Boatman's dream 3

Sailing back up the Pill more than one and a half hours after high water can be dicey, depending on the tide. 

My passenger came and stood by the helm as we swung around the wreck and slipped in among the pontoons, watching as I made the tight turn into the berth. 

While I was busy juggling fore and aft to bring us in, he’d worked out how I’d rigged the bow-line into the cockpit and had it coiled in his hand.  As I gave the engine a burst of aft to stop the boat, he stepped neatly off and found the forward cleat on the pontoon, making us fast with a figure of eight.  It looked like he’d done it before.

Ronnie was standing in the yard with his dogs, holding a mug of tea and chatting to a group of wharf rats.  He caught sight of my passenger in his Celtic warrior costume.

“Ey-up!  Kev and his waifs and strays.  What you brought in this time, Kev lad?”

There was a burst of laughter from the group. 

“Don’t tell BS.  He’ll charge you a landing fee.”  BS was Bellingham-Smyth, retired stockbroker cum local entrepreneur and owner of the yard.

I looked at my companion and smiled, shrugging my shoulders.

It took a few minutes to make the boat fast and pack away the spare engine, radio and chart plotter; then I raised the main engine, switched everything off and secured the hatch.

“Kev.  Kevin.”

I looked up.  “Yes. Kev.  Or Kevin.”

He raised his hand to his chest.  “Arthur.”

“That’s what I thought you said earlier.”

He looked at me blankly again.

I beckoned him to follow me off the pontoon and into the yard.  Dave was watching from his boat.

I walked over to where Ronnie was holding court.  “Morning Ronnie.”  I nodded to the others.

“Afternoon Cap’n.”   

He looked Arthur up and down, admiring the costume.  The dogs gingerly sniffed around him.

Arthur maintained his composure.

“Come far?”, Ronnie eventually asked.

Arthur stood and said nothing.

“We think he’s Welsh.” I said.  “Doesn’t speak English.”

“Neither do half the buggers in here.” said Ronnie waving his hand in the direction of the wharf rats.

“Oy, fuck off.” came the reply.

“See?”

More laughter.

“Who’s we?  You said we think he’s Welsh.”

“I took him off a navy ship.”  I answered.  “They picked him up in the approaches to the Channel.  Adrift, I think.”

“A navy ship?  Around here?”

“Yes.”  I answered.  “It was anchored just the far side of Steep Holm.”

Ronnie leant forward and smelt my breath.  “Bit early, even for you.  What’s he wearing?”

“I don’t know.  Costume.  I can’t ask because I don’t speak Welsh and he doesn’t speak English.”

“Ah.”  Ronnie drained his cup.   It’s a shame Merlin’s away.  They’re on a cruise to Milford Haven.”

Merlin lived in the yard, too.  He was one of the elders and Chair of the Mooring Committee.

Eddie came walking out of the workshop, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Stone the crows, Kev.  What have you got there?”

“Looks like bloody King Arthur.” Ronnie laughed.  “Welsh and all – he don’t speak any bloody English.”

Eddie gave his right hand an extra polish and extended it to Arthur.  “Afternoon.  Eddie.”

Arthur shook his hand, repeating “Eddie”.  Then he tapped his chest and in a firm voice announced “Arthur.”

Ronnie eyed him suspiciously and looked at the others for a reaction.  One of the dogs began to bark at Arthur.

“Benj! Give over!”  Ronnie gave the dog a short, sharp tap with a stick.

“Why don’t you take him over to The Ship?”  suggested Eddie.  “Taff’ll be open by now.  He’ll talk to him.  Find out what’s up.”

“Good plan.” I answered.  I could do with a pint.