boat owner

Sam Llewellyn is editor of The Marine Quarterly, http://www.marinequarterly.com,

and author of nautical thrillers. Three years ago he bought a Corribee on eBay

Sam Llewellyn

Flotsam and jetsam

S

pring is slightly in
the air, and all over
northern Europe it is
crane day down at
the yard. The crane
hire folk have fi nally
given up telling everyone that
what with the Government’s
construction stimulus they
may be able to fi t them in in
October. They have decently
accepted double money, and it
arrived early this morning, or
anyway at about 11 o’clock.
And now here is Eric Jenkins
getting his Westerly Pageant
ready to re-enter its native
element with the help of a
Romanian crane operator
who has never seen the sea.
The slings have been fi tted
under the hull, and Eric is
hobbling round on the deck
trying to put the loops on the
crane hook. Eric has recently
had a hip operation, so perhaps
those are scowls of sympathy
on the faces of the other 28
owners impatiently waiting

I dislike the cut of his jib

Action and intention can all too easily diverge, in the

heat of the moment, when crane day rolls around

their turn. Or perhaps they

are just scowls.

The slings are on, and Eric has

made a circular gesture with his

upraised fi nger, implying that

he wishes the hook to rise. It

rises. As he heads for the ladder

he is making a movement of

the hand implying that he has

forgotten the hand signal for

‘stop.’ The hook continues to

rise. Eric extends his arm

downward,

forefi nger

pointing down,

and moves his

hand in small horizontal circles.

The Romanian may not speak

any English, but he is fl uent in

crane, and he lowers away like a

good ‘un. The slings fall off the

hook and Eric makes fi erce

throat-cutting gestures,

which speak volumes to the

Romanian, who is also fl uent

in violence. They start again.

This time the slings stay on.

Eric dives for the ladder and

lands on terra fi rma wiggling

the fi nger. The boat rises, props

falling away. Eric taps his hand

on his head, because he thinks

it looks professional. The

Romanian looks at him as if he

was mad, because this means

‘use main hoist’ and he has

only got a main hoist. The

boat dangles in the air. It is

beginning to rain.

Eric extends an arm, fi ngers

closed, thumb pointing

upward. This means ‘raise

boom’. The Romanian raises

boom. Eric points in the

general direction of the sheet

of mud-coloured water with

one hand, and places the other

hand motionless in front of

it, seeking to imply that the

crane should move slowly.

The Romanian does nothing,

because the motionless hand

is in front of the moving hand,

so he cannot see it. Someone in

the crowd shouts that Eric

should get a move on. Eric

waves them away. The crane

driver’s eyes light up: an

order at last. The boat swings

violently towards the crowd,

which dives for cover. Eric

waves his hands in front of

him in a stop-that-now gesture.

The Romanian jams on the

anchors. There is a fearsome

graunching as the slings shift.

Flakes of newly-applied

antifouling fl oat down

like bloody snow.

Eric now seeks refuge in

prayer. A devout Catholic,

he crosses himself, spectacles,

testicles, wallet and watch.

The crane driver, raised under

Communism, knows nothing

of this gesture and takes it as

an instruction to lower away.

The keel hits the ground with a

crunch. Eric fl ings his hands in

the air. The boat shoots into

the sky. Everyone in the crowd

is now yelling and pointing

at the water. The Romanian,

a person of excitable

temperament, swings the boat

over the water and hits the

release button. The boat

plunges in from a height of 20

feet with a splash like a bomb

bursting in which can be seen

the masthead light, detached

and hurtling towards the

horizon. You cannot hear Eric’s

sobs over the roar of the crane’s

engine and the sound of

everyone in the crowd telling

everyone else in the crowd

that it is his turn next.

The yard boat tows Eric’s boat

out of the way, and someone

says there, there, and they will

get the crane to reinstall the

masthead light. But at the

sound of the word

‘crane’ Eric starts

running away,

hip and all, and

does not stop. He is later

seen at Dan’s Vans, shopping

for motorhomes.

But sleep and a couple of

pints knit up the ravell’d sleeve

of care, and by the next day

he is sucking his teeth as he

watches the other boats craned

in, and fi lling up with diesel,

and planning an Atlantic

circuit, or anyway a nice picnic

with the children on the

beach at Blyton Bay.

‘All over northern

Europe, it is crane

day down at the yard’

The slings fall off the hook and Eric

makes fi erce throat-cutting gestures