Welcome to my Story

I was born at a very young age, two weeks after Easter, on a cold and blustery Saturday evening in April 1955, just after 'The Grove Family' had finished on TV,  during the 'Toddlers Truce' and at that time I didn’t know what the future held for me, but suffice it to say fun, laughter, and much enjoyment were certainly on the cards.


So, Dive into captivating tales and folklore from an old Scillonian boatman, sharing the insights into his life

in The Isles of Scilly and aboard the Swordfish II 

1952 - 1997.

John grew up with three sisters — Jane, Ann, and Carol. Over the years, many people remarked on how lucky he was and assumed he must have been spoilt rotten. In John’s head, however, it often felt more like a fight for survival — though of course, it was nothing of the sort.

The Hicks clan at Longstone lived a blessed life, as did most families on the Islands in those days. Life not long after the Second World War had its trials and tribulations, but one thing that was never rationed was love — nor the endless opportunities to go outside and play.

I remember Mum telling us after breakfast, when I was about eight years old: “Go on out to play, and don’t come back until lunchtime.” Off we’d go, down to the nearest beach — depending on the direction of the wind — choosing to swim, catch crabs in the rock pools beneath the bladderwrack, or try to catch fish with a piece of string, a bent pin, and the innards of a limpet.

So engrossed were we, and with no watches, mobile phones, or any other means of telling the time, it was usually well after lunchtime before we stumbled home — wet and sandy, stinking of seaweed and fish. Mum would grumble that our dinner was dried out, that we’d wasted gas keeping it warm in the oven, and wonder aloud how on earth we could get so messy in just a few short hours. Then, with a sigh, she’d set about doing another load of washing — no small feat in those days.

Like everyone, we lived a frugal life in the 1950s. Money was extremely short, and being born in the mid-50s, I benefited from Dad’s knack for making and mending anything and everything. When I was born, instead of buying a rattle, he decided to make one. He commandeered an empty treacle tin, dropped in a few stones, fixed the lid on tight, tied a string around it, and hey presto — I had a brand-new rattle. Perfect for me: nice and noisy.

Sometime later, apparently, I was lying on the floor, waving this rattle about as hard as I could. Suddenly, the tin shot free of the string, flew across the room, and struck the budgie — who was already flying about in a panic, looking for an escape. Sadly, he didn’t find one. With a squawk, he fell to the floor, stone dead.

Oooops!

 The Swordfish had been commissioned by Lloyd and his brother Gee in the late 1940s for lobster, crab, and crayfish fishing. They worked it for a few years until Gee bought the Lily of Laguna and began carrying passengers around the islands.

Lloyd carried on fishing in the Swordfish for a couple more years, but eventually realised that carrying passengers was more lucrative than fishing. He converted the Swordfish to carry 12 passengers and gave up fishing altogether. Tourism was booming in the 1950s, with more and more people coming over on holiday, and by 1960 Lloyd had decided to look for a bigger boat.

While searching, he discovered that the Royal Navy was selling off surplus vessels. One such vessel was a 45-foot launch that had been used as a liberty boat aboard HMS Woolwich, a destroyer supply ship. Lloyd tendered for it, offering £500, and was thrilled to learn that he had won. In 1961 the launch was brought to Penzance on the back of a lorry then towed over to Scilly, and Lloyd spent the winter of 1961–62 converting it from a troop-carrying vessel, which had 'Kitchen gear' (the means of propulsion and steerage) and three large white structures built over the top of it, in to the very patriotic, red, white & blue, 72 seat passenger vessel that many people were to fall in love with. 

It was an extremely cold winter, and the work took a toll on Lloyd's health, but by April 1962 he had the boat ready to carry 72 passengers. Lloyd ran it independently from the St Mary’s Boatmen’s Association (SMBA). However, in May he suffered a major heart attack and asked his nephew, David Badcock, to run the boat until he'd recovered. David agreed, on the condition that he could operate it within the SMBA.

So, for the next couple of years, while Lloyd recuperated, the Swordfish ran without him.

