The eighties and nineties were a very busy period in my life. Not only was I running the Swordfish II, but I also ended up running Illiswilgig B&B, served as a councillor on the Island Council for ten years, took on the responsibility of servicing the Chubb fire extinguishers around the islands, each spring, was DJ at The Sunset for a couple of years, joined St. Mary’s Theatre Club, ran the Sunday night slide shows in the Town Hall (raising over £30,000 for various charities), ran the youth club for several years, put up the Christmas lights each year, and generally did all the other odd things that needed doing from time to time. 

I always enjoyed being busy — organising my time between work, events, and duties — so when I did have a bit of time to myself, I’d find something else to do. 

That was the time for a barbeque, or perhaps a trip to the off-islands for a swift half or two. But even better was when the Autumn Moon was in — a diving boat from Mylor, carrying a dozen or so divers. If I could combine the two, that was always the best decision! I’d gather my best friend, Maggie, and maybe one or two others, jump in the speedboat, and join them for a barbeque and a few swift halves and a good old sing song, wherever they were anchored for the night. 

Great Ganilly 

One of the most memorable evenings was on Great Ganilly. Maggie P. and I had just been to a rehearsal for the summer play at the school and were champing at the bit to get away — it was a perfectly calm night, and we were keen to join Ken and Sandy, who were running the Autumn Moon. They’d already landed on Ganilly by the time we got there and had the barbeque lit. Darkness was falling, the evening was warm, peaceful, moonlit, and altogether wonderful. 

Ken and Sandy always managed to get fresh fish for their barbeques, and as we approached the island in the dimming light, we could smell the cooking fish. When we arrived, there were a dozen bodies spread across the sand, bottles in hand, murmuring and laughing. 

A makeshift table was spread with a fantastic array of salads and other accompaniments — fish, steak, burgers, sausages, and so on. We quickly joined them, and in no time, we were all well fed and watered, enjoying the most magical evening. With tons of laughter and the customary sing-song. We eventually left well after midnight.

I don’t remember what time we got home in the morning — or even where I’d left the boat — but I was very pleased to see it swinging happily on its mooring when I got down to the Strand. 

The Thumb! 

Another night I’ll never forget came later in the season. I’d arranged to take a few friends to St. Agnes to join Ken and Sandy for another barbeque. We were to leave the quay at 5:30 p.m. 

That afternoon, I’d been in Brian Holt’s workshop, working on his circular saw — and managed to circular saw my thumb. I drove up to the hospital, as it was clearly a bit worse than a “quick plaster over the end” job. After they’d sewn it all back together, I rushed down to the quay, as it was just about time to leave. 

When I arrived, the news had already filtered through to my gang, and there was some debate as to whether we should go or not, owing to my thumb. I pulled rank as skipper, and off we went! 

At St. Agnes, I dropped the gang at the quay and went to anchor the boat. Seeing the Autumn Moon anchored off, I decided to tie up alongside her instead — the Swordfish would be fine there. 

I pulled alongside, jumped aboard with the bow painter, and tied it up. Then I made my way back along the deck to get the stern rope. The only problem was — it was very dark by now, so I was doing it all from memory. 

The Autumn Moon, lying head into the south-west breeze, was rolling gently with the swell. As I made my way down her side, I was bouncing between the superstructure and the gunwale, back and forth like a pinball. When I thought I was near the stern of the Swordfish, she rolled again — I leaned into the gunwale, but alas, there was no gunwale. There was a doorway that had been left open for the returning crew to get aboard later that night 

I went straight through it — headfirst! 

As I sailed through the air, my first thought was, I’m going for a swim. My second, the merest of a split second later, was about my heavily bandaged hand getting wet. Then I hit the seat and floorboards of the Swordfish. Thank God I landed inside — and thank God I didn’t land on my thumb. 

I dusted myself down, tied up properly, and headed to the quay in the punt. Had a damn good evening in the Turk’s Head and on the beach barbeque below it — and soon forgot all about the throbbing thumb.

The Test! 

There was one lady who loved coming out on the Swordfish called Brenda, from Burnley, who liked to spend several weeks each year in Scilly. She came out as often as she could and quickly proved very useful — untying ropes, jumping ashore with the painter, washing up the dinner things, and generally helping me get underway that bit quicker. 

Since she was coming out most days — and it was costing her a fortune — I had a bright idea. If she got herself a crew’s ticket, she could come every day she wanted, and I’d have proper help. That way, she’d be crew, and I could still carry twelve paying passengers. Perfect! 

Brenda thought it was a good idea too, so I set about teaching her everything she needed to know — knots (about eight useful ones), the answers to questions that John Nicholls, the examiner would ask her during the test, and, more importantly, how to row the punt efficiently. 

We spent many hours rowing around while she practiced coming alongside the boat or the quay steps without bumping headfirst into them. That took a while, as Brenda was not in the first flush of youthfulness and was rather a petite lady — and my large punt had very long oars. But she persevered, and eventually, I deemed her ready for the test, and we duly applied for it. 

A few days later, as we were putting the Swordfish on her mooring, I spotted John Nicholls, (The boating ticket test man) sitting in his boat, the Flying Cloud, next to us. I called over to ask if he’d had notification that Brenda was to take her crew’s ticket. He had — and suggested that if we had time, he’d do the test right then and there. 

