to lend a hand, answer a question or just be proud; this is their day. You can see the lifeboat, Spirit of Clovelly, humbly sat upon the slipway, on display, keen as a mackerel, ready and willing, the reason for the day, the reason behind the laughter, as men tug of war and race rafts and sell themselves as slaves, "All in a good cause," with Sharon above them all, cheering them on, geeing them on. The day continues as the time arrives for the rescue demonstration, a Seaking helicopter appears overhead and the boat is launched, "Inshore boat she is," "Semi-rigid, goes at it at 30 knots," "That's fast that is." Trained crew onboard, fully dry suited, head to toe, brave crew, seabound and safe; she's away, faster now faster, see her go, tourists gasp as she turns amongst the lain at anchor yachts, yachtsmen watch and wave and rock, roll and wave once more, the helicopter flies passed, crew waving at the quay full crowd, "Aren't they in for a special treat," lifeboat and helicopter set about a merry chase of cat and mouse, men lowered down into the lifeboat then raised again, displaying all the skills and seamanship of well trained members of the RNLI and the RAF. A crowd pleaser, collection box filler, the proof of what we do, the truth of who we are; volunteers, lifeboat men.
Slowly the day is ending, as a shower of rain, lightly, politely tells the people it's time to go home, sending them wearily back up the slope, so we can; dismantle, pack up, bag up, fold, pick, sweep, shovel, clean, throw, hide and finally sit down, the last offerings of the barbecue going cheap, "Come and get it while we got it!" The Red Lion bar fills, the harbour empties, Sharon soon to hibernate, her day done, glad it's over, look forward to next year when we do it all over again. Thanks to all those who help, to all those who support our little station, to those who come such a long way and those who live close by, to those who donate, who contribute. Always too many to mention, too many to forget, but they know who they are and we are grateful. See you all next lifeboat day, a day to remember.

Glassfibre Armada

"Wierd Fish," "Elianne," "Shamara" and many more,white plastic hulled, crisp, pristine sails, curled and furled, Westerlies, moody's, Beneteau's, bilge keelers, fin keelers, long keelers galore, round the Quay head bound for ladders and steps and a berth for the night. How could the summer be complete without our hearty compliment of fresh faced and rugged Bristol channel wanderers? Following in their ancestors wake, navigating the tidal reaches of the Atlantic coast. Modern day adventurers, heading white sailed, down wind and down tide from channel ports; Ilfracombe and Instow, "The bar men," "Taree," "Pearl of Colne," "Gemini," others from far flung distant and exotic Wales, David Williams arrives on the "Catalyst," while the "Owen Glendower" the "Nellie of Neath" and the "Welsh Dragonet" are amongst the many "Red Dragon" flying shipmates that come spilling into the Quay pool,where cobweb coiled lines are thrown ashore, securely moored and fendered to bollards and posts, "welcomed home" and comfortably settled.
Some race; the Ilfracombe to Clovelly "Rum race" is an annual highlight of canvas indulgence where men sail for pride more than prizes with a bottle of Rum the bonus. Others come from far and distant ports, marina's and harbours, looking for escape or the familiar landfall of a safe haven, because Clovelly is a safe and sound, neat and tidy haven, sheltered from prevailing blows, tucked beneath those wooded cliffs, Clovelly hides and sleeps. Its Quay wall familiar with fishing craft, accustomed now to visiting craft and passers by that "never knew you were here." Yachts fill the harbour while yachtsmen fill the bar, singing songs that fill the tide. Each day brings more yachts, more boats, more people, some may venture off into the woodland above and explore the paths and lanes that entangle the Estate, finding secrets that have lain hidden for many years and discovering just why it is that they come here. There are those whose destination is the shower room, damp and mouldy but cleanly welcoming following their epic voyage, so they may freshen up, intent on a lusty meal, a carousing night and a morning hangover.
Those who haven't been before approach nervously, taking a wide berth before entering, looking for help and encouragement, glad of someone to take their lines while directing them to a safe berth, pleased to be here they soon notice the Red Lion guarding the Quay. Most will return again, many will become as familiar to us as the pebble filled sea, as regular as the tides. Others have been visiting for decades, remembering previous Harbour Masters, remembering when they came with their fathers or when their children were small and yachts smaller. They all fill the harbour with their boats and their humour, they bring a sense of fun and each and everyone enjoys their stay, leaving with sad farewells and "be back soon's". Now as September skies turn grey leaving summer behind we wait for the "Winkle race," Ilfracombe's final race of the season when once again they'll battle down the channel and batten down for Clovelly, their final destination, until next year when freshly waxed and polished, anti-fouled and varnished, they once again will plot their course, cast off their lines and set sail.