Houseboat on the Seine: A Memoir

by William Wharton

  ‘Now, we can see if our holes are straight.’

  He stands and straddles the I-beams. I pull out the pin until it’s just inside the one I-beam and he grabs it and starts pushing it through the perche. It fits fine in the first side, but it’s a little off for the second. Sam gets down on his back to check the alignment.

  ‘Give the pin a few taps with the hammer and we’ll see if we can force it. It can’t be more than a few millimeters off.’

  I start gently tapping away with the hammer, and it passes through the second side easily.

  ‘Keep hitting it so we can see how it comes out with the other beam. This will be our real test.’

  I hit with the hammer so the pin slides slowly across to the other beam. I’m hitting lightly, expecting at any minute to hit the solid inside of the beam, but it slips right in without any problem. Sam reaches into his shirt pocket.

  ‘We need to make sure now that the pin stays in place. I brought along two cotter pins. We’ll drill holes for them.’

  He drills those holes. I’m beginning to feel like a woodpecker, only in steel. Sam takes out a small drill and I hold the pin in place while he drills holes into the pin on the outside of each of the beams.

  We then go through the entire process again with the bankside pole at the other end of the boat. I’m feeling numb, and I’m only holding or pushing while Sam’s doing all the work.

  Next, we carry all the equipment onto the boat and start work on the front bollard. Sam has a sort of portable anvil, a vise and a small sledge so we can bend the strap iron into place around the bollard. As usual, it’s harder than it looks. Sam is pounding on the other side of the strap iron to bend it round the bollard. He gets them bent to what looks to me as too much.

  Then he takes the vise from me and bends the strap back until he’s formed a collar with flat ends coming together on either side of where the boat side of the perche is going to be. When he’s satisfied with the lineup, he drills holes through the entire conglomerate – easier said than done. Finally, due to Sam’s unworldly persistence, we have them all bolted together. This concoction, for sure, isn’t going anywhere. Sam is so excited he walks the entire length of the perche back to the shore, exactly like a cat or a rat. I wonder where I was when they passed out courage.

  We do the back perche the same way, finishing off in the dark. This seems to be the way we finish off most days. Rosemary isn’t there; it’s a school day and Mondays are faculty meetings. I offer to drive Sam back with all his tools, but he decides to leave them on the boat in the front crew cabin.

  ‘We’ll need most of this stuff when we work on the chain. I’ll need to cut some of it and maybe do some welding. Can you work again tomorrow? It’s another one of those jobs I can’t do with one hand.’

  ‘Look, Sam, I feel terrible about keeping you out of school like this. Aren’t you going to get into trouble?’

  ‘If I’m there, I’ll probably mess things up with more trouble. I’m not the type for schools. I don’t think I’m stupid, but most of the things they teach in a school just don’t interest me. I’ve explained to my dad what I’ve been doing, and he says he’ll sign a paper saying I’ve been sick. He knows what’s important. He didn’t used to, but since my accident he’s lots better. Mom, of course, being a schoolteacher, twists her nose out of joint, but she isn’t going to make any scene. She knows I’m doing the kind of thing I really like to do.’

  I leave it at that. I wasn’t much different in school myself, but he’s definitely the most extreme example of the autodidact I’ve ever known. We call it off for the day, and I’m just ready to drive him up to St.-Germain-en-Laye, when Rosemary and our kids arrive. They’re properly impressed with the perches and the connection, at least as much as anyone can be impressed if they didn’t do it. Matt has all kinds of questions and I begin to feel guilty about sending him off to school when he could be learning along with us.

  The Chains That Bind

  I drive Sam up to the RER, and on the way he tries explaining his plans for the chain. He’s impressed with the weights with which we’ll be dealing, and the power we’ll need to pull them up into place. He’s also worried if the concrete is set enough.

  Sam arrives the next morning just as the family is leaving for school. Rosemary asks Sam about school – isn’t he going to get into trouble? He tells her to talk with his mom. She knows all about it. Rosemary’s in a hurry, they’re late already, so she doesn’t push it.

  Sam and I spend about an hour measuring just how much chain we’re going to need. We put the winches in place to attach the front chain. The idea is to pull the chain tight against our perches. He says he’ll drill holes through the two sections of each perche to keep them from telescoping. I’m amazed I understand him the first time. It’s almost diabolical the way he has it all worked out.

  Sam’s still concerned about the weight of the chain, our ability to stack it in the Hillman, and the capability of the Hillman to bear up under the weight. He’s also worried about our being able to load and unload the chain ourselves.

  ‘We can always cut our lengths either at Mollard’s, or by stretching the chain out on the berge here.’

  We take off for Chez Mollard. We drive all the way to where the chain is stored. Sam goes over to the biggest drum of coiled chain, rolls out about a meter and lifts it in his hand. He hands it to me.

  ‘Here, what do you think this weighs?’

  ‘Heavy, probably ten pounds, and expensive, too, I’ll bet.’

  He goes over to a smaller linked chain. ‘Well, this is lighter, but I don’t think you could be absolutely sure it would hold under pressure. That’s a big, heavy boat, and the water can be fast and hard.’

