Photo. Carol Hicks-Dawson

An Evening on Tresco! 

 One beautiful  evening in mid-September, back in the day, I had taken some of the St Mary’s Theatre Club to Tresco for the evening. We were in the middle of spring tides, so I informed them as they disembarked that we would be leaving the quay at 9:30 p.m. sharp, to get back down the channel before the tide went out too far. 

Anyone not on the boat at 9:30 would be left behind. 

So, at 9:00 p.m. in the New Inn, I reminded them that they had 30 minutes to finish their drinks and be aboard the Swordfish. I then left and got the boat ready for them alongside the steps but, as I should have predicted, they were not all aboard by 9:30. After some strong words and nagging on my part, we ended up leaving at 9:40.  Already dark, so the sand banks would be difficult to pick our way through with too little water!

That ten minutes was crucial… as they were about to find out. 

I left the quay, spun the boat around, and set the course for home. It was obvious that the tide was already lower than I’d have liked, as we were bumping along the bottom as we went, slowing us down. Eventually, halfway down Tresco Channel, we happened to find a sandbar that was unforgiving. We stopped! There was too little water over it for us to progress any further, so there we sat. 

We discussed their options, of which there were precious few: go ashore and back to the pub, or sit on the boat in the cold and wait. As it was going to be about 2:30 a.m. before we floated off again, it was decided that they would once again disembark — over the side of the boat, paddle ashore, scramble up the rocks, and make their way back to the New Inn. 

So I helped them slide over the side of the boat onto the wet sand — the ladies in their evening finery and high heels (which I presume they took off) — and off they went, out into the darkness towards Tresco. 

It was at this point, as I saw the soft glow of little torches disappear into the gloom of the night, that I just hoped they’d all get back by 1:00 a.m., before the boat floated off just after 2:00 a.m. 

I hunkered down in the forepeak for forty winks, but it was too cold for that. Time passed slowly, and about three hours later I heard voices and people clambering back aboard. I was very pleased to see that they’d all got back safely and were in good spirits. I think this had more to do with the spirits inside them than the exciting adventure they’d just been through. 

The folk at the New Inn had looked after the shipwrecked crew very well indeed, allowing them to sit in the pub, well after closing time and they were well watered by the time they got back to the boat. We eventually returned to St Mary’s at about 2:30 a.m. 

I think they all enjoyed their forced adventure. I know I did. 

Pick Up Times 

I find it is always best to listen to what you are told by the boatman at the time of your trip, as time and tides can alter things a little, and the rules and regulations that govern the boating scene in Scilly are there for a reason. 

I remember one such time when we were on the Tresco run with the Southern Queen. We landed 387 people at Carn Near in the morning and told the passengers that the last pick-up would be from New Grimsby at 4:45 p.m. 

At about 6:00 p.m. I was at home having my tea when the phone rang. There was a rather irate person on the other end, wanting to know why no one had come to New Grimsby to pick him and his wife up. 

I asked where he was and what he had been told on leaving the boat when he arrived at Tresco. In no uncertain terms, he assured me that he had been told 4:45 at Carn Near, that he had walked all the way down to Carn Near, waited for an hour, and then had to walk all the way back to New Grimsby to the New Inn to use their phone. (No mobile phones in those days.) 

I asked him if he had upset the crew or skipper of the boat when they were going up in the morning. He assured me he hadn’t. So I asked him why 385 people had been told New Grimsby pick-ups, and two people had been told Carn Near — to which he had no answer. I think the penny was dropping, albeit slowly. 

“Well, you’ll have to come and pick us up!” he stated bluntly. 

“Yes, I can do that, but you’ll have to go back down to Carn Near — and it will cost you £20!” 

I heard a bit of spluttering from the other end of the line, then a few expletives. 

“You’ve got to be kidding! We’ve got a return ticket, so you can’t charge us to bring us back. I know my rights!” he yelled down the phone. 

