62 November 2017
fenders and cushions. Everything was covered in black
slime, which shone in the torchlight. I descended another
step and as the water level came up to my thighs, my feet
slipped. The water must have been 5ft deep in the aft
cabin and I did not want to go under. Finding the
starboard bunk with my feet, I hung onto whatever I could
and began to work my
way forward. At the
front end of the saloon
the water was
shallower. A passage led
forward. I waded down
this and into the galley
where the water was
down to my knees and from there into another cabin.
There was no sign of external damage in the forward part
of the boat, but it was difficult to be sure, as much of the
inside hull was covered with perforated foam material. I
clambered on to the fo’c’sle bunk, opened the hatch, and
climbed gratefully into the fresh air. Looking down to the
sea from the bow, I could see the barnacled rock that was
holding Palinode. It was now just awash.
Chris came forward from the bridge. “Any sign of
damage below?” I shook my head. “There is nothing majorat the front. Can’t tell about the stern because it’s full of
oily water.”
“Bridge seems fine. She’s got a hand pump in there, a
massive whale gusher; and” ... he paused for dramatic
effect, “it’s working.” I glanced at him and he looked back at
me with a raised eyebrow that clearly said, “Why not?”
“We’ll have to be quick. The tide must have turned by
now.”I could imagine the sea beginning to flood up Loch
Fyne, tons and tons of it, building up a colossal
momentum that would raise the sea level by 10ft or more.
Even if we managed to pump out some water, we would
lose her if the waves started to lap over the coaming and
down into the open cockpit.
I heard a clanking noise from the bridge. Chris was at
work. I sat down in the water of the cockpit, put both
hands on the handle of the second pump and began to
work it back and forth. After about 15 minutes of effort
there was no apparent change. I called out to Chris, “What
do you think?”
“By my mark, the level is down one eighth of an inch.”
“Is the water draining out by itself?”
“Let’s give it all we’ve got for another 15 minutes.”
We pumped furiously. After a while Chris called out:
“You’re not going to believe this. The water is down by half
an inch.”
“That’s not much,” I grunted in time with the pump.
‘“If we can lower it by half an inch, we can lower it by a
foot,” he added.
Chris is a mechanical engineer. He knows about these
things. I began to pump even harder. As I did, I could see
the tide creeping up the outside of the coaming. The sea
was now 3in from the top. Bent over the pump all I could
see was the lumpy grey surface of the open sea stretching
mile after mile towards the dark Isle of Arran floating on
the far horizon. I felt impotent in front of all that ocean.
Ten minutes later the tide had risen again.
“The sea is 2in below the coaming,” I shouted. There was
no reply, just the donk, donk, donk of the pumps. It had
become an all-out race and we were losing. We went at itGREAT SEAMANSHIP
Poetry in motion
as Palinode sails
off following her
rescue. Chris,
right, enjoyed his
‘reward’ bacon roll
‘I could imagine the sea
beginning to flood up
Loch Fyne – tons of it’