Photo by Janet Datchens

The 80's

Part 1

Breakfast time

I was enjoying the boating and all aspects of it. I was taking part in St Mary’s Theatre Club in various plays and pantomimes, DJ-ing at the Sunset Disco on the Quay, a member of St Mary’s Sailing Club, and chief organiser for Saturday night dinners at Tregarthen’s Hotel. I also resurrected Dad’s Sunday night slide shows in the Town Hall,  fitting them all in around the daily boating .

There were many aspects to the boating scene and St Mary’s Boatmen’s Association, of which I suddenly found myself a member. In those days there were 11 boats in the Association and, generally, we all worked together quite well. Of course, there was the occasional difference of opinion, but mostly we got on. Our daily morning meeting would take place at The Office (still Geoff’s shed at the Atlantic Slip), to decide which trips would be ‘on’ that day. After that was decided, we would each fill out half a dozen or so ‘chits’, daily boating sheets, then head off to various guest houses and hotels to tell their guests what the weather was going to be like that day and where the boats were going, and then answer any questions they had. 

I loved this aspect of the job as it was always a source of fun, especially in the places where I could go into the dining room while the guests were eating breakfast. Some places preferred me to just pin the chit to their notice board, but others were happy for me to come in — such as Beachfield House at Shark’s Pit. They were always a very jolly and happy bunch in there and could take a telling-off if I deemed it necessary. 

One Sunday morning I breezed into the dining room. Knowing that some of the guests would be new arrivals from the day before, the rest already knew me. So I stood just inside the door, said “Morning all!” and began to tell them which boats were doing which trips that day and what to expect from the weather. After a few seconds I became aware of one lady buttering her toast with a rather loud scraping sound. I stopped speaking. Everyone suddenly looked up at me, wondering why I’d stopped. I looked at the lady in question — she looked back quizzically. I eventually said, in a stern voice but with a twinkle in my eye, “Is it necessary to make all that noise when buttering toast? I can’t hear myself think, especially when I’m trying to impart some very serious information. Now, you may not be interested, but these other folk are enraptured.” 

She looked horrified, put down her knife and apologised to me and then everyone else. I nodded, smiled sweetly, then continued to tell them of the day’s boating and weather. A minute later, when I’d finished, I looked at the lady again and said, “Right, you can finish your toast now,” and gave her a huge smile. I knew that as soon as I left, the others would put her right — that I was only joking! 

The next morning when I went into the dining room again, I bid them all a good morning and proceeded to tell them about the day’s proceedings. The moment I began to speak there was the deafening sound of 25 pieces of dry toast all being scraped with impunity. Every guest had been sitting awaiting my arrival with toast and knife in hand. Hoist by my own petard! Karma can be a wonderfully fun thing — and that was the kind of fun I loved. 

Another time, in the same establishment, there was a small lad, about six years old sitting at a table just inside the door, eating his breakfast. Each morning, I teased the boy that “One of these mornings I’m going to have one of your sausages!” He would giggle and  say, “Oh no you’re not!”

On the morning in question I said, “Right, I’m having that sausage,” and moved my hand down towards his plate, fingers like pincers. When I was about three inches from it, he brought his fork down with such force that he bent the tines on the table. I was so pleased he actually missed my hand, as it would have gone right through it if he hadn’t. I learned a good lesson that morning: Don’t mess with kids at the breakfast table! 

Another Sunday morning, I went into the dining room and saw there were several new guests at the tables. So, in my usual helpful way, I explained in a bit more detail how things worked — such as where to buy tickets, and to make sure 100%, before disembarking their boat of choice, that they knew exactly where they were going to be picked up from. I told them to listen carefully to the boat crew and to any announcements before they got off. Another one of my pieces of wisdom that I would impart to ‘newbies’ was to beware the strength of the sun. I’d say: Spend no more than 10 minutes on the first day stripped off on the beach, 30 minutes on the second day, and after that they’d be fine to sunbathe and get a lovely golden tan. 

I had just finished telling them this when a gentleman with his back to me, sporting a very suspicious wig, slowly turned around to face me. I immediately saw, and assumed, that he was probably of Indian descent. He then advised me that he didn’t need any advice about suntan, sunburn or anything else to do with the sun — as where he came from, the sun was very hot and he would be fine. I chanced my arm and asked him  even so to promise me that he’d be careful, as the sun rays over here are different. They lull you into a false sense of security so you think all is well, then, just as you nod off and  you least expect it they come out in force and frazzle you. Even more pointedly he reiterated that he didn’t need any advice, so I left it at that — but did say, “If anyone else has any issues with the sun today and burns themselves, use neat vinegar liberally to stop it from burning or peeling.” If looks could kill, it would have taken gallons of vinegar to put me out and save me! 