I calmly explained that the tickets are for Association trips only, and that he would have been told the times and places to be picked up from. Unfortunately, if he either didn’t listen or forgot, then that is a shame — but if he wanted me to pick him up, it would cost £20, as it was a special trip but he could keep his ticket to use for a return another day if he just bought a single first!

He proceeded to tell me that it was an utter rip-off: £20 for a one-way trip when a return ticket only cost £2.40. 

I explained that my time for one hour would amount to approximately £8, and the hire of a 72-seat launch for an hour would be approximately £35 — therefore £20 was actually a good deal. So, take it or leave it. 

He took it! 

Left Behind? 

Many times, over the years, I had someone ring up complaining that I had left them behind on one island or another. 

The first time it happened, I couldn’t remember whether I had left a minute or two early, thinking I had everyone on board, or not. So, I went to St Agnes, picked them up, and didn’t charge them. 

Ever after that day, I never left an island early on the last trip. So, every time afterwards, when I had the dreaded phone call, I was able to claim that they hadn’t been left behind — they were late and had missed the boat! There would usually be an argument about the relevant facts of the case, but when I suggested that a night on the island would cost a lot more than a special boat trip, they soon backed down. 

On occasion, I would get the phone call much later in the evening, and the people wanting me to pick them up had decided to have a meal and enjoy the evening on the island before ringing for me to rescue them. They would find a special would cost a little more when it was later! 

Whoops! 

There is one story that went down in the annals of history faster than a lead balloon. It was when Dad was running the Swordfish in the 1960s. He had been doing the Eastern Isles for the seals and birds, landing on St Martin’s. He had, out of the kindness of his heart, landed five people on Great Ganilly for the day. He told them he would pick them up at 2:45. 

That evening, he had just had his tea and was settled down for an evening of TV delights when it suddenly occurred to him that he’d forgotten to pick them up. By the time he got back to Great Ganilly, there were half a dozen very irate people sat on the bank, with a large SOS on the beach made of driftwood. 

They were all staying at Tremellyn Guest House and the trip home was very quiet. They eventually got back around 8:30 p.m. 

Mr and Mrs Ridsdale were far from amused, as the meals they had prepared for a six o’clock dinner had gone to waste. 

Whoops! 

Sunshine Mountain 

Another night, I was asked to take a group of twelve to St Agnes for a meal at the Turk’s Head. It was certainly a good evening. 

After the meal, Fred Smith got playing the piano, the wine flowed, the beer bubbled, and the rum and shrub ran freely. Voices were raised and sea shanties were sung with gusto—especially when it came to the old Turk’s Head favourite, Sunshine Mountain. It was sung with hand movements, and everyone in the pub ended up off the floor—on chairs, tables, window seats, or whatever else would elevate them. John Dart even managed to stand on the bar, bent double. 

Climb, climb up Sunshine Mountain 
Where pretty little breezes blow 
Climb, climb up Sunshine Mountain, faces all aglow! 
Turn, turn your back on sorrow 
Face up to the sky 
Climb, climb up Sunshine Mountain, 
You and I, You and I, You and I… 

There were hand signals and movements to accompany each line. 

At the end of the verse each time, those already off the floor would point to anyone still on the floor, singing the last three words repeatedly, ever louder, until they gave in and climbed up on something to get off the floor. The song eventually ended when no one was touching the floor! 

Always a good one to get everyone in the pub in a great mood. 

Unfortunately, the evening did turn a little sour at the end, as some people who had arrived at St Agnes on another of the tripper boats decided that they wouldn’t go back with their boat but would stay longer and come back with me. 

Unfortunately, I already had my full complement of twelve passengers, which is the maximum allowed after sunset, so I was unable to carry any more. I had to leave them behind on St Agnes when we departed—but that was their choice. Although they may not have seen it that way at the time. 

