Disembarcation! 

The thing I enjoyed most about boating around the islands was the fun we had on almost every trip. I always tried to go somewhere different — closer to new rocks, or through a gap I hadn’t been through before — and usually managed to find something a bit different.  

Although I had learnt a lot from Dad during the seventies, before he sailed into the blue yonder above, I learnt a lot more afterwards, especially in places like the Norrard rocks, behind Bryher, and many other places that I found I could squeeze the Swordfish through, around or over. I spent many hours in the punt, sizing up these places at different states of tide, so I could add more to my trips. 

I loved landing people on rocks or islands they’d never otherwise get the chance to set foot on. Places like Annet, Rosevear, Illiswilgig, Mincarlo, Ganinnicks, the Foremans, Peashopper… to name just a few. 

There were different ways of landing too. There was stepping over the side on to the steps, I’d make some walk the plank, some would hop in the dinghy, and others would have to jump over the side and hope they hit a rock. In those instances, I always found it best to just get in close and shout, “Abandon ship!” 

My passengers were always quite good at doing as they were told. If I said jump, they didn’t stand there and ask “How high?” — they just leapt, trusting that I knew what I was doing. 

“Oh, the fools!” 

I never knew what I was doing. 

But somehow, everything always worked out in the end. Not too many ended up slipping beneath the waves, although plenty went up to their knees — and one or two up to their waist. Most of the ones who went right under were actually thrown over the side, usually folk who were getting cheeky. 

There was one young filly who’d been coming to the islands with her family for years. She always had a child’s ticket. Then one day, while we were loading up beside the steps, she was standing on the engine box, loudly telling anyone who’d listen that she’d been coming to the islands for the last fifteen years — ever since she was four. You know the type. 

I turned, looked at her, swept her off her feet, and held her in my arms over the side of the boat. Then I asked why I shouldn’t throw her in. 

She made the cardinal mistake of screaming, “Let me go! Let me go!!!” 

So, I did. 

When she eventually re-surfaced, I grabbed her hands and hauled her back aboard. She was not a happy bunny and demanded to know why I’d let her go. 

Most of the people on the boat, who’d been sitting there watching the spectacle, simply said, “Well… you did tell him to.” 

One up to me! 

Another day, I’d just picked up a load of passengers from Bryher and was heading to Samson to collect a couple from there. One chap, Nick, was standing beside me. He was starting to get a bit twitchy and asked if we could go faster because he had to be back by five o’clock. 

I told him we were going to Samson first and wouldn’t get back till about half past five — and since it was low tide, we were already bouncing along the bottom, so faster wasn’t an option. 

Well, he started to grumble and grunt about how he needed to be back for his swimming lesson at five and didn’t want to miss it. He even grabbed the throttle levers at one point to speed things up — and got told off for it. 

When we arrived at Samson, we put the plank over the side to pick up the souls on the beach. I checked my watch. Five p.m. exactly. 

I turned to Nick and asked, “Did you say you had to be in the sea at five o’clock?” 

“Yes I have, so hurry up!” he snapped. 

And with that, I grabbed him by the collar and the seat of his pants and hiked him straight over the side of the boat. 

He had a fag in his mouth when he went over — and it was still in his beak when he came up again, though it had gone out. 

I didn’t hear another peep from him for the rest of the trip home. 

Result! 

Feed the birds!

One of my earliest memories of boating in Scilly was the seagulls. Sadly, it’s not something anyone experiences anymore.

It was customary in the 60s and early 70s for guest house proprietors to supply their guests with a packed lunch and a flask of tea or coffee to take with them for the day. The guests would head for the quay, catch the boat of their choice, and have a wonderful day wherever they fancied — no need to structure their outing around the nearest eating establishment. With their lunch in a duffle bag slung over their shoulder, they could stop anywhere, sit on a rock, beach, or bank, enjoy the views, and breathe in the healthy sea air.

Of course, they wouldn’t eat it all in one go, often saving a bite or two for later — or for another, very popular reason.

The herring gulls back then were incredible timekeepers. They knew that any boats heading back to St. Mary’s at 4:45 would be carrying people with leftovers in their bags. And they also knew that, with evening dinner time approaching, the passengers wouldn’t want to finish off their packed lunches and risk spoiling their appetite. So, if the gulls took off and followed the boats around that time, the food would soon be flung skywards — and they’d swoop in and catch it.

It was a common sight to see pleasure boats steaming along with scores of gulls chasing after them. Even while chasing a boat, the birds would always fly facing into the wind, which often meant they were flying sideways if the boat was steaming across it.

My favourite trick — while people were holding bread up for the gulls to swoop down and take from their fingers as I was collecting tickets — was to gently take a bird out of the air as it came in close. I’d stand downwind of the bread, as the gull would always approach into the wind. That gave me the perfect moment to gently scoop it up, fold its wings against its body, and let the passengers meet these beautiful birds up close and personal for a few seconds before releasing it again.