The next day, as I entered the dining room, the Indian gentleman was sitting with his back to me. He piped up and said, “I owe you a profound apology,” then turned to face me… His face was burnt to blazes, with blisters and red sores. I gasped and nearly said “I told you so,” but thought better of it. I did feel sorry for him, especially as no one else had got burned. That was a lesson for him! He was confined to barracks for the next two days, getting over his ordeal. 

Crew

Each day, after I’d delivered all the good news to the guests while they ate their breakfasts, I would go to the dairy on the Strand where several of the boatmen gathered upstairs for a coffee before heading off down to the quay for a days boating. It was a great place to go, as we had full view of the harbour from there and were able to watch what was going on with our crews who would be out on the boats — cleaning, checking the oil and water, starting the engines,  seagull droppings cleaned off, making sure the seats were dried, and the boat fit for a day’s work. Any lateness in getting out to the boats, shortcuts, or other problems would be spotted immediately. The last thing that had to be done was to put the flag up on the stern as that signaled to me that the boat was ready and leaving the moorings to come to the steps to board passengers. If the flag didn’t go up, I knew something was wrong and would get down the quay quickly to see what was happening. 

In 1980, having just recently pulled the boat up for the winter, I knew I was going to need a crew for the following year. One night, a few of us were in the Bishop & Wolf pub, checking that the beer they were selling was fit for human consumption. All the visitors had departed, leaving us to our own devices. We were chatting away to a new couple who had just arrived in the islands to spend the winter — Tim and Jayne. Within 30 minutes it became quite clear to me that Tim would make an excellent crew member due to his personality and fun nature, so I asked him what he was doing the following year. He said he might be up for a crew’s job but would need to find work in the meantime. 

Jim Heslin was standing behind him. I tapped Jim on the shoulder, asked him if he knew of any work available anywhere. I introduced him to Tim and Jayne and within a couple of minutes, Tim had managed to secure some painting work at the Rendezvous Café — and from there, the rest is history. Tim worked on the boat with me in the summer months for several years, learning the ropes, the marks, the tides and everything to do with boating in the islands. Eventually he bought his own boat and had a very successful career himself on The Calypso, 

Tim and I worked well together, always having fun with the passengers. No matter what I said to him while he was punching or collecting tickets, he always managed a riposte that had folk laughing. The best times were when the sea was rough. Often, when we were well out of the harbour, Tim would be punching tickets while the boat bounced all over the place with spray flying. I would wait until he had reached the stern, then I'd cut the engines, turn around and shout over the heads of the drenched passengers, “Tim, why are we out in this very dangerous weather? Mummy said it was far too rough to be out today! What are we going to do?” Tim would respond with various come-backs that always raised a laugh. Great times! 

As the years rolled on, I had various lads crew for me, and even one lady — the inimitable Rita. Although Rita wasn’t the first woman to earn a Crew’s Ticket, she was the first to work on the boats for a full season. That year, 1988, was certainly one to remember. Again, we had so much fun with the customers as the year rolled on. Rita was an excellent crew, took instruction and orders very well — even down to one beautiful day while we were cruising gently around the Western Rocks. Having just come back from Bishop Rock Lighthouse, we espied a Greater Black-backed Gull wedged between some rocks high up on Gorregan. We pulled in closer to see what condition it was in. Yes, still alive! It began to struggle, so I went right into the rocks and told Rita to jump ashore and rescue it. 

It didn’t occur to me that she might not be too happy about the prospect of grabbing hold of such a huge bird with such a huge beak, let alone the problem of leaping ashore onto wet, slippery rocks and climbing up and over boulders to get to it. But off she went, without a second thought or complaint, and managed to rescue the bird — much to the relief of all on board. What a gal! 

When going into the steps to unload passengers I would usually shout back to Rita, who was standing on the side of the boat with rope in hand awaiting the right moment to jump ashore, “Use the second ring up!” or “Don’t use that one!” or “Pull it in tighter!” Then, when she was helping customers off, some would pass comment on her skills such as, “How nice to see a lady doing this!” But more often it was things like, “I wouldn’t let my husband speak to me like that!” or “How do you put up with him shouting at you like that?” It always made us snigger... We loved it all. 

It was while Rita was working for me that a new family moved into the islands and the ‘mum’ came to me and asked if there was any possibility that her son could come out with us on weekends or after school as she would rather he was doing something useful rather than hanging around the streets. Of course, I said Yes, that would be fine, so the next day young Mark Joined us. He was about 10 years old and soon showed plenty of initiative and gumption and was very handy for jumping on and off the boat  with the painter and helping Rita. The one thing his mum hadn’t told us was that he was very inquisitive and wanted to know absolutely everything about everything and the questions were incessant, continuous and never-ending. He learned all about the boats and boating in double quick time. Subsequently he fell in love with the ‘boating lark’ and now has his own boat and has turned in to a great boatman with the Golden Spray. 

