The Boat-Train {A Journey in 4 Acts} -:- Act 3
What has gone on before..
I was on my way between Cologne and London with the boat train. I had offered an inebriated Yugoslavian Tsimahian to accompany her onto London. After arriving at Oostende and gathering her luggage (five pink cases, a hay rake, butter (rancid) churn, one unopened 15 litre flagon of red wine and one flagon open with rapidly diminishing content) we were now heading for the Boat.
Act 3. Scene 1
I can’t remember how we got everything on-board; what I do remember is that JL and the boat had something in common - they were both erratically swaying about. This was not, in more ways than one, going to be the calm crossing I had hoped.
The next clear recollection I have is circling the boat looking for a large enough space to store the luggage. I marked the new found territory by depositing two of the pink cases on two empty deckchairs. The next phase was executed by running zigzag backwards and forwards between JL’s last co-ordinates - she had the tendency to wander off in search of further aliquots of high octane - and the pink cased deckchairs. I eventually moved the entire luggage to the new location.
JL was the last trip. I steered her to one of the deckchairs where she made a pirouette, sat down, sprawled out and started to snore all in one movement. I made sure that all her bits and pieces were in easy reach, slumped into the second deckchair and let out a sigh of relief that this scene was at an end.
Act 3. Scene 2
I started to reflect. I had time; it was another four hours until Dover. I could not quite believe what I have experienced in the last few hours. It was all a bit weird. I was returned to this bizarre reality only by looking at JL chilled out to my left and a mountain of pink and farm produce to my right. Had the ‘mountain’ grown since I looked last? No matter, I was tired and nothing could surprise me anymore.
But as before I was going to be proven wrong once again.
How wrong was going to be just before embarkation.
I suddenly realised that I had neglected my own body functions. No not that, the red wine had seen to that earlier. I was famished. Naught to eat in hours. By the look of it JL was off wandering her hunting grounds or where ever Tsimahians go went they slumber and so I prepared to hunt for the cafeteria or whatever they call them on boats..
[Ed: maybe aquateria?]
Nice one.
Interlude 2a
I will diverge a little while my hungry other self is off in search of nourishment.
’Is that ok?’
Sure, carry on; it will give an impression of time passing.
Good luck and Bon appetite.
‘Thanks’.
One of me meanders off in the direction of the next watering/eating hole. Arms straight out to both sides trying to compensate for the rolling boat, looking a right charley for the second time that day..
[Ed: Camera swings back.]
While he’s gone, I’ll front-track a little, before giving a commentary on present surroundings.
[Ed: Back tracking would not be the correct terminology as we are off into the future at this point.]
Shipping utensils of today - sorry I was still in food mode.
I mean boats of today, are nothing like the ones at the time of our four act journey. Today they offer a good British nosh up independent of the nationality of the captain and port of registration. They have stabilisers, giving the impression of a mill pond within contra to the choppy force 10+ gale without and thus relieving you of having to see your breakfast twice in quick succession. They have ‘wall-to-rail’ carpets – sticky in places following gastronomic mishaps due to ‘SSI’, but still carpets, and decent bolted down sit-ables, so that there are no surprises with unwilling sliding ‘deck tours’ when the going happens to gets rough.
It’s only when they start handing out seatbelts, that you know there’s really bounce-able weather imminent.
[Ed: SSI stands for Spontaneous Stabiliser Instability, this is the nautical equivalent to air turbulence while flying, especially when you have just got your hot coffee. (see Aerial pastimes no. 34 - 'The Lunch Box')].
But now back to the seventies, at that time, the channel crossing tubs in general and Belgium tubs in particular were - to use one word – diabolical.
A floating lump of rust.
I correct - a diesel stinking floating lump of rust.
I correct again - a grimy diesel stinking floating lump of rust.
You get my gist?
The faded paint would flake off just by looking at it. The decks where made out of thin wooden lacquered planks slighly curved upwards in the middle lubricated with a mixture of diesel/oil and salt water. Thus turning into a topsy-turvy skating rink with the slightest roll or jaw. Vacated deckchairs would indiscriminately hit shins by sliding around in droves. Maybe ‘droves’ is not quite the collective noun I’m looking for
..
[Ed: How about “a waltz of deckchairs”?]
I must admit ‘waltzing about’ would be more appropriate, synchronised to a spray which slowly and surely soaked anyone above deck. Of course most people would be above deck, which was due to the intolerable heat and smell of diesel below deck.