I was often to be seen out on the boat with Dad, whenever numbers allowed — and, on many occasions, when they didn’t. The Swordfish was only licensed to carry twelve passengers, so if I became the thirteenth I was promptly told to get down in the fo'castle and stay there until we were well out of sight of the Harbour Master, the police, or any other nosy busybody who might cause trouble. The same position had to be assumed again on our eventual return to the harbour.

Fortunately, I was very young at this time, and therefore quite small, because the space under the foredeck was cramped to say the least. It was just big enough to hold Dad’s thigh boots, his sou’wester and oilskins, a box full of fishing lines, an anchor, a pile of rope, and — somehow — one small boy. The question that has often gone through my mind is: how on earth did he ever manage to squeeze two fully grown adults in there along with me, as he once did on a trip back from Tresco?

There were, in fact, several occasions when there were more than just me hidden under the foredeck. I particularly remember one trip when Dad cursed loudly as we approached the quay, because he spotted the policeman standing at the top of the steps, counting the passengers as they came off the pleasure boats. Without missing a beat, Dad spun the wheel hard to port and made a sudden dash for the Lifeboat slip, where he let the “extra” passengers off.

He saw the policeman jump on his bike and pedal furiously back down the quay. Dad knew exactly where he was heading for, so he told the passengers that if they were stopped and asked any questions, they should simply say they’d been walking around the Carn — and that they hadn't been on the Swordfish. Then, with perfect timing, he pushed off from the slip just as the policeman arrived at the Lifeboat station, and calmly headed back to the quay.

By the time Dad got there, the policeman was astride his bike at the top of the steps, panting like a bull elephant, as he counted the eleven passengers filing off the boat. Dad grinned from ear to ear as he pushed off and headed for the moorings.

The last thing I heard from the exasperated copper was:
“I’ll get you, Lloyd — next time!”

He never did!

In 1965, Dad was well enough to begin working again, and so on the first of April he showed up at the SMBA’s daily meeting in Geoff Thompson’s shed on the Atlantic slipway at 08:30 to discuss the day’s trips.

When Dad arrived, he was told he would be on the Bishop Rock lighthouse trip, landing on St Agnes afterwards. “Fine,” he said, and off he went. The next day, he turned up again and was told he was on the Bishop Rock run once more. “Fine,” he said, and off he went again. On the third day, when he was told he was on the Bishop trip yet again, he asked:

“How the bloody hell do you decide who goes where?”

He was told that the first skipper to arrive at the shed each morning chose St Agnes, as it was the shortest and easiest trip. The second would choose St Martin’s, the next easiest, and the third and fourth would take Tresco. Successive skippers would then choose Bryher & Sampson, followed by the trip around the Eastern Isles (landing on St Martin’s),  then Round Island lighthouse, landing on Bryher, and Tresco. The last skipper into the shed always ended up with the Bishop run. He was told that if he wanted something different, he’d have to get there earlier.

That night, Dad sat down and thought about it. He came up with a scheme that would make the whole system fairer. At the time there were ten boats in the SMBA, so it was fairly straightforward. He cut a plywood board, about two feet by one foot, and fixed a wheel in the middle that could spin. Around the board he pasted the different trips—eight in total—plus two standby days. On the wheel itself he pasted the ten boat names.

The next morning, he arrived at the shed nice and early. Once all the boatmen were gathered, he introduced his wheel. They were chuffed to bits—and from that day to this, (over 60 years) the wheel is still used to decide who is doing what trip.

On the first day of each season, the wheel is spun blindly, and wherever it stops, that’s how the trips are assigned. From then on, the wheel moves forward one place each day.

So, Lloyd ran the Swordfish ll with various crew over the next 12 years until 1975, when John returned from a 4 year marine fitter apprenticeship in Holmans dry dock, in Penzance. From then, John became the permanent crew and over the following 5 years learnt the ropes, the business and most importantly the marks to keep his boat and passengers safe from the myriad of reefs, rocks and sand banks (there's are stories to be told about sand banks later on!) that linger dangerously, unseen, just below the surface of the sea!