Finally with a change in tactics I managed to drive Jack up into the tiny triangle of quiet water in the lee of the willow’d islet, between the two torrents racing down either side. Then there was nothing for it. We were back to the Morda Brook all over again, here at the very end of our journey. I took down the rigging, lowered the mast, emptied her of my entire luggage, removed the oars and bodily dragged poor Jack up onto the knobbly roots of the tiny eyot. Clumsily and painfully I hauled her over the twenty feet or so, dragging her under and through the low, grabbing branches of her old enemy, the willow. Twigs and leaves rained down into her, branches clawed at her, roots rose up to batter her keel, but scratched and leaf-spattered we made it eventually to the upper side of the island. Our last problem was how to launch off into the main river again without instantly being swept back down through the doorway.
There was a good breeze blowing in from the sea and up the river. With oars and sail, we might just make it clear of this trap. But even here the willow-tree spread its branches out over the water, so that it was impossible to raise the mast and sail while still on shore. I would have to row clear of the island, and then somehow get the mast up and the sail unfurled before the current could sweep us back down past the willow-isle and into the marshes again. This would be an impossible feat in any ordinary Mirror … to row and haul up mast and sail all at once … but Jack de Crow was, after all, no ordinary Mirror. Blessing the day that I had dreamed up my Auto-Pulley-o-matic Ezy-hoist before even setting out, I realised that it was now, once more, about to pay its way. There could be no mistakes. This had to work the very first time.
Very carefully I set everything in place. The mast-foot was ready to slot into its step on the foredeck. The stays were untangled, the gaff and boom were slipped out of their tyers, ready to haul aloft at a second’s notice, and the oars were in their rowlocks ready to do their job. I patted Jack on the gunwale, whispered ‘good luck!’ and tugged her down into the water. Then with an almighty push I sent her flying from the bank, floundered aboard and started rowing as hard as I could out away from that island and its encircling twin currents. I heaved and hauled at the oars with a strength developed over fourteen months of daily rowing … but it was not enough. I was fifteen yards from the island but beginning to slip backwards, sideways, spun by the current. I abandoned the oars, threw myself at the forestay pulley and hauled, slotting the mast-foot into place with the other hand. Teeth and hand, teeth and hand, I pulled away and the mast rose upright and stood firm.
Ten yards to the gap …
Seven yards …
Like lightning I cleated the pulley rope and flung myself at the halyard.
Five yards …
Four yards …
I hauled at the rope and the gaff rose up the mast taking the scarlet sail with it. Never had she risen more smoothly or wonderfully to the task. The wind filled the sail, the boom swung wide, and with just five yards left before we vanished down the sluice again, Jack stopped her backward drift and began to inch forward. Setting to the oars once more, and now aided by the good sea-breeze, we made our way slowly back up the river to the lights of Sulina shining in the distance.
Earlier that afternoon I had had a vision. It was no mystic wonder, merely yet another fanciful flight of the imagination such as the thousand others that have filled these pages. It had been on the last stretch of river before reaching Sulina, perhaps five miles upstream from where I was now. As I had been rowing along, facing back up the river as usual, I had been struck by the powerful notion that there before me lay the whole vastness of Europe; it unrolled in my mind’s eye like a map. Over there to my left somewhere the rocky-white promontories of Greece, deckle-edged and with the mapmaker’s Mediterranean blue coloured in up to each tiny crinkle. Over to my right the plains and forests of Russia stretching away, a blank paper wilderness, and straight ahead the little ridge of the Carpathian Mountains cut by the notch of the Iron Gates gorge, inked in tiny detail. Beyond that the great Magyar plain of Hungary and Yugoslavia, smudged and torn here and there by a careless hand, but dotted with the colours of plum and apple ripening on the tree. Then the Alps, tiny and perfect and sharp, like things seen in a globe of glass; the solemn temples, the gorgeous palaces, the cloud-capped towers of Austria and Bavaria. And so to the wavy line of the Rhine and the lesser line of the Moselle, wiggling up the map on a golden-green background, the colour of new wine – and so to France, scattered with woods and fields and the bright sprinkle of poppies. But the map does not end there. A narrow bar of painted sea and there is England as John of Gaunt saw it, a precious stone set in a silver sea. The White Cliffs are there, and London, and Oxford, every detail on the Magdalen Tower to be seen under the cartographer’s glass. And there on the very furthest edge, where the paper is curling off the table, the green meadows and blue hills of Wales.