  He pulls out his list of measurements. It includes the distance from both front bollard to deadman and back bollard to deadman. Also, there are the long pieces from front bollard to back deadman and from back bollard to front deadman, crossing in the middle. It comes to sixty-five meters.

  We find the yard man and ask him what the cost per meter is. He shrugs his shoulders and points up to the front office. What a dumb way to sell things. Sam and I trudge up to the office. Sam explains what we want. We’re given a per-meter figure that isn’t too scary, but multiplied by sixty-five is more than significant.

  ‘Well, Sam, we’ll be eating beans around our house for a while, but OK. Here we go again.’

  Sam smiles and we order. I stay to pay with my magic empty card and Sam goes back to the yard, running.

  When I come out, there’s chain spread all over the yard. Sam is checking measurements and straightening out the chain. The yard man is standing with a pair of long-handled nippers by the drum of chain. Sam whispers to me.

  ‘I couldn’t get the jerk to cut off any chain until he’d seen the invoice stamped. But I’ve talked him into doing our cutting for us. I hope our measurements are right.’

  I hand the invoice to Sam and he hands it to the yard man. He smiles and nips off from the drum. The chain is beautiful and, in a certain way, frightening. Maybe it has to do with being chained up on a chain gang or chained into the dungeon of a French prison in some other life.

  Sam starts running along, pulling the lengths of chain taut and marking the links we want cut. Just straightening out that chain on the ground is a test of strength. But finally we have them all cut.

  We start coiling them to load into the Hillman. Come on, brave Husky, little Hillman, one more time, please. Sam’s convinced that if we distribute the weight right, we can take all the chain in one load. So, somehow, we stack it all in, large coils of bright silver-colored chain. Sam does his shock test on the back bumper, then the front, shakes his head but smiles.

  ‘Now we need links that will open to hold the chain around the bollards and the I-beams.’

  He measures one link of chain, then talks with the yard man. The separate, opening links are sold in another part of the yard. It’s more of a hardware section. The front of the car is tilted
up like a motorboat going through the water fast, but we’re not going anywhere fast.

  We need eight of these opening links. Sam describes what we need to a heavy man wearing thick glasses. He stares at Sam’s missing arm. He comes back with a wooden box filled with chain-link connectors.

  Sam pulls out one and measures it. He smiles at me. He talks to the fat man and writes out just what we’re buying for me to present to the office. Here we go again.

  These little devils turn out to be expensive but, as usual, there’s no turning back. We give the guy the stamped invoice and he puts the missing links into a small cardboard box for us. We add our new acquisitions to the weight in the car.

  I don’t go more than fifteen kilometers an hour all the way through Le Pecq and into Port Marly. Sam keeps leaning out the car and motioning people to pass us. For the first time, I have some sympathy for the drivers of tractors pulling trailers filled with hay down at the mill in the country. I just smile at people as they go by with scowling faces. I don’t go more than five Ks per hour down the chemin de halage, with Sam out in front directing me around potholes and bumps. I’m dripping nervous sweat when we finally pull up in front of the boat.

  We tug and pull one of the shorter chains out of the car. We spread it along the berge from deadman to the edge of the water. Sam looks at the length of chain and the coiled end by the water.

  ‘This is a job for you. Take the length of rope from the inside of your car, walk out onto the boat to that bollard up there and throw one end of the rope to me. I’ll wait here.’

  I do all that, and Sam catches the end of the rope, first time, with his one arm. He stoops and ties a fancy, one-handed knot through the last link of the chain. I pull on the rope and bring the chain up the side of the boat. I wrap it twice around the bollard.

  ‘OK, hold it there while I go hook the winch onto the other end of the chain.’

  He’s already dashing up the hill of the berge. I watch him up at the deadman. He wraps the chain around the two I-beams and below the perche attachment. He scrambles to the car and brings down the box with the chain-link attachments. He threads it over the end link, then over another link close to the I-beams. He twists the tightener of this linking link with his fingers and finally with a pair of pliers he has in his back pocket.

  Then he runs along the chemin de halage, across the gangplank back onto the boat. We pull together until we have the chain as tight as we can. Then he hooks the winch onto the chain at one end and the other end onto one of the braces holding the bollard. We start cranking and keep pulling till the chain is taut. Then Sam hooks the linking link from the first link past the winch to the nearest part of the extended chain. We then uncrank the winch and the chain goes taut against the tie on land. Sam takes off to check the tie there and the condition of the deadman. He shouts across the water.

  ‘It’s great, didn’t budge an inch. Let’s try the other one now.’

  We go through the same gyrations as we connect the front bollard to the front deadman. I’m pulling, breaking a gut, and thinking of those longer cross chains lying along the berge. That’s going to be something.

  But we do manage, with Sam at the front end and me at the back, each with a winch. We alternately tighten till Sam feels we have the boat even against the bank and not so far in we can’t see up and down the river. He crawls out on the perche to drill and drive in the pins to stabilize the telescoped perches. I think of how I tugged and struggled, digging in the river, slipping and sliding up the bank, cranking that damned winch, trying for every centimeter, and here we are moving the whole boat around as if it were nothing.

