Three Ways to Capsize a Boat: An Optimist Afloat Read Free

he’d had enough. He started the engine and we turned to where he reckoned the pier was. We were actually a fair way off; I suppose the tide must have taken us. The fog lifted just a little bit, and we could see in the distance the pier that ran out from the mouth of the river. Slowly, unbelievably slowly, we approached it. I could hardly believe how slow our progress was. It took us the best part of an hour to cover what must have been less than a quarter of a mile, and the closer we got to it, the slower our rate of approach seemed to be. As we puttered beyond the lighthouse on the end of the breakwater, an ordinary garden snail could have given us a run for our money.
    We moved on up the river—the dock was still about a half a mile off—our progress becoming feebler and feebler. Keith wound the little outboard up to maximum power, a horrible high-pitched scream. Now that we were in the river we were making even less headway, for the tide was ripping down here at full bore. All the ditches and streams and rivers of rain-sodden Sussex were pouring their turgid waters into the river Arun, and the Arun was hurling them down against us and our poor desperate little boat, along with a thousand million tons of seawater that had somehow got mixed up in the equation.
    Finally we stopped moving altogether, although if you looked over the side of the boat at the wake, it appeared we were thundering along. I took a sight on a couple of posts on either side of the pier, and realized that with all the effort of that screaming and overheating engine wewere not moving one inch. The day’s sailing had been boring in a quiet sort of way; this part was also boring but with the unspeakable noise of the engine to make it worse. There was a sense of humiliation, too; we felt a pair of utter berks, completely immobile in spite of the motor giving it all it had got.
    People strolled out along the pier to have a look at us. They would lean on the wet railings and consider us for a few minutes, perhaps even point us out to the kids or give a wave, while we did our best to preserve some dignity and look as if we were in command of the situation. Eventually boredom would set in and they’d disappear, perhaps to have tea in the tearoom up in the town. But an hour later they’d be back. The river of course was still raging past us, so we’d be exactly where we were before, and they’d greet us again with unfeigned surprise and enthusiasm, waving as if to old friends. We must have looked a ridiculous sight.
    We were stuck in that river for the best part of two hours—two of the longest hours I’ve ever known. At last, though, a powerful fishing boat came up beside us, and a fisherman, a big man with a lot of condensation and what looked like bits of fish in his beard, leaned over with a grin and asked us if we wanted a tow. We did. He threw us a line and set off upriver.
    Keith was at the back holding the tiller. I was on the foredeck, holding the rope and wondering just what to do with it. “Quick, pass it through the fairleads and hitch it round the bitts,” he yelled. What the hell was a fairlead? And I couldn’t for the life of me remember what or where the bitts was.
    I looked at him uncomprehendingly, as the slack in the rope snaked out over the edge of the boat.
    “All right then …”—Keith was beside himself now, waving his arms about like a dervish—“just take it and cleat it off round the bitts.”
    I didn’t know what the hell he meant, could hardly hear him above the screaming engine. Surely he hadn’t said, “Take it and beat it off round the clitts!”? I sniggered to myself at this rich notion—and the rope snapped taut, nearly heaving me bodily off the front of the boat. But somehow I kept my balance and held on grimly, squatting on the foredeck like a downhill skier crouched for speed. We moved up the river, the fishermen shaking their heads in disbelief.
    Round the corner and we were beside the dock. The