The tradition of feeding these wonderful birds faded away along with the disappearance of the packed lunches. Today, there are so few gulls to be seen in Scilly, which is a real shame. One thing I miss is the mewing of the gulls when I go over to the islands these days.

I suspect their decline has something to do with the loss of one of their old food sources on St. Mary’s — the rubbish dump — where there were always hundreds of gulls scavenging. Of course, the reduction of food in the sea hasn’t helped either.

As a youngster, I also remember the huge shoals of sand eels that used to fill the shallows — millions upon millions of them, all gone now. As we steamed over the sandbanks, the eels would flee from the boat, wriggling frantically to avoid being squished.

‘Angel’s Droppings’ LUCKY OR NOT? 

Back in the 80s and 90s, it was customary for me to go to Tregarthens hotel on their first day of opening each year and book a table for four people for every Saturday night throughout the season — it was by far the best place to dine out while Ronnie was the chef. 

As the season progressed, friends and relations would ring me up asking to be added to our table. Invariably, we’d end up with anything up to 24 of us each Saturday night. 

I remember one particular Saturday in August. I’d rung Tregarthens several times over the previous week to add numbers, and on the last couple of calls, I was told, “That’s it! No more! We’re full for that Saturday!” 

So, you can imagine my horror, just as I was standing at the top of the steps about to board the Swordfish, to go out on my 2p.m. trip, a couple of very good friends appeared beside me!  

 I went cold. I’d forgotten to book them in for that night. 

They’d just arrived on the islands an hour or so beforehand. After the customary hugs and kisses, and as I was still wrapped around Joan, Paul declared how much they’d been looking forward to seeing us at Tregarthens, tonight — ever since they’d rung me three weeks ago to book it. I felt faint. How the hell was I going to get out of this one? How could I tell them the table was full and I couldn’t add anyone else… and just as I was about to descend the steps to go out on the boat, too. There was nothing I could do to rectify the situation!  

I was wishing that I had a mobile phone, so I could ring Tregarthens but they hadn’t been invented at that point.  

I untangled myself from Joan, muttered, “I have to go!” and turned to descend the steps. 

With that, a seagull flying overhead deposited  the answer, a generous dollop of ‘doings’ straight down my shoulder and sleeve. 

It gave me the perfect excuse to shoot up into the Sunset Restaurant behind me, get on their phone, and beg, plead, and basically devote my entire soul to her if she’d add just two more to the table. 

After a considerable dressing down from the receptionist and much pleading on my part, she agreed to do it — this last time! Ending up with 28 on our table. 

So, Paul and Joan never knew I’d forgotten them. Phew! 

Proof, if ever it was needed, that being “deposited on” by a passing avian friend can be very lucky indeed! 

The Christening! 

On another warm, sun-drenched day, we had just set off from St Mary’s with a full complement of passengers, heading for the ethereal and elegant Eastern Isles — full of enchanting euphoria. Oh, and seals! 

We hadn’t ventured far — in fact, I hadn’t even uttered a word into my microphone — before there was a loud, guttural “Argh!” followed by sounds of disgust and horror from beside me. 

I turned to see where the commotion was coming from, and it was immediately clear: a man, cradling an almost-new baby in his arms, was liberally coated in streaks of white guano freshly released from the bomb bay of a passing shite hawk. 

Glancing down, I saw the babe was equally pebble-dashed and plastered with poo. 

“Coo! That’s lucky!” I said warmly, smiling with jovial jocularity. 

“LUCKY?” he screamed at me — twice, just in case I hadn’t heard the first time. “What’s bloody lucky about it?” he demanded. 

I quickly replied, with my usual charm and wit, “Well… it could have hit me.” 

All I heard then was gurgling fury rising from his throat. I swiftly turned back to the wheel, picked up the radio mic and pretended to be very, very busy before fisticuffs ensued. 

Sneezes! 

After years of sailing the seas of Scilly, like all the boatmen, I became very adept at spotting things that shouldn’t be there — things floating in the distance or odd birds perched on a rock. 

Occasionally, I’d spot a piece of footwear bobbing along on the beautiful briny sea. I’d alter course so the spotted item would sail past on the port side about ten feet away. 

As we approached it — before anyone else had seen it — I’d begin with a few simple words into the microphone: “Ooooh… Oh! What’s that? Good Lord! That’s strange…” 

This, of course, got everyone looking in the right direction. If I’d timed it just right, I’d then point as we sailed past and ask, “What is it?” 

And there would be a chorus of “A shoe!” from many of the passengers, if not all of them. 

To which I’d answer, “Bless you!” — that was followed by a cacophony of laughter. Music to my ears.

Mind you, A flip flop didn't work so well!

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