Admittedly, it does rather seem a fact of life that the further
you live from the actual marina club house on your boat, the greater
the proportion of wrinkles in your shirts and jeans, but at the
end of the day, it is not exactly a hanging offence, is it? All
boaties are a bit like that, aren’t we? I have seen some very
posh yachtie types that belong to my club that appear to have barely
escaped from a wind tunnel with hairstyles to match, but then again
a lot of them seem to own open top Mercedes sports cars.
Living on board, in a marina is a bit of a double-edged sword I
know. Like everything else in life, there are pluses and minuses,
in many differing ways. The minuses can, on certain days, outweigh
the pluses by far, but hey, life goes on. What are the minuses?
Well, these can vary in horror content depending on whether you
are on a swing mooring or marina berth. Let’s get the swing
mooring type out of the way first. In fine weather, nothing (they
assure me) beats the quiet and solitude and sense of freedom far
away from the rowing neighbours and barking dogs. It must be idyllic,
I am sure, except for the endless row of power boats that skim past
your porthole every two minutes at weekends. However, (I shudder
as I write, actually) when the barometer plunges and a southerly
buster swings in towards our little spot of heaven on Earth promising
black rain clouds and howling gales, my heart truly goes out to
them. I have often stood by the porthole, snug in the cabin, on
a filthy day watching small flooded dinghies sail past out of the
gloom filled with cowering forms and sopping dogs whose eyes are
fixed intently on the nearest land borne lamppost. I feel like applauding
out loud at their true grit and amazing tenacity. It’s a hell
of a lot cheaper out there and I really feel the club should award
those solid members with bravery medals and give them free dinners,
as most of them are the truest yachties amongst us all. I must admit
I’m curious to know how some bosses react when one of their
staff walks into work on rainy days looking as if they had been
over Niagara Falls whilst being washed down with a fire hose. Saying,
“I live on a boat” only seems to make it worse somehow.
But let’s move on to the next hardy species, the ‘marine
berth’ dweller. Once again, distance from the shower and toilet
come into play but the further away you are the less able you are
to hear the warbles and crashes of the resident band whose repetitious
refrains of bloody ‘Mustang Sally’ for twelve weeks
on end during the summer season are almost too much to bear. Additional
nuisances are the giant washes of Riviera owners who roar out of
the marina at 15 knots tipping your dinner into your lap, and when
the wind is southerly the sound of crashing waves against the stern
drowns out all speech. Unless you’ve actually tried to sleep
in a washing machine you’ll realise why boaties normally walk
around glassy eyed. It’s not just the rum I can assure you.
Money too, or the distinct lack of it, dictates your life’s
comforts. There’s truly no comparison to the wealthy live
aboards on an eighty foot Dyna towering above us mere mortals who
live somewhat like hermit crabs in wooden shells under the shadows
of their giant exhausts.
However, on a sunny Sunday we all become as one. Out on deck, clustering
around the barby (the great aussie leveler twixt rich and poor)
with visitors and friends gurgling cheerily into their chardonnay,
banging on about how lucky we are to be here, etc etc. and as the
greasy scraps go over the side into the boiling gangs of frenzied
bream, they croon on about how great it must be to eat fresh fish
every day, free of charge. Naturally, we daren’t burst their
bubble of fantasy by telling them exactly why they hang around under
the boat awaiting the clarion call of the toilet pump, it just wouldn’t
be fair. Eat one of them little suckers and you’ll wake up
with a crowd around you with tubes out of the places you didn’t
know you had! As for the bream, they are remarkably piranha like
and will eat anything when their blood is up. I have often wondered
what would happen if a small child grasping a sausage plunged off
the deck in amongst that lot of snapping jawed cutthroats. I dare
not think.
There have been some amusing incidents at the marina and I can
remember with horror the first time I arrived blissfully unaware
for my first shower. Humming cheerfully, I stopped dead in my tracks
after walking in to the showers, only to see through the clouds
of steam, a gang of nude men, all cheerily foaming up. Communal
showers…oh no! Being a Pom I suppose I must be naturally bashful,
never having been to Public school, of course. This was a shock.
Desperately, I looked around to see if there were separate cubicles
and there was…just one. Trouble was some black hearted fiend
had scrawled in big letters above the door, ‘Wooses Corner’.
I was sunk. Bugger. I had no choice. Ok fast and foamy it was to
be. I threw off all my gear, acting casually and slunk to the furthest
vacant tap. Modestly facing the wall, I lathered up, however, there
was more to come.
