Dave Selby is the proud owner of a 5.48m (18ft) Sailfish, which he keeps
on a swinging mooring on the picturesque Blackwater estuary in EssexLISTEN ONLINEHear Dave Selby’s
podcasts on the PBO
website http://www.pbo.co.ukDave Selby
Mad about the boat
I
never really understood
narrowboaters until I
overheard a coven
meeting in my local
sailing club and
discovered that, like us
‘normal’ cruising sailors, they
are never so enthusiastic and
gleeful as when regaling each
other with anecdotes of the
mortal dangers of their pastime.
Indeed, it’s clear that
narrowboating is an extremely
hazardous pursuit, not least
for the damage it does to
your dress sense; basically a
composite breathable three-
layer permutation of celebrity
steam-fi end Fred Dibnah, a
poacher from a DH Lawrence
novel and a morris dancer.
Actually, that apart, we’re
frighteningly alike, ‘cos
cruising sailors also aspire to
look as ridiculous as possible.
It’s just that sailors do it
with ‘pinks’, blazers and
little admiral caps, while
narrowboaters favour pigeon-
fancier fl at caps, bowler hats
and soggy woollen jerkins.
The best kind of lock-in
A Lock and Bull story: a pub wasn’t a pub in olden times unless it
offered a grandstand view of gladiatorial combat with lock gates
Both are period contemporary
looks; it’s just that ours is
from the 1980s TV nauti-soap
Howards’ Way, while
narrowboaters go for 1830s
Black Country Hovis advert
chimney-sweep chic, often
accessorised with a ferret as
a neckerchief. Other than
that, there’s not much to
separate us, apart from the
narrowboaters’ uncontrollable
urge to plant potatoes,
tomatoes and marigolds
on their roofs and rusticate
everything in sight by
stove-enamelling twee fl oral
designs on everything from
watering cans and buckets to
satellite dishes, mobile phones
and Jack Russells.
Yet we are, at heart, kindred
spirits, and it’s never better
expressed than when spirits
are involved – or, in the case
of narrowboaters, a warm
foaming fermenting pint of
putrid gangrenous botulism,
also known as ‘real ale’. That’s
when the bravura barstool
stories of terror begin to fl ow.For us, entertainment is
provided by humourous
tales of such things as
broaching off Portland Bill: for
narrowboaters, it’s locks that
provide comical Cape Horn-
style calamities.
And that’s where I agree,
‘cos other than every other
aspect of sailing, it’s locks that
traumatise me most. And
recently after too much strong
mead I fell in with a bunch of
narrowboaters who recited an
endless litany of light-hearted
locking disasters involving
boats sinking in seconds when
they’d caught on the sill or
had been overwhelmed by the
gushing water from the sluice.
Everyone’s favourite is the one
where a narrowboat got caught
on a protruding brick, then
swivelled and sank in seconds
as the water drained. Hilarious.
Now, it’s well known that in
olden times all pubs were built
beside locks because of the
fantastic free entertainment
they provide. If you see a pub
without a lock, that’s becauseit’s been fi lled in on the
grounds of health of safety;
one such is Ye Olde Lock and
Bull, but not so the Old Ship
at Heybridge Basin on the
Blackwater, where there’s a
spectator lawn to provide a
prime view of the gladiatorial
combat and chaos in the lock.
Basically, having an audience
just adds tension. Another
thing that adds stress is the fact
that my outboard doesn’t have
reverse. It’s usual practice for
the Heybridge lock-keeper to
call me in last so I can nudge
between the butt-cheeks of the
bigger boats in front. Not only
are all eyes on me, but there’s
also pressure to get a hurry on,
either for the next lock-in or to
get in before the tide drops too
much (Heybridge only operates
an hour or so either side of
high water).
So as everyone’s waving me
in, I’m doing my best to go
as slowly as possible so that
I don’t ram the other boats
whose crew are preparing to
ward me off with fenders,
boat hooks, harpoons and
maces. It’s a question of fi ne
judgement as to when to knock
my engine into neutral to keep
enough steerage on, and not so
much that I crash into the
other boats. And all the time
they’re still urging me on.
When I mentioned this
dilemma to shipwright Adi, he
suggested throwing a bucket
overboard to act as a brake. So,
on my next run of the gauntlet
into Heybridge I approached a
little more purposefully, tossed
my bucket over the stern and
careered up the chuff of two
boats. In the routine inquest
that occurs after every time I
go sailing, Adi asked: ‘You did
attach a rope, didn’t you?’
Do I look that dumb! That’s
rhetorical, by the way; no need
to write in. Of course I attached
a rope to the bucket, I just
forgot to attach the rope to
the boat. Doh!‘...And when we got to the 97th lock, things became really exciting...’