The Landing Fee!
There are the odd occasions when a boatman may become a little aggravated, for one reason or another. I’m pleased to say it didn’t happen too often. I would usually keep calm under most circumstances, but the time I would really fire up was when some poor unsuspecting soul thought it was acceptable to tell me how better to run my business.
I think I inherited this fine art from Dad — he was a grand master at it.
One such very notable occasion took place at about 2.15 p.m. on one fine, sunny afternoon in the ticket kiosk on the quay.
Dad was sitting on the stool inside, having just sold the last tickets for the day as the boats were pulling out from the steps, when an enlightened soul decided it would be an excellent time to politely suggest that the Association would run much better if we were to write on the blackboards, next to the boat name going to Tresco, that there was a 2/- landing fee.
Dad calmly informed him that the landing fee was nothing to do with the Association, which is why it wasn’t written on our boards.
Not to be put off, the gentleman reinforced his argument: if people knew before they went that they were going to have to pay as soon as they got off the boat, it would be better for all concerned.
Dad, a little stronger in his riposte, stated that it’s got nothing to do with us how much they charge people when they land on a private island. They have notices up all over the place that there is a landing fee — people know before they get there that they’ll have to pay.
Still not put off, the man continued to argue that it was incumbent upon the Association to inform its passengers of any charges they may expect.
Dad, now getting rather red in the face, had a little eruption and explained in no uncertain terms that he did not need to be told how to run this business, and if the gentleman didn’t bugger off up the quay there’d be trouble.
The man quickly walked around the kiosk and disappeared behind it.
Dad was sitting in the kiosk huffing and puffing like a bull. The next second, the man in all his wisdom came back around to the front of the kiosk and started to say, “But if you just put it on—”
Dad came through the kiosk window, arms and hands outstretched for the man’s throat. It was pure luck that the man was a nanosecond faster than Dad, and his reverse motion was speedier than Dad’s flying leap. Dad’s heavily built body was not necessarily given over to flying so well, and he wedged himself on the windowsill of the kiosk.
The man went white, turned, and fled back down the quay towards the Mermaid, never to be seen again.
Dear Ladies!
Another day, in October, when there weren't so many holidaymakers around and the boat trips were being reduced a bit, Dad was once again sitting in the kiosk. A couple of other boatmen were outside and we were chatting. The time was about 10.30 a.m. Two very comfortably upholstered ladies approached the kiosk and asked Dad for two tickets for the 11.15 to Tresco, “please.”
Dad replied, “I’m sorry but the 11.15 has been suspended now for this year. The next boat is at 12.15 when the Scillonian arrives.”
The first lady protested, “But that’s not right, it says there’s a boat leaving at 11.15 up at the airport in Penzance!”
“That’s for the main summer months. Now that we’re heading into winter the boat services are reduced and there is no 11.15,” Dad responded.
“But we’ve come all the way over from the mainland especially to go to Tresco! If we can’t go then we’ve wasted our time and a lot of money!” she opined.
“But you can go — at 12.15. I’m sorry you can’t go earlier, but that’s the problem with the season coming to an end,” Dad answered.
“This really isn’t good enough. You should keep all the boats running for the day trippers,” the lady argued.
Dad, getting a little irked by this time, tried once more. “The trouble is, because there are so few day trippers now, we really can’t put a 72-seater boat on for just two ladies. You can understand that.”
“That’s not the point—” she began, but was cut off mid-flow.
Dad exploded. Patience worn out.
“Look! When I went to Wales last year and wanted to go up to the top of Mount bloody Snowdon on the blasted train, and found they had stopped for the winter, I didn’t start whinging about it and expect them to put the bloody thing on just for me,” he vented. “So don’t come here expecting us to put a boat on especially for you. It ain’t going to happen!”
I think the dear ladies understood at last, as they turned on their heel and enjoyed a mooch around St Mary’s instead.
The Seaweed the Shrimps and the Bucket!
One of the times I nearly exploded was on a lovely, warm, bright, sunny day. I landed my customers on Sampson for an hour while I got lunch ready. The tides were very low, so as soon as the nibbles were organised, I decided I’d have half an hour to catch a few shrimps as an extra treat for lunch.
So into the punt I got, with net and bucket, and happily waded around scooping up about half a pint of shrimps. I put them in the bucket, covered them with a handful of bladderwrack and tucked it under the seat of the punt.