I remember on one occasion I booked a cabin for H and myself for a night crossing, so that we could get a bit of a kip ‘en route’. Talk about a waste of money and mind. The cabin was a miniature version of a box room, had two bunks one above the other with blankets that had never seen a washing machine since their purchase. We were sandwiched between the boiler room and galley with the smell of burnt fuel and food. To top it all there was a constant droning noise and bone rattling vibrations. We held out for about 15 minutes before making a bee line for upper deck into a salt infested spray and freedom!
These tubs disappeared over the years and were replaced with somewhat modern lumps of rust, the smell was better and the food - well - I’ll leave it just there. I have always wondered where the original floating wrecks ended up, not at the bottom of the channel that’s for sure. As they were a load of 'junk' anyway maybe they were put to good use by pirates for gun running and high-jacking in the Straits of Malacca.
[Ed: I know high-jacking is used for planes, is it used for boats as well?
In French it literary means ‘pirates of the air’.
If high-jacking is for planes then low-jacking is probably for boats.
How about “aqua-jacking”?
Sounds better eh?
What about “terra-jacking” for cars?
ok, ok, I know that look it’s getting silly..]
Interlude 2b
As we have time before embarkation I’ll move on to the topic of deckchairs.
On board there were striped canvas contraptions stacked up ‘en masse’ all over the place. There were a few ‘normal’ bolted down seats available but never enough to go around. The pushing and shoving up the gangplanks from ‘in the know’ frequent travellers and the resulting ‘seat’ skirmishes – a restricted localised variation on ‘street’ skirmishes - were probably the only entertainment on offer for the boat personnel.
I think it was all a set up so that they could make bets on the number of causalities ensuing. It’s amazing what people will do not to have to strain their IQs by trying to set up a deckchair in a gale force wind. During the many trips I made in the ‘70s, one got to hear of rumours of passengers going over board, tangled in their deckchairs fighting with it to the last gurgle. I believe I now know why the trips to Dover took so long; it’s to allow fatigued passengers following a four hour deckchair battle, to sit triumphantly for five minutes writing postcards home describing the melee in detail before having to disembark.
I could see a business here, jobbing on a boat and a side line getting paid putting up deckchairs for passengers. All you would need is a few hours practice, a finished deckchair with a sign on it saying..
I must admit I haven’t been around places where deckchairs are popular in a long time; maybe there are people that fill this slot, no idea.
‘Hi I’m back, are you finished?’
Well yes, I think that should do for this divertimento ...
‘Good. I’ll take over from here’
Ok.
One of me disappears in my own literately construct.
Act 3, Scene 3
Now where was I? The food was not to my liking, there was no visible rust in the baguette, but was still uncannily gritty and the Belgium beer is nothing to write home about. [Ed: This opinion was revised after a pub crawl between small independent Belgium breweries lead by a native. ]
I sat down and surveyed our little island of luggage. JL was still out for the count. The cases were huddled in the corner probably afraid of the bands of irate deckchair fighters roaming the decks. The rake was propped up against JL who was hugging her wine depot. Two butter churns standing next to the spinning wheel … wooa ……. rollback.
Two butter churns?
A spinning wheel?
Had I ended up in a Grimm fairy story or was there something in that beer! I could not believe my eyes; this was way over what I could handle in one day – a week even. I could probably have forgotten a butter churn it had been a long day, maybe there were two to begin with….
But a spinning wheel? No, that I would have remembered.
Spinning heads – yes, spinning wheels - no!
I was absolutely certain that on arrival at Oostende we did not have a spinning wheel with a dollop of un-spun wool hanging from it. Therefore, my dear Watson, the spinning wheel and the extra churn were not ours! What a relief this knowledge brought, my panic level went down a notch for the first time that day!
Now my curiosity was aroused - who owned these contraptions? I surveyed the area behind the spinning wheel and found a girl sitting on a huge sea chest with metal clasps and locks, stickers and labels. [Ed: The chest not the girl.] I asked her if the butter churn and spinning wheel was hers and she nodded in the affirmative. She was about my age and looked bushwhacked.
The reason why was obvious after listening to her story, which was on par with JL’s.
D was returning from a field trip to Kabul where she had been sent by the British Museum. She was to spend two months with a nomadic tribe and if possible to win the trust of their resident shaman, mainly to obtain an insight into the local customs from a shamanic view point. This she did and before her return was heaped with presents.
The chest she was sitting on was full of medications, local remedies and talismans from the shaman. The tribes elders, or equivalent, had given her the butter churn and spinning wheel. I don’t remember how she had got this far, it might have been a land and/or air route. [Ed: Afghanistan was relative stable