104 Life Aboard BY MARIANNE BARTRAM
Marianne lives aboard the MV TreSHNiSH on the river dart with her husband nigel
in my stomach which needs constant filling with pate, cheese, lobster, and – well, everything really. Bring it on! I am of the opinion that self control during the food festival is not only sanctimonious but an act of treason towards the good burghers of Dartmouth. a Devon Pasty? Yes, please and add a dill pickle if you will be so good! A glass of chilled white from the sharpham Vineyard? It would be rude not to. A jar of Dartmouth made preserves? I should say so. a bowl of freshly caught crab – essential. Why not try some chutney? – and, of course, you must partake of some local sausages further to enjoy it . Cream, scones and strawberry jam is most important. Followed by fudge. Lots of fudge. Oh, it’s heaven. I will fill the boat with sustaining victuals. Suppose I shall have to go on some dreary diet in due course but propose to stuff my face imminently with impunity. So there. Of course, last year I regretted it. What was I thinking?
H
Common sense flew out of the port hole and I constructed a platter for us that would knock a horse on its side. We both had to lie down (hub had hiccups at about 7 on the Richter scale) and the boat span around my head. We don’t seem to have grasped the concept of moderation. (sounds like a dead bore anyway) so I shall do it again and take the consequences. The sun is finally out! But the unexpected perils of an old fishing boat never cease. Tip: do not sunbathe behind rat lines. Nobody will ever believe me when I state that I have never worn a string vest in my life. It dawns on me, as I gaze around the river, that we are living on the watery equivalent of the M5. Harbour patrol is our police force, pontoons are our lay-bys, the fuel barge is our services, the Hercules is our highway maintenance and the buoys are our cones and so forth. I suppose the only difference is that we don’t have traffic jams – so we are all ahead of the game for once. Talking of driving, there seems to be a blind spot when it comes to the bridle line between the two fuel barges. Yachts are snagging themselves up like mackerel on a line of feathers. The boat smelled damp so I lit a diffuser (lemon spa, if
you are interested). The wick has to burn for two or three minutes without a cover. Then I remembered the news was due but the television wouldn’t start up. I worked out
urrah for the food festival! I shall be off with my purse loaded. I was born with a spark in my throat, only extinguishable by cider and a hole
Oh, it’s heaven. I will fill the boat with sustaining victuals.
that it was a loose fuse on the overload protection box. I held it down with my thumb but the sun meant I couldn’t see the screen so I tried to hang up a tea towel which was all I had to hand – the curtains having gone mouldy years ago- but it slipped down the back of the bench. So I knelt on the bench to retrieve it and felt my elbow begin to singe from the diffuser, my knee slipped off the bench which drove my chin down onto the corner of the table. So... I am face down, chin bleeding, blinded, elbow burning and my left hand now in a rather painful spasm. I felt like the most beleaguered woman on earth. Hub came in, gave me a cursory glance and asked me what I thought I was doing. (Mind you – he said exactly that when a river bank collapsed under me in Texas and I went in up to my neck trying to face off a poisonous water snake). There is no quarter asked or given when you live on a boat. But here is the thing – I put a weight on the fuse, a plaster on my chin, Ambuscade balm on my elbow and a (somewhat forced) smile on
my face. That is what boat life teaches you. Well, that and don’t do stupid things in the first place… I tried to signal to our friend Phil, moored up on our
port side. We gesticulated and waved to each other hopelessly. I enquired of the experienced mariner, Teddy Cranmer, as to the correct method of signalling to other vessels but he said he didn’t know as all he ever got was two fingers. I know just how he feels. Hub has a habit of waving his hand at me, as though shooing away a fly. When you live on a boat you have to try to be a
carpenter, an electrician, a plumber and an engineer. It results in my having to endure some bizarre conversations when a fellow boat dweller is aboard. i.e. “No, no – you want to run it off that dropper.” “But how would you keep your gas supply on?” “Put in another dropper and use it to replace the 12 volt supply from the main supply” “What, as in 24 in and 12 out?”
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