QUITE a few years ago, when I was a teenager, my mate Dick and I were entrusted with a rather large wooden fishing boat by its owner, a local fish wholesaler. Dick was to be skipper because he knew more than I did. I knew virtually nothing about the sea or fishing, but was willing to learn a proper man's job as First Mate. The boat, a whitebaiter, had just had its re-fit and Dick suggested we take her on 'sea trials' to familiarise ourselves with her. I remember it jewelry-c was a Thursday evening as we chugged down the Thames and anchored off Herne Bay in Kent. Dick said it would be good to sail to Dover, as stormy weather was expected and it would be good experience learning how to avoid such annoyances as the Goodwin Sands and wrecks. We made it to Ramsgate and the day was spent pleasantly enough exploring the town in a downpour. Saturday, and off once again in a force-eight and, ooh, look over there, the Goodwins, and what do those buoys ahead mean, Dick? Anyway, we were young and we had a depth finder and could get Radio Caroline and, soon, through the troughs and crests, we could make out Dover harbour. As lookout, I noticed a flashing light directed at us from the harbour entrance and inquired of the skipper what it meant. 'Dunno,' he shouted through the spray. 'Could be Morse Code or summit ... see what happens.' As we circled in the worryingly large side-on waves, that flashing lamp kept tormenting us as we drew nearer. Suddenly, a little man came running out, waving his arms. At the same time, a long blast from a ship's horn and out of the entrance in front of us slid the biggest cross-Channel ferry I'd ever seen! 'What's the matter with you idiots, can't you read Morse Code?' said the nice little man. Undaunted, we anchored up somewhere we probably shouldn't have, jumped into our skiff and headed for the beach where we immediately managed to sink and nearly drown. Nobody had told us it was a steep beach and as the front of the boat hit the shingle, the sea flooded into the back and sucked us out again!
WE MANAGED to tie our half-submerged skiff on to a pier and went for fish and chips. Later on, and several failed attempts to bail out the dingy with a bucket, we had the idea we may not have the skills required for life at sea.
Suddenly, crunching down the beach, came a posse of suited and booted blokes asking if we needed help. Turns out they were on their way to the local Saturday night yacht club hop. But into the surf they went, dragging the skiff up the beach, turning it over and getting us on our way with a cheery wave. Wasn't that nice? Our return trip was uneventful apart from getting entangled in some angry anglers' lines, but that's another story.
Trevor Murdin, Leigh-on-Sea, Essex.
Picture that!
PECKING ORDER: Regarding the sign 'Chickens keep dogs on leads' (Peterborough), I was commissioned to paint this picture in semicartoon fashion by a local lady who found the same sign hilarious.
jewelry-j Joy London, Bridgwater, Somerset.
One-line philosophers
THE way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but not by jumping down his throat.
Mrs Valerie Ashton, London N14.
OLD Mother Hubbard often found herself in trouble with the RSPCA.
Chas Downes, Goudhurst, Kent.
Out of the mouths of babes
WHILE on holiday in France, my twin five-year-old granddaughters noticed a lot of small lizards darting about.
My daughter told them
Other articles:
http://www.ciber-love.com/blog/view/id_107/title_air-transport-association-appl/
http://www.crossingstv.com/blog/view/id_33/title_Fed-Says-No-To-Union-National/
