Dreadnought

The high-pitched whistle would wake anyone, to be fair, especially someone who normally boils water in an electric kettle. 

I’d been dreaming of a factory whistle and lines of workers streaming out of a dismal Northern foundry at quitting time. Like a Lowry painting.

It took me a few seconds to remember where I was. Then it came into focus: I was wrapped in a damp sleeping bag on a narrow bunk in the musty bow of the ambitiously-named Dreadnought, a 25-foot sailboat. My rucksack lay on the opposite bunk – open but unpacked.

I shut my eyes again, thinking “Damn”. 

A hand pulled back the curtain that separated the forward cabin, where I was, from the rear which held a tiny galley, seating that doubled as an additional bunk and a ‘navigation corner’ for maps, radar, and a radio.

“Tea? Or coffee?” It was Lyn, with the enthusiasm some people have first thing in the morning. “If you’re hungry I think there are some biscuits somewhere.” She rummaged around, found an open packet, gave it a sniff and said, “Hmm, maybe not! Anyway, I can make toast in a bit.”

She handed me a stained coffee mug and hovered a spoonful of some powder called Coffee mate over the rim. I nodded. She dumped it in and gave it a swirl.

“Sleep well?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding again. And fairly convincingly, “Fantastic.”

“It’s the movement of the boat,” she said. “Back in the womb. So comforting.” 

It could have been that, or it could have been the two bottles of red we knocked off the night before. For me the wine was a sort of self-punishment – I was angry with myself for agreeing to see her. I didn’t want to be there.

At some point when we worked together a few years ago, I let slip that I’d done some sailing with my father when I was younger, and she said that I “really should come sailing one day”. She had a boat in Newhaven, about an hour and a half south of London.

Of course I said, “Great” at the time, but never meant to actually follow through.

Eventually I left the company for another job and we lost touch. When our old boss died a few months ago, we met up again at the funeral and she insisted I come down to Newhaven. She had been quite close to the boss, was very emotional on the day, and so I heard myself saying yes.

What I was thinking? How could have forgotten how much she annoyed me at the office? Lyn. Jumpy. Brimming with nervous energy every day. Talking non-stop. I used to get worn out at meetings and presentations we attended together. Curiously, some clients would tell me that her “passion” and “enthusiasm” was amazing, whereas I thought of myself as the dependable, measured, safe pair of hands. No highs, no lows.

Maybe that made us a good team, but over time that endless passion and enthusiasm really irritated me.

Anyway, Newhaven. I’d arrived from London the afternoon before, but it was really too late to take the boat out. We went to The Hope, the pub near the lighthouse, for dinner and carried on drinking when we got back to the marina.

In the morning, in the same clothes from the day before (the wine again I expect) I stepped out into the cockpit and looked around the marina. The Dieppe ferry had arrived sometime earlier and docked just across from where we were moored. I couldn’t believe I slept through the docking, announcements on deck, and the noise of the cars and lorries as they rumbled over the off ramp.

Lyn came from below with a mug of tea and we both stared at the Côte d'Albâtre as it began loading for the return sailing.

“Massive up close, isn’t it? It’s due to leave around 8 so we can set off after that.”

“Great.” That meant a solid hour of chit chat, or “catching up” as she called it.

About why she quit her last job. About wanting to quit her current job and live on the boat full time. What did I think about that? Her failed marriage. Her non-communicative son. Her overbearing daughter-in-law. Her other failed relationships. The damned weather. The wind. The lack of wind. The best quality rope. The price of rope. How much mooring fees have gone up in the past year. Did I like Japanese food? How she tried it for the first time and hated it.

Anything and everything. Irritation was tapping me on the shoulder again, floating with Coffee mate on the surface of my Nescafé. It was my own fault. I’d said yes. 

As she went on, we watched in admiration as the ferry pulled away from the dock turning itself around in an implausibly small space before pointing its bow towards France.

As soon as it was on its way, it was our turn, and leaving the marina was a welcome break from the non-stop, one-way conversation – the pointless questions, opinions and anecdotes I’d just sat through. The fresh air felt good.

I was fumbling a bit with the fenders and the sail when pushing off, surprised at how much I’d forgotten about the basics – or never really learned in the first place. Thinking back, my father been the real sailor. I suppose I was just a moody teenager obliged to go along but all the time wishing I was somewhere else.

Once Dreadnought got past the breakwater, the wind picked up creating a significant chop. I started to feel every peak and jarring trough of the waves in the pit of my stomach and was soon leaning over the side regretting the wine.

Lyn was sympathetic. “Don’t worry, it’ll pass.” And something about “sea legs”. I slumped in the cockpit, wanting to die. I told her so, but she just laughed and effortlessly took over.

After another hour of feeling pretty miserable, she suggested we go back.

I protested weakly, but could barely contain my relief at idea of dry land. I’d been useless, felt rotten and was angry with myself for agreeing to this outing at all.

Lyn deftly came about a few times as we tacked back, gently warning me about the boom each time.

She was relaxed, methodical – almost cheerful—as she went through the necessary manoeuvres. I hadn’t moved, sitting there feeling sorry for myself, and couldn’t take my eyes off Lyn. The sea and the boat seemed to give her a sense of calm, confidence and purpose.

I retched again but at least we were going in the right direction: land.

From inside the cabin, the radio crackled: a conversation between the harbourmaster in Newhaven and the ferry. It had experienced technical trouble en route and was returning to port.

“We’d better hurry up or we’ll be out another hour.”

I was still queasy but managed to utter: “What? Why’s that?”

“We need to beat the ferry or we have to stay at sea until it docks. It has priority.”

We were only about a mile from the harbour – surely we’d get there long before the ferry even came close. “But it’s nowhere in sight,” I said.

“By the time we see it on the horizon,” she explained, “it comes so fast that we won’t be able to beat it – they close the entrance until it’s safe for other boats to enter. We’d have to go round a few times out here.”

Please, I thought. Please, no. Let there be an early end to this torture!

I scanned the horizon. Nothing.

But then it appeared: a dot. A few minutes later when I glanced behind us I could already make out the Côte d'Albâtre – the behemoth itself – and it was gaining on us.

Lyn saw it too, and frowned. She looked at me and shook her head. But then, maybe seeing my panicked expression, decided we’d go for it.

She knew her stuff all right.

Silently, skilfully, she covered the distance, got us past the breakwater, into the marina and onto the pontoon just as the ‘traffic lights’ signalling the temporary closure of the port turned red.

By the time I recovered, Lyn had quickly, methodically brought down and and secured the sail, wound the ropes into neat bundles, adjusted the fenders, even rinsed out the coffee mugs.

The conversation started again and I joined in this time, elated at the idea that I wasn’t likely to throw up again (or die).

Then she paused for a second and said, “Sorry about all that. It was rough out there– maybe too much, not having been out in a few years.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry. Some sailor I turned out to be! Guess I need a refresher course.”

She just shook her head, smiling. “Don’t be silly.” Then after another pause, “So, want to come again sometime?”

“…Yeah,” I said. At that moment I actually meant it.