  It’s the same procedure, putting in the cross chains, only the weight is much greater. I’m content with what we already have, I’m not really into overkill, but I’m learning. The river is a great teacher. Sam’s at the back deadman and has the chain already hooked. I’m on deck at the front cranking on the winch. The slack in the chain is being taken up, and my arms, shoulders and back are about to break. Sam comes running up to join me. He starts cranking with me.

  ‘We’ve got to be careful the thin cables on the winch don’t break. If they do, we can be cut in half.’

  He doesn’t offer any solutions to avoid this decapitation, or worse, so I just tuck my head in close between my shoulders. Sam is cranking away with me, using his foot for additional strength on the handle of the winch.

  At last, Sam feels the chain is as tight as we should pull it until we have the other chain in place. Without a break, we start on that one. I feel as though I’m paralyzed along my whole right side and my kidneys are about to burst through my ribs. I straighten up slowly and practically crawl over to the back bollard and the other winch. Sam hooks the chain to the front deadman the same way as the others. I’m beginning to see why he wanted so much concrete in the deadman. This boat is pulling against itself!

  I start cranking. Sam is running back and forth, deadman to deadman, bollard to bollard, walking out on the perches, checking the length and tension on the chains. I’m cranking and cursing. Sam comes to help as we crank this chain right up to touch our first cross chain. He taps me on the shoulder to stop me. My whole shoulder is practically paralyzed anyway. I slump onto my rump, sweat pouring out of me. My whole face is wet with it, and this is genuine sweat. My face is so wet it feels as if I’ve been crying. Maybe I was. But I look at the chains, neat and straight as threads on a loom. Sam is like a madman. He hangs on each of the chains while he stands on the bank. I know if he had two hands, he’d hand-over-hand it onto the boat. He’s smiling.

  ‘Well, we really did it. This might be the best moored boat on the river. You could play a tune on those chains.’

  ∨ Houseboat on the Seine ∧

  Sixteen

  10-Meter I-Beams

  Now with the houseboat securely moored, and the gangplank firmly in place, I feel we can relax and begin to enjoy our boat. And that turns out to be the case, although I have no idea of all the work that still needs to be done.

  Living with a houseboat is like living with a demanding woman. Each time you think there’s a chance for peace and quiet, to read a newspaper, or perhaps think or dream, something else wrong comes to light. In our case, only two weeks after we’ve finished rectifying the damage done by the flood, family complaints are being lodged regarding the steadiness of the gangplank. It bounces.

  Of course, for me, that gangplank, and all the work it represents, is like my child. I try not to be too defensive, but Rosemary and the girls demonstrate how they need to walk across one at a time or they’ll be bounced off. I hadn’t thought of that.

  So Matt and I decide the only solution is to put two ten-meter lengths of I-beam from the boat to the chemin de halage. There’s no way we can carry these, so we ask for delivery. Luckily, again, my guardian angels – that is, my buyers – have already sprung to my defense, and I’ve sold eleven more paintings, some of which actually have a physical reality, although six are still only more phantom paintings. I know they’re all going to be paintings of the river and the boats along it. It’s what I want to do. Also, the paintings I’ve sent back have made quite a sensation with my limited clientele, and they’re asking for more of the same. So, in painting sales alone, the boat is beginning to pay off – although it swallows the money almost as fast as it attracts it.

  Matt wants us, just the two of us, to do this operation; this is a family matter. I’m dubious. I haven’t yet dealt with any I-beams over two meters long, and even they were heavy. Matt says he has it all worked out. I think he’s emulating Sam, but he doesn’t have Sam’s experience. I figure as long as we can keep one end of an I-beam on land, we won’t lose it in the water, and we can always appeal for help.

  The day arrives. A huge delivery truck from Chez Mollard comes with the I-beams. It has a special carrier built along one side of the truck and up past the driver’s seat to carry them, along with other long metal pieces. The driver blazes his way through the Le Clercs’ po
or willow trees and pulls up beside us. The driver’s a short, compact man wearing dirty French working-blues. He has large, dirt-impacted hands. Metal gives off a black residue that seems to invade everything.

  He climbs down from his high perch and looks across at the boat. Matt explains to him what we want. He goes through a series of hand motions, reminiscent of les freres Teurnier, with which I presume he’s trying to explain his system for mounting the I-beams. The guy shrugs. He goes back to his truck and unties our beams. My God! They’re enormous. I think even Matt’s somewhat intimidated. We pull them off and stretch them along the chemin de halage. I can’t imagine how we’re going to span that gulf, across water, without heavy equipment. We can, all three of us, just barely pull them from the truck. I have no pride. I ask Matt to see if this short, stocky guy has any idea how we can put these monsters in place. Matt’s nose is bent out of shape because I don’t have confidence in him.

  This burly brute just jams his hands on his hips, akimbo, I think it’s called. He purses his lips in and out a few times. Then he points at a large rock imbedded in the berge just at the edge of the chemin de halage. Under his direction, we swing one of the I-beams so it spins on top of this rock. This calls for much pushing, grunting, sweating and cursing on our part, and shouted instructions from the driver. He’s pushing, grunting, sweating and cursing along with us.