Many times, over the years, we had “jolly jaunts” down to St Agnes in the evenings for a pasty and a pint. There was plenty of singing around the piano in the pub, and plenty more on the trip home. Occasionally there would be phosphorescence in the waves, lighting up the crests of the wake from the boat and making an incredible spectacle. 

 The Steering Wheel 

Another rough day, with a full load of seventy-two souls, coming back from St Agnes. We had just passed the Kittern and were heading out into some great waves. The boat was pitching and rolling, but there wasn’t much wind, so not too much spray was flying. 

To start with, we were heading towards Tresco to keep the spray to a minimum. I was sitting at the wheel, chatting to some folk behind me, when my steering abilities came into question. One lady accused me of getting people wet on purpose because I wasn’t looking where I was going. 

I denied it and told her I was actually trying to get everyone home as dry as possible — which was rare for me — by heading into the waves to let the spray fly down either side of the boat without coming in over the passengers. Then, when we’d gone far enough, we could turn ninety degrees and run with the waves beside us, again reducing the incidence of splashing. 

Did she believe me? Did she hell! 

It was at this point I decided that I’d let her have a go at the wheel and see if she could do any better. 

“Come up here and grab the wheel!” I told her. 

She flatly refused. 

“I’ve seen you steering the boat, and you don’t use the wheel! You use those levers,” she said, pointing at the two gear sticks. 

“Don’t use the wheel?” I questioned. “What do you think it’s there for?” 

“Just for show,” she stated. She was adamant that the wheel did nothing and it was all done by the two gear sticks. 

We discussed the merits of her coming up and showing me how it should be done, and eventually, I went back, picked her up, and deposited her behind the wheel, saying,  

“Right! There you are, now all you have to do is turn the wheel!” 

She put both her hands on the deck above the wheel and, slowly but surely, the boat began changing course and started to head down towards the Garrison. 

A few more waves splashed in over the passengers, including her, and I eventually convinced her to try turning the wheel and see what happened. Of course, the bows came back up head to wind and then passed it. It was then the turn of the passengers on the starboard side to get a bit of a dousing. 

She turned the wheel back to starboard, and eventually, after a very wiggly course, we managed to get the course set again. When we were halfway to Nut Rock, I told her to turn down towards the quay, which she did, and we eventually got her home. 

To say the lady was gob-smacked that the steering wheel actually worked was an understatement. Fortunately, the rest of the passengers were all party to the goings-on and weren’t at all upset about getting a trifle damp. By the time we got home, they’d all had a good lesson on how to keep the passengers dry by wave-dodging, even though on this occasion, many were a trifle damp! 

The Suit 

This reminds me of a time when Dad was skippering the Swordfish on a very brisk spring day. He had taken twelve people to Tresco for the day, including one official-looking gentleman sporting a briefcase and in a very nice suit. 

On the return to St Mary’s, Dad had done his utmost to dodge the waves by first heading into them and then running alongside them, but he hadn’t managed to stop every wave from coming in over the side. 

The besuited gent was far from impressed and, as they turned the quay head into St Mary’s, he piped up and castigated Dad for getting them wet on purpose. He  moaned about how he’d seen Dad turning the boat back and forth to make the waves splash over him 

Dad, of course, remonstrated with him, stating that he’d done his best to keep them all dry. The man, not at all convinced, getting rather snippy said that he was going to send Dad the bill for his suit to be dry-cleaned. 

Dad turned to him and asked if he’d like to see what he could do if he tried — and before the man could answer, the rest of the passengers, who were regulars on the Swordfish and had been listening to this, all hollered together, “Yes!” They knew they were in for some fun. 

So Dad spun the boat round and headed back out of the harbour for a few hundred yards — and drenched the lot of them. He almost swamped the boat. 

The man, in no time, was yelling for him to stop and go back. He apologised and admitted that he’d been wrong and now realised Dad had been trying to keep them dry. 

He happily got off the boat and was never heard from again!