CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stealing a car, an old one anyway, is easy, but a boat? The journey to the coast has made me think my plan is naive. My knowledge of boats is limited: quite a few fishing trips out to sea, but not once did I take the helm. So can I, the coastal voyeur, the day trip fisherman, win against an angry sea? Can ignorance navigate a knowing tide? Even if I do manage to hotwire a boat, and why would I, I never have before, do I just point it forwards and hope for the best?
I reach a town called Deal. Near the town centre, I park and leave the car. With midnight close, the streets are silent and free. I hurry away and head for the sea front. Listening to hear the sea, I quickly catch its rhythm. Its mood seems contented, at ease with itself. An old friend permits a sliver of hope.
My plan is now one of improvisation, one of need and desperation. I cross the road to the promenade. The sea is only heard, as the black of pure night cloaks it completely. At the edge of the promenade, I look down, and with my torch pointing, punch a hole through the darkness. Five feet below, I see a circle of shale beach. I edge the light forwards and quickly touch the sea. Twenty metres ahead of me, it draws closer with every breath. It comes to welcome me. Now offer me a ride.
With the torch probing the beach, I hurry along the promenade. My plan is simple, with the tide yet to fully return, I will find a fishing boat - one stuck dead on the beach waiting to be revived by the tide. Soon a cluster of such boats is caught in the beam. I jump down onto the beach and head for the nearest. A quick inspection exhausts my knowledge. The boat is made of wood, is about twenty foot long and has a cabin at the front. I haul myself on board and step to the cabin. A locked door blocks my path, so I kick it open. Inside, I pause, confused and lost. My only beat of inspiration is to press every button, which I do, twice. Nothing starts, no engine fires, no instruments shine. Like some disgruntled customer, I turn and leave. I will take my business elsewhere. To the next boat I hurry. Falling from the boat my feet hit the shale and then, nothing, I vanish.
Come, Time Page 11