One of the misty figures was a plump, jolly old salt, round of
belly and white of beard. He was happily laughing and larking around
with all the others. I happened to notice that he was sadly, one
of natures unfortunates, having been badly placed at the end of
the queue when nature bestowed her gifts to man. The thought actually
crossed my mind he had an unfortunate and terrible accident, but
no, there were signs of residence, albeit mini button mushroom size,
to say the least. Suddenly, through the steam strode another figure,
Adonis in the flesh. Six foot plus, brown, handsome and long of
hair…long of something else he was too, by God and to a man,
we all fell silent as he strode proudly to the shower, bearing his
handsome (and enviable) share of natures riches. Before he could
reach to turn on his tap, the bandy old white haired salt had strode
up to him, hands on hips and surveyed him wondrously up and down…finally
he laughed out loud and said, “Jesus mate, you’re bloody
beautiful, aren’t youze!” I have never heard so much
laughter in a man’s shower and much later that night in the
bar, I noticed Adonis and the crusty old salt having a drink. It
crossed my mind that I had shared a shower and a beer with probably
the biggest and the smallest members of the yacht club! Happily,
for my dented pride I can announce the showers have been rebuilt
and cubicles abound!
Another funny thing happened one day as I sat on the stern of my
boat. I heard a splash and turned around to see some large ripples
pooling around the stern of a deserted boat. I had seen the parents
and the kids leaving earlier so no one on board had heard anything.
As I watched, I saw a black stick surface and start to head outwards
away from the boat. I believed that it must have been a fishing
rod, the handle full of air. Jumping in to my dinghy, I determined
to rescue the rod and put it back on the yacht. As I got nearer,
sure enough I saw it was a rod and so I grabbed it and hauled it
aboard. It hadn’t occurred to me that something had pulled
it in, I just assumed that it had fallen in.
Suddenly the rod clattered and to my shock the line tautened like
a guitar string and pulled the head of the dinghy right around.
Astounded, I sat there wondering what the hell it was that could
be towing my dinghy but whatever it was, it must be huge. (It didn’t
help that my partner, Nicky, who was nice and safe on the deck of
our boat, was loudly humming the theme tune to Jaws) I nervously
grabbed the rod and reeling like mad, the rod bent double and I
finally saw a large shadow rise up from the depths. Horrified, I
saw it was a huge ray, probably about four feet long…the wings
were huge and it looked really peed off. Luckily for me, it gave
a wrench and dived back down, the line breaking off. Shaken, I quickly
rowed back and left the hookless rod back on the boat. I didn’t
tell the kids later when they returned but I bet they wondered what
had chomped their hook and sinker. As for me, I have still got visions
of those huge eyes and that damn great spike rising up out of the
water. I am not so sure about fishing now, after all is said and
done and I really don’t like to walk on the pontoons after
dark at all!
Certain forfeits have to be made on board also. Many boats boast
cabins so small that if you turn round quickly you will meet yourself
coming in but one gets used to that, except, god forbid, if you
happen to be over 5’ 3” tall. You then develop a sort
of crunched up and peculiar crab like walk that immediately announces
you as a nautical type. TV too, can be taxing. One must be patient
if, as like me, you like F1 racing for example. After sitting up
until 2.30 in the morning, the race is near to an end with the leaders
neck and neck. Suddenly a gust of wind blows the head off by about
2 degrees and your already snowy picture disintegrates into a full
blown arctic blizzard with sound effects to match. Who won? Who
cares? Yes, TV addicts need not apply.
But overall, positives and negatives aside, I must consider myself
lucky to be one of the few fortunates who can’t afford a four
hundred grand shack on a block of precious Gold Coast scrub and
therefore have to put up with all the delights and limitations of
life in a long wooden cave that floats. However, the actual realisation
that one day when my ship comes in (and I will probably be waiting
at the station waiting for the train) and I finally become rich,
I will have the enviable ability to cast myself adrift upon the
tide and let the gentle currents float me Northwards to the Mecca
of all boaties, the Whitsundays, where I can drink twelve dollar
rum and cokes, squashed amongst the thousands of chundering backpackers
lazily brushing aside the hordes of mozzies eager to share my alcohol
laced blood…heaven on earth will finally be mine.
Till then, dear reader, take heart in the fact that up until that
distant dot in time, I will have to trudge daily to the showers
(and back) in all weathers, queue endlessly for one of the ancient
cold water washing machines (we are privileged to use) and gratefully
receive a few coppers discount off my beer, bravely bearing the
scorn of members so rich they don’t even own a boat, dreaming
of the day I can fling off the ropes that bind me to the present
and sail off into a pink tinged future complete with my damp bed
and an eager crew of cockies. Life on board?….wouldn’t
be dead for quids, shipmates…head due North, me hearties.
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