I then loaded up the passengers who had been waiting patiently while I collected the shrimps. I was at the bow of the punt helping people aboard when a lady, noticing the bucket and seaweed, picked it up and asked, “What’s in it?”
I replied, “Just move the seaweed to one side and you’ll see!”
With that, she moved the seaweed, exclaimed, “Oh, poor things!” and promptly poured the whole lot over the side of the punt, back into the sea.
I was horrified. I didn’t know whether to scream or grab her by the scruff of the neck, the seat of her pants, and hurl her after them. I just gasped and gurgled for a few seconds and said nothing. To see my favourite food disappear over the side like that was like a knife through the heart.
I noticed it wasn’t just me who didn’t speak to her for the rest of the trip — the other passengers were avoiding her too. I believe she got the message.
The Shredded Floor Boards
I was standing on the quay by the kiosk one fine morning, while passengers were flocking down past the Mermaid, buying tickets and boarding their chosen boats, when I suddenly had a call on the radio that I was needed on the Swordfish, post haste, as a lady had fallen through the floorboards.
I shot down to the boat and found a fine mess. The floorboards in one area, just by where people were boarding, had been well and truly jiggered. Not only were the boards splintered, but the joists beneath had been split asunder. I was aghast at the amount of damage.
I looked around, and my eyes fell on one lady who — not to say anything “-ist” about it — was not exactly on the small side. Actually, she wasn’t even on the medium or large side.
I quickly ascertained that the dear soul, instead of stepping in the usual safe sequence (from steps to gunwale, to the box on the seat, to the seat, then to the floorboards, with firm help from my crew), had decided it would be a grand idea to jump from the box straight down onto the floorboards… which were not designed to withstand 30-stone-plus falling at speed. She ignored my crew’s outstretched hand altogether.
Her defence was that it was my fault.
My defence was that… er… well… er… just be more careful in the future.
I then had to rope off the entire section of the boat so no one else disappeared into the bilges.
I think she saw the fury in my face and didn’t take it any further, as she was obviously aware she’d been rather stupid.
And I think I saw the embarrassment on her face and decided not to take it further either — I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation by calling her a B.F.C., though believe me, the temptation was great.
The decking was soon mended once we got home.
The Organist!
I remember well one slightly “iffy” day when several of the boatmen were having a difference of opinion about which trips should be put on for the visitors. Was it fit enough for the fine-weather rota, or should we put the wet-weather rota on?
Dad, not getting very far with his five pennyworth, was getting a little aerated and eventually exploded. He bellowed:
“Look, who’s the bloody organist around here?”
All the boatmen dissolved into hysterics.
Problem over.
Fine-weather rota it was!
Where you goin?
Considering there were ten individually owned boats, and we all worked together sharing the trips and spoils equally, it was a miracle there weren’t more arguments or troubles. But apart from the odd niggle, we got on quite well. In the early years there was one independent launch — the Buccaneer — which ran its own trips in opposition to the SMBA. This, if anything, helped galvanise the rest of us into pulling together.
Eventually the Buccaneer joined the Association, and life became much quieter and less antagonistic.
It was great fun to stand on the white line by the ticket kiosk with the other boatmen, welcoming visitors down each morning. We’d ask where they were heading and advise them that they could get their tickets from the kiosk and that their boat was on the second steps, third boat out — or wherever it happened to be that day.
You’d hear questions like:
“Good morning! Where would you like to go today?”
or
“Hello there, where are you headed for?”
But there was one question that often resonated above all the others, delivered in a tone that sounded decidedly gruff:
“Where you goin’?”
To the boatman asking, it was a perfectly friendly enquiry. But to the new visitor, it often sounded a trifle confrontational — and the sudden look of fear on their faces always made us laugh.
It was always a jolly, fun-filled atmosphere as old friends and new friends — ones we were meeting for the first time — arrived on the quay. Lots of laughter, from boatmen and visitors alike.
A few high jinks would sometimes be got up to. One particular boatman, “Matey,” always loved collecting flint rocks from down the steps in the corner below the kiosk, then quietly depositing them in the hoods of anoraks while their unsuspecting owners stood in line to buy tickets.
All in all, back in the 70’s and 80’s there were a greater number of visitors coming to the islands. The boating was great fun with a lot of camaraderie. Huge numbers of visitors flocked down to the quay each morning in droves to catch their chosen boat to wherever with duffle bags slung over their shoulders, stuffed full of waterproofs, packed lunches and a flask of tea or coffee, faces wreathed in smiles and a general hum of happiness.