So, without further ado, I popped Brenda in the punt and pushed her off, telling her to row over and go alongside the Flying Cloud without taking all his paint off in the process. I settled into a deck chair to watch. 

She did beautifully — smooth, gentle, hardly a bump. “Well done!” said John. Then he took one of her oars, used it like a javelin, and threw it ten yards away, saying, “Right — go and fetch the oar!” 

At that point, I had a sudden panic attack. The one thing I’d forgotten to teach her was how to make a punt move with just one oar, to retrieve the jettisoned oar. 

To her credit, it only took her about ten minutes to get it back — which was a relief, as I didn’t think she’d manage it at all. When she got back to John, he quizzed her on knots, asked a few questions, and eventually passed her — with one condition: her ticket would only allow her to crew on the Swordfish ll. 

After that, we had several years of happy boating. Always full of fun and laughs, she was a delight to have aboard. Even when she wasn’t on board, she made me laugh — I’d often spot her walking around one of the off-islands with her friends as we sailed by, waving like mad, bent double with laughter. 

A Jolly Dunking 

One unforgettable day, a gale-force wind was roaring in from the NNW, straight into the harbour. All trips had been cancelled. It was rough even in the harbour — boats pitching up and down on their moorings — so I decided that I ought to go out to check the Swordfish’s mooring ropes. Brenda and another friend, Mike, were very excited and wanted to come too. I warned them it would be a bit damp. They were fine with that. 

We set off from Town Beach — spray flying, bouncing up and down like a wet yo-yo. 

Brenda was in the bow of the punt where I had a long painter for tying up at the quay, and a short one with a large eye for dropping over the Swordfish’s cleats — to save having to tie knots each time. 

When we reached the boat, I asked Brenda to drop the eye of the short painter over the bow cleat when we rose high enough on the next wave. She managed to just about stand in the heaving punt, Bless her heart — as we rose, she reached across, grabbed the cleat with one hand, but as she did so another wave came and lifted the bow of the swordfish up high while the wave that we were on disappeared beneath us and we dropped like a stone, and went backwards with the swell — leaving Brenda hanging off the bow of the Swordfish by one hand! 

A split second later, another wave came, she let go and disappeared under the water. 

She resurfaced a moment later — and being such a petite soul, it only took one quick heave to get her back aboard. We turned and headed for shore, laughing like drains. I thought Mike was going to have a seizure. 

As they say, all’s well that ends well — and all was well in the end! 

Mr Bliss And The Great Fuel Tank Dunking 

On this particular evening, Maggie, myself, and a friend called John Bliss — who worked at Tregarthen’s Hotel — had decided to pop down to St. Agnes for a swift half, in the speedboat. 

The tide was quite high, and I had a full five-gallon fuel tank in the car that I wanted to put aboard before we left. We were alongside the quay, so I said to John that I’d hand it down to him over the side — but warned him it was very heavy. 

I knelt down and leaned over with the tank, while John reached up as high as he could from within the boat to grab it. I told him several times to brace himself, that I was going to let it go. He assured me — several times — that he was ready to hold it. 

So, I let it go. 

The tank very quickly gathered immense speed as it descended — which, as it turned out, was rather more than John could manage. It shot down between the boat and the quay, taking John with it, until all that remained in the boat was his left hand clinging to the gunwale and Maggie hanging on for dear life as the boat nearly capsized! 

It took me a good five minutes to recompose myself enough to get underway and head off to St. Agnes. Laughing all the way. 

I don’t know where John is today — but I’m sure he remembers that dunking. and I hope he still has a chuckle when he does. I know I still do!

The Flocking Dive! 

Another dunking story came one fine day when we were tied up alongside the new steps, loading passengers for the 2 p.m. trip to St. Martins. People were ambling down the quay — it was a lovely day, so no one was in a hurry. 

I was sitting on the side, idly waiting for the next person to come down, when suddenly two more came flocking down the steps, seemingly in a great rush to get aboard. The wife was leading, and usually, when someone reaches the rope running from the boat to the ring on the steps, they slow down, turn right, and gently step aboard. 

No, not this fine filly! 

She just kept going, full tilt — and when she reached the rope, her legs stopped but her body didn’t. Over she went, and dived upside down into the water, legs flailing above her. 

I’m pleased to say she had put her knickers on that morning. 

Splash! 

It was a beautiful day. I was on the Samson run and had run the Swordfish up onto the beach. I was using the punt rather than the plank, to land half a dozen passengers. 

They were all sitting down inside the punt apart for one young man who had decided to perch higher, on the transom at the back, because he had a rucksack on his back that would’ve got in the way if he’d sat on the seat. 

I was in the bow of the punt and pulled her in towards the beach. As we reached shallow water, I hopped over the side and, to get the punt as far up the beach as I could — to save the passengers from getting wet — I gave it an almighty tug. 

Normally, this would’ve been no problem at all. But because this young man was sitting on the transom, he found that rather than going with the punt, he stayed where he was — and the punt moved out from under him. 

He ended up flat on his back on the seabed, head and body underwater, legs straight up in the air! 

He was instantly rechristened and became known as “Splash” to all his friends and family. 

And here we are, some thirty-five years later — and he’s still referred to as Splash! 

Don't forget to pop back next week for some more!