And through all this runs a single thread. At times it is the brandy-brown of country brooks; elsewhere it is salt-green flecked with white. Sometimes it is a thread of softest wool, dyed blue-grey. Sometimes it is stretched steel wire, scratched and harsh. In places it is a ribbon of midnight-blue, spangled with the sequins of stars, or a thread of pure gold that catches the light and runs it up and down its length like liquid in a glass. It is dotted with charms and trinkets along its length; the carved stones of cathedrals, or white quartz beads as cold as marble. There are rich gems strung there: garnets red as fire-coals, sapphires flashing like kingfishers, warm topazes set in gold. But in all its length it is unbroken, a single thread of water-green laid from one end of the map to the other.
As I sail the last mile back up to Sulina in the gathering dusk, I recall the vision of that afternoon, and then it fades again. There are things to do. As I sail along in the dusk, willow-twigs are thrown overboard, leaf-mulch and bread-crumbs and all the debris of the riverbanks that collects so easily in the boat’s bilges. I straighten her lines, coil her painters and halyards, and sponge the worst of the mud off her decks and bottom-boards. She’s not a bad little boat really. By the time we have arrived at the town pier, it is completely dark, but the job is done. Jack de Crow is ready for her new life, and I for mine.
The End
Acknowledgements
THERE ARE VERY MANY acknowledgements to be made, and these fall into two categories: first, of those who lent support and practical aid in the writing of this book, and second, of those, almost countless, who made the voyage possible in a variety of ways.
In the first category, I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to Patricia Eve and all her associates at Seafarer Books, whose faith in the original product and cheerful rallying along the way were instrumental in bringing the first edition of the book to fruition. In a similar vein, I would like to acknowledge the professionalism and enthusiasm of the staff at Black Inc. in producing this second edition. I would especially like to thank Chris Feik, whose skill and patience as editor have taken an unwieldy vessel, trimmed its sails, offloaded ballast and shaped its lines to produce a swifter, lighter, more graceful craft than I could ever have imagined possible.
In the second category, the list is very much longer. It includes impromptu carpenters and boat-builders encountered at timely intervals, such as Phil Simpson, Alan Snell, Paul Stollerof-Zambinski, Peter Pohl and a host of anonymous donors of expertise, varnish and screwdrivers along the way. To this must be added the kind hosts, either known to me beforehand or complete strangers, only a fraction of whom could be included in this account. There were countless river-side dwellers across Britain and Europe who opened their doors and hearts to me; so numerous were they, and often so potent was their hospitality, that their names had vanished into an amnesiac haze by the next morning. To all these, I am immensely grateful.
For those whose names and deeds of kindness I have been able to record in the body of the book, there is the dubious privilege of seeing themselves portrayed in print. ‘I Exaggerate For Effect’ – my friends tell me I was born for that motto. Let thos
e who find themselves parodied or lampooned in return for their kindness towards a stranger understand that here, more than ever, the motto is true. Indeed, the greater the caricature, the deeper runs my gratitude and aff ection.
A third category exists: those whose support made both the book and the voyage possible. Foremost among these are my family, and in particular my sister Margaret, my father and my mother. While I was enjoying the luxury of improvised voyaging in the realms of Fantasy, both my father and Margaret allowed me to sustain the illusion of eighteenth-century roving by tirelessly dealing with bank statements, credit-card payments and those elements of the modern world that don’t really disappear after all.
My father has been doing this for years now, and can hardly be thanked enough for this labour of love. Margaret, during this voyage in particular, spent much of her spare time away from finding a cure for malaria, concentrating on what at the time seemed to me a greater priority: namely, forwarding mail and engaging in long reverse-charge phone calls from Eastern Europe when it had all become too much to bear. She was my anchorline to the real world, and occasionally to sanity when the Keats and the endless willows had begun to take over.
Lastly, I wish to thank my mother. Caricatured and gently parodied in these pages, she nevertheless typed the entire first volume from my handwritten pages and resisted (generally) the sore temptation to edit as she went. Her encouragement and enthusiasm for every aspect of both the voyage and the writing process has been characteristically boundless throughout – as has her love for sailing, falling in the water, coming up laughing and making a good story out of it for as far back as I can remember.
It is to her, therefore, that I dedicate this book.
The Unlikely Voyage of Jack de Crow Page 39
