Arrangements had been made to
meet two boatloads of friends in
Rothesay on the Friday night. It
was July and the weather was
fair so we were expecting the
place to be very busy. We knew
that we wouldn’t be there till
about 21.30, so friends had
agreed to book a table for us up
in McIntyres restaurant that
used to be situated on the pier.
It was almost 23.00 when we
arrived and the three of us were
bemoaning the almost certain
loss of a good dinner. Our
friends were watching for us and
as we turned the corner of the
pier, called out to us “Just
come alongside here. We will tie
you up and the three of you get
up there before it is too late.”
A quick chuck of water over our
faces and then we were
scrabbling over decks, trying to
hurry and yet be light footed
over other folks decks at the
same time.
The McIntyres had been waiting
for us and we were told that
there were precious few people
about that they would have
stayed open for. The meal was
even more enjoyable after that.
I remember that I had Beef
Stroganoff. I can taste it
again. It had just that hint of
mustard that I love. I can’t
remember what wine we chose but
we filled our glasses and
assured each other that we would
certainly have it again. I think
we probably did.
We returned to the boats with
that lovely round, contented
feeling. Our friends were
waiting for us to join them in a
nightcap as they had something
of importance to discuss.
Once we were comfortable in the
cockpit of one boat we were
asked if we had noticed how many
Blue Ensigns we were surrounded
by. We duly looked about us and
right enough, there was a lot of
dark blue cloth hanging about. “
What about it? “ we asked. It
was explained to us that our
friends on the other boat were a
bit apprehensive about leaving
in the morning with all those
terribly nautical types about.
They had their two-year-old
daughter Sylvia with them. They
weren’t very experienced and
they did not want to make a mess
of leaving, which was going to
entail turning around in a
pretty restricted space.
We formulated a plan of action
that would be fool proof. In the
morning our nervous friends
would prepare to leave. We would
nonchalantly appear at suitable
places and get the warps ready
for slipping. Their boat would
be quietly warped round with her
engine ticking over in neutral.
Once the boat was turned – as a
nice final touch of confident
competence, the skipper would
call out “ Darling- take the
helm and I’ll clear the deck.”
He would then move forward to
clear fenders etc. His First
Mate Maureen would take the
tiller, engage gear and they
would motor out while the
skipper did seamanlike things on
deck. We thought that should be
pretty impressive.
Another fine morning with the
plan working well. With no fuss
and the minimum of activity our
friends boat was warped round.
At one point two of us were
actually leaning over the rails
and letting the warps run evenly
out from under our deck-shoes.
It was looking very good indeed.
Came the time for the finale.
The skipper called “ Maureen
take the tiller – I’ll get the
fenders” – stepped onto the
side-deck and moved forward. A
harassed voice floated up from
the cabin- “ I can’t – Sylvia’s
on the pottie!” On turning
quickly to get back to the
cockpit the skipper tripped and
nearly decapitated himself on
the shrouds. From there it just
went all to hell. The engine
stopped and the boat started to
swing over towards shallow water
with rocks. The skipper slipped
and fell into the cockpit with a
thump.
Acting very quickly someone from
another yacht threw a line
accurately across to the skipper
who just managed to recover
enough to grab it and she was
pulled nicely back,
Unfortunately there was a bit of
blue cloth hanging from the
stern of the rescuer.
As they eventually motored away
our friends spent a worried hour
deciding where they could go
that night so as not to meet
anyone who had seen the debacle.