Sternpost
“S
tone me,” said Dave the Deckie last Friday.
“Look at him.” A man was walking down the
quay towards the boat. He was wearing a
green coat, and paused to say good morning to Cathy
Squint. “His name is Cuthbert,” I said. “He found us
on handfi nder.com.”
The man in green stepped aboard, left foot fi rst. He
swung a bag off his back and opened it. It was full of
food. “Killed a pig last week,” he said. “So sausages.
Fox got the chickens, so I brought a rabbit or two
instead. And there’s some salmon in there somewhere.
Bananas for afters. Weird thing, you know,” he said,
“but I saw quite a lot of nuns on the way here. One of
them had a cat on a lead. Is something wrong?”
He was looking at Dave the Deckie, who had sat
down suddenly and buried his face in his hands, so all
you could see was the gold earring he wears in case he
falls overboard and needs a ferry fare across the Styx.
“Yes,” I said. “Green is not a lucky colour at sea.
Passing a cross-eyed person is a sure sign of doom in
store. One boards a boat right foot foremost. Grunty
animals and clucking animals and animals with red
bushy tails and silver animals that jump up waterfalls
and animals with big long ears are also not to be
mentioned. Nor are long yellow fruits with slapstick
skins, and female members of religious orders, and pet
animals of the feline persuasion.”
“Why not?” said Cuthbert. “Because it brings bad
luck?”
Dave lifted his face from his hands. “This is
another word we do not use,” he said. “There is only
one way of undoing what you have done.”
“Which is?” said Cuthbert, sceptical.
“Sheddin’ blood,” said Dave, and came up from the
hatch cover like a Trident.
“Whoa,” I said, stepping between them. And off we
went to the pub, where we made peace and watchedthe sunset, red sky at night, sailor’s delight, and I gave
him a short lecture on nautical superstitions. “Ah,” he
said with a superior air. “So we sail tonight?”
“Never on a Friday,” said Dave.
“Huh,” said Cuthbert. Back on board we went, and
slept uneasily.
Breakfast was boiled eggs. Cuthbert asked me to
pass the salt. When I told him this was a sure bringer
of ill fortune, and that he should reach for it himself,
he looked distinctly sulky. After breakfast Dave and I
crushed our eggshells, but Cuthbert kept his nearly
intact, until Dave explained to him that witches would
use them as boats, and would paddle after us to
distribute hexes with an unstinting hand.
Later that day we were at sea, sailing along on a
broad reach, everything up and drawing nicely.
Cuthbert’s sulks had abated, and he was looking
positively cheerful. He pursed his lips, and before I
could stop him he had started whistling a merry tune.
“Nooooooo!” roared Dave. Too late. A dark shadow
was already snaking across the water towards us. The
squall hit with a bang, and over we went on our beam
ends, then came up again, everything fl ogging and
roaring. When we had it all reefed and drawing and
were counting the broken fi ngernails, I said to
Cuthbert: “Whistling is not a good idea either.”
“I have never heard anything so stupid in my life,”
said Cuthbert, and turned to stomp below. His foot
caught on the cockpit coaming and down he went face
fi rst, fetching his nose a terrible smack on the deck.
“Gnngn,” he observed, blood pouring from both
nostrils. Later that afternoon, the wind dropped to a
mild force three. “See?” said Dave. “Blood.”
“By dose hurts,” said Cuthbert.
“Jonah,” said Dave.
We dropped him off on the Minquiers. For all I
know he is still there, singing with the mermaids.‘Is something wrong?’
Sam Llewellyn takes a wry look at maritime superstitions
“He
stepped
aboard, left
foot fi rst,
and he was
wearing a
green coat”Sam Llewellyn
is editor of The
Marine Quarterly