LIFE ABOARD Life Aboard BY MARIANNE BARTRAM
MARIANNE LIvES ABoARD THE MV TRESHNISH ON THE RIVER DART wITH HER HUSBAND NIgEL
I
ndulge me if you will for straying into philosophical mode. It was brought on by
Plymouth Gin but I make no apologies on that basis. It was a gift from a friend who, on recalling that I wasn’t supposed to drink, suggested that I tell them all where to go. This is why we are friends. And so, with my clouded gaze fixed on some distant point of the horizon my fuddled intellect informs me – too late you may suggest? – that the River Dart is a very testing place indeed on which to live. On arrival as you stand perfectly balanced (though rarely in my case I admit) taking in its undeniable beauty, you will be blissfully unaware of its many perils, any of which can cause you to lose, in an instant - reputation, health, purpose, life, friends, livelihoods, marriage, money, teeth; the list is endless. To maintain any of them you must be as tough as the galvanised nails (1,352 at the last count) in your deck; as unyielding as the harbour master’s stance on drinking excessively afloat and as capable of resurfacing as the last thing you threw in knowing full well that you shouldn’t have. So it is strange that living on the Dart is such an unadulterated pleasure come rain or shine, gale or calm. It can only be that the challenges and subconscious awareness that you are not safe, not secure that is life affirming. Humans thrive on it. End of lecture. (I feel nauseous – I knew that tonic was off.) Talking of chucking stuff
overboard, we are guilty of feeding the crabs with fish bait but not
hardware or noxious substances as it would be beneath us (no pun intended) to compromise wildlife. I do wish though that I could see exactly what is on the riverbed. As fascinating I suppose as appalling – anything from dumped munitions to discarded heads. But what if there was treasure? I rather fancy discovering what will surely be named at our insistence, “The Bartram Hoard”. Let’s face it, it is the duty of “blow-ins” to, in the nicest possible way, ruffle the feathers of the locals. Where I come from on the Isle of Wight, it’s practically a law. A magazine ad just caught my
eye – “Does your abode have an incredible interior?” Mmm.
Here is another
unacceptable situation for the aged and infirm. On a boat, nothing is at eye level
Indescribable comes to mind in our case. But as incomers, we do feel the need to give a good impression at the Regatta. Who wants to moor up alongside a builder’s yard or have to pick their way perilously back to their vessel in the dark (having had, dare I suggest, a sherry too far) over planks, tools and other detritus. The trash though is always an ongoing project but hopefully the Typhoon will see off the wood shavings which have choked our hoover and its afterburners could surely do the job of the two sanders that are now defunct. One blew up; the other
began sparking and smoking. I must write to the Air Commodore and have the display line tailored to our needs. Don’t ask, don’t get! Here is another unacceptable situation for the aged and infirm. On a boat, nothing is at eye level as that would be too easy (apart from the washing up which can’t be done for lack of water). It’s either above your head, lined up with your swollen ankles or worse, in terms of stowage retrieval, actually under your feet via a hatch of wood which has unaccountably jammed shut and needs to be levered open. Everything you want has to be hauled out, shoved back to release it, lifted down or unstacked. As long as ithurts, it’s situation normal. I can’t paint ceilings. Even gazing up at the mildewed nightmare causes my neck to erupt with a series of loud and painful, cracking gunshots. Michelangelo apparently had to lie across a suspended plank to complete the Sistine Chapel. I am (no pun intended) in the same boat. Years ago I had the bright idea of tying a paintbrush to a broom handle. Don’t do it. I had to have my head shaved and pretend it was for charity. Even being ashore is perilous – Hub needed a taxi but being still in full wets and dripping, asked the driver if it was OK. He said yes, but only if he took his trousers down. Oh well, needs must I suppose. Anyway, I think he is leaving me. A small ad in the local paper declaring “Clowns’ duvet and pillow cases for sale” clued me in.
When confronted he appeared If you’ve missed any of Marianne’s columns in this magazine, they are all available on our website -
www.bythedart.co.uk/topics/life_aboard 35
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