A Beautiful, Sun-drenched, Windless Day… 

I was on the Bryher and Samson trip. This story begins on the afternoon 2 p.m. trip. It was low spring tide, so I had to go around the back of Samson to land people at Rushy Bay on Bryher. But first I had to call into Samson to pick up eight people from the earlier trip and take them onward to Bryher. 

We left St Mary’s with just two passengers, a man and wife, sitting right in the stern of the boat. Dave, my crew, went to punch their tickets just after we left St Mary’s and they informed him they were going to Bryher and Samson. He told them they could only do one or the other, not both. They had to go on the 10:15 trip to do both. 

The lady was far from pleased and pointed out that the blackboard where they’d bought their tickets said “Bryher and Samson.” It was explained to them again, all to no avail. They were adamant they were going to both islands, voices starting to rise, so I went back to them. I sat down and calmly explained the situation: 

“You have three options. First, get off at Samson for the afternoon. Second, land on Bryher at Rushy Bay, scramble up the rocks, wander up through the island and enjoy the scenery — though you won’t have time for tea. Or third, Have your money back, stay on the boat after we’ve landed the Samson folk on Bryher and come with us for a trip around Bryher, through the Norrard Rocks, past Shipman Head, down Tresco Channel past the castles and Hangman’s Island to New Grimsby, where we’ll have time for me to buy you a cup of tea before going back to Bryher to pick everyone up.” 

Well, after a lot of sighing and disgruntlement, the lady said, “Well, we aren’t going to be clambering over any rocks, so I suppose we’ll just have to stay on the boat! What a waste of a nice afternoon!” 

I returned to the wheel, very annoyed and wishing Dave, instead of punching her tickets, had punched her nose! So, at that point I decided I wasn’t going to buy them teas. And since the tide was still falling for the best part of another hour, instead of going around Bryher I took the boat into Tresco Channel and ran it hard onto a sandbank, marooning us for an hour and a half. I’d given them their money back for the tickets so didn’t feel obliged to buy their tea. 

So there we sat, in the middle of the channel, in six inches of water. The sun streaming down, hot as hell, gulls, terns, curlews, oystercatchers and other birds drifting on the wing making so much noise that it would drive them nuts. Me and Dave up in the front of the boat, and the two curmudgeons in the stern. 

We eventually floated off, went straight to Bryher to pick up the passengers, then headed for home. At St Mary’s we unloaded everyone and as the two miseries went up the steps the lady shouted down very sweetly, “Thank you, that was the best afternoon we’ve ever had in Scilly!” 

I didn’t know whether to smile or throw the boat hook at her! “That’s how the cookie crumbles, I guess!” was all I managed. 

Knots and Not-knots 

One year I had a young lad crewing for me who found it extremely difficult to learn the knots that were a necessity to know, but I persevered for a good while with him. The hardest knot for him to get his head around was the anchor bend — an extremely important knot for tying your anchor on, one that won’t slip but can be undone easily when needed. I pointed out several times that our lives could very well depend on that knot one day. 

I must have taught him the anchor bend at least a dozen times over several weeks. The anchor resided under the seats in the stern where it could be got at quickly and safely. Probably the most important rule on the Swordfish was that the anchor cable should always be bent on to the anchor, except when we were using the cable for something else. 

We had used the anchor cable one day for towing a yacht off some rocks and afterwards the crew put the anchor back where it belonged. I asked him if he’d bent it on. “Yes!” he replied. Fair enough. Later that day, when we put the Swordfish on the moorings, he got into the punt to start the outboard. I jumped over the side into the punt and pushed us off — but as I did, something caught my eye..... “Go back to the boat,” I told him. He turned us around and I jumped back aboard the Swordfish to check the anchor. Immediately I saw he’d tied it on with half a granny knot! 

I’m afraid that was his last trip on the Swordfish! 

The next day, I had a temporary crew with me — and strangely, we needed to use the anchor rope again to assist another yacht. After all was done and the yacht was safe, the Swordfish was eventually put back on the moorings. 

A few days later I was doing the Eastern Isles trip and had to land a couple of people on Little Arthur and a few more on Great Ganilly. I let my crew take the first two into Arthur in the punt while I moseyed on over to Ganilly and anchored up to wait for him. 

It was a beautiful day, so when I got there, I stopped the engines, went aft, grabbed the anchor and threw it over the side with both hands cupped so the anchor rope would run freely through them as the anchor disappeared beneath the waves. Well, the passengers who were watching must have thought I was a total idiot. I certainly felt like one — because the anchor rope was still beautifully coiled up beneath the seat. 

It hadn’t been bent back onto the anchor after the last usage, and I hadn’t checked. So all the passengers saw was me throwing the anchor over the side — never to be seen again! Which is exactly why the anchor should always be bent on. We live and learn! 

Thanks for popping in and don't forget, if you have any memories yourself you'd like to post for us all to enjoy,  just drop them below.