I was running a late-season instructor qualification course
in the Solent. The boat chartered by the authorities was, to pull
no punches, knackered, but the engine worked, the sails went
up and down and nothing actually broke in the first three days
of the session. Secured to the forward saloon bulkhead was
a traditional cabin heater operated on the age-old system of
pressurised paraffin. Rather like the cooker of ancient memory,
these contrivances are often championed by classic boat owners
on the misguided grounds that they lessen the risk of unwanted
infernos. This one put out more noise than heat when pumped
up and the pipework joints were showing a contempt for routine
maintenance that should have spurred us into preventative action,
but we were engaged on important administrative matters and
hadn’t made the time.
When the action started the boat was safely moored in
Newtown Creek, the tide was falling and we were in the cockpit
debriefing an exercise. The stove had been lit in the barren hope
of cosiness and the companionway was closed to keep the warmth
in. We’d no idea what was afoot until smoke started curling
out between the washboards. A glance below revealed that the
wretched heater had burst into flames and had already ignited
the bulkhead. I appreciate that, to the outsider, my job was now
to take charge and initiate a well-drilled safety routine, but this
sort of thing is an examiner’s dream come true, so I asked the
lads for ideas instead. The first suggestion was to broadcast a
distress call on the hand-held VHF. This scored few points. We
were miles from assistance and it was going to be cold comfort
to know that the cavalry might arrive only in time to watch the
boat burn to a crisp.
The next suggestion came from a realist who said, “Why don’t
we start the engine before the battery cables burn through, run
her onto the mud, step ashore and walk to the pub?”
This creative recommendation has also been proved effective on
badly holed boats, but it was not put to the test because the third
student was a man of action. He grabbed the large multipurpose
extinguisher correctly stowed in a cockpit locker and disappeared
into the smog. While the rest of us were still preparing for the
worst, he staggered back up to report the first extinguisher had
quietened things down enough for him to finish the business with
a second that lived in the galley. He had managed the whole event
on a single breath, thus avoiding the cocktail of fumes that go
with a vessel on fire.
Leaving aside a further blaze caused by yet another pressurised
paraffin cooker promoted to a concerned public as safer than gas,
my third fire broke out in the Channel aboard a different wooden
sailing craft, this one bound for Arctic seas.
I was preoccupied at the time with a blown-out jib on the
end of the bowsprit, but looking back from the sharp end it was
obvious that, down aft, all was far from well. As the watch below
came coughing up the companionway into a rising wind, it was
hard to ignore the fact that more smoke came out through the
hatch with them than was dribbling out of the official chimney.
Below decks, the flue on a newly installed bogey stove had
unwisely been led through a locker designed to dry damp tea-
towels, hats, vests and anything else that needed it. This plan
was deeply flawed, but by the time my watch-mate and I had
doused the flailing canvas and scrambled back to the wheel, the
cook had already dealt with the fire and was reporting on deck.
“The stove got over-warm,” she announced. “I suppose
the extra draught from all this wind fanned it up. The flue was
red-hot five minutes ago but we’ve shut the air supply down
now – no damage except for a scorched bulkhead, three tea
towels printed with useful recommendations from the lifeboat
people and two pairs of the bosun’s underpants. We’ll just have
to keep the flue baffle shut next time the breeze kicks up.”
There is something tranquil about women in a crisis. She
hadn’t even used the fire extinguishers. The girl was a Scot who
had learned about wasting money at her grandfather’s knee. She’d
kept cool, assessed the risks and managed instead with a well-
aimed bucket of water, pointing out that if fire were to take hold
again it might be more serious, and that where we were going
there’d be no shiny replacements available, even for ready money.