November 2017 61GREAT SEAMANSHIP
INTRODUCED BY
TOM CUNLIFFE
A Wild Call by
Martyn Murray
published by
Fernhurst,
£11.99Call of the wild
WHEN MARTYN MURRAY AND HIS FRIEND CHANCED UPON AN ABANDONED YACHT ON THE
FIRTH OF CLYDE IT WAS A RACE AGAINST TIME TO SAVE IT FROM JOINING OTHER WRECKST
he subtitle of Martyn Murray’s book A Wild
Call is ‘One Man’s Voyage in Pursuit of
Freedom’. It conjures up visions of high
adventure on the world’s oceans – of
tropical islands and arctic seas. This
adventure, however, is closer to home. It is the journey of
self-discovery of an intelligent, sensitive man sailing
again the seas of his early life off the coast of Scotland. The
waters may be familiar to many a yachtsman, but his
perspective enriches our understanding of these well
travelled seaways. It’s not all romance, though. Not a bit of
it. In this chapter, the sense of fun rides high as he and his
pal Chris demonstrate what two determined men can
achieve in the face of apparently overwhelming odds.
As a postscript, they were offered the boat they saved by
way of reward, but she didn’t serve their needs and the
pursuit of freedom continued.I was about to leave for Africa when I took the
family Albin Ballad Pippa for a cruise from
Fairlie on a sunny June morning. On board
were my buddy Chris, his wife, Anne, my wife, Laura, and
our baby girl Isla. On a dying breeze, we were approaching
the anchorage in Ascog Bay at the mouth of Loch Fyne
when Anne noticed a boat lying off the island at an
odd-look ing angle. Coming in close we saw a submerged
motor-sailer with the tip of the bow and part of a
varnished cabin above the water, together with two masts.
“What do you think?” asked Chris.
“Looks recent to me,” I replied, noting a glint on the
varnish and a lifebuoy fl oating in the water still attached
by its line. We ghosted past the wreck before anchoring in
a small gut on the west side of the bay known locally as
Skate Hole. A fi sherman shouted across that the wreck was
two days old and something about insurance and keep
away. I looked at Chris who shrugged. We weren’t going to
pay attention to that kind of thing.
Later that evening after downing a few drams we
decided to row over to take a look. Rounding the headland
we could see just a couple of masts standing above water
in the fading light. “Tide’s full,” said Chris rubbing his
beard. “But she’ll be high and dry at low water.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Low tide’s at 0530.”
When my alarm went off at 0445, the rain was
drumming on the cabin roof. I groaned, regretting the
tumblers of whisky that had fuelled last night’s wild talk
of salvage. All that bravado came down to one simple
equa tion now: would I drag myself out into the cold wet
morning to look at a motor-sailer on a rock with a gapinghole in its bottom? I unzipped my bag and put a leg on the
fl oor. Outside, the rain seemed lighter and the sky was
brightening in the east, suggesting dry weather to come.
There was a smell of seaweed on the air. The surface of the
sea was calm and the tide was well out. Towards Skate
Island two masts were just visible. A heron fl ew overhead. I
felt excitement beginning to pour through my veins like a
spring tide.
Ten minutes later, Chris and I rowed quietly away from
Pippa with Mars bars and apples stuffed into our pockets.
As we rounded the small headland off Skate, we craned
our necks expectantly. There she was, our prize, a 40ft
motor-sailer with the broad beam of a fi shing boat.
Her beauty took our breath away. The bow was perched
on a rock that had tilted her part way over on one side.
Even now, at low water, the starboard side was mostly
underwater and obscured by a thick matting of seaweed.
The port side, on the other hand, was almost entirely
above water. At the front, the boat’s name was carved into
the top plank, Palinode, a poem or song that replaces an
old one. Owing to her angle, the stern was low in the water
and the sea was almost reaching the top of the aft
coaming. Just a few more inches and it would begin to
pour into the cockpit. We circled slowly looking for
stove-in planks.
“Can’t see anything wrong with her,” said Chris. “But she
could have a hole under the weed.”
We climbed up to the cockpit, which was full of
seawater. A whale pump stood uselessly in the corner.
Chris went along the deck to the bridge to look about,
while I took the companionway steps into the saloon,
letting the water fi ll my boots. It was much darker than I’d
expected, and the air stank of diesel. I pulled out my
torch. The water was inky with fuel oil. Plastic bottles
and food containers fl oated on the surface, along with ›The motor-sailer
Palinode with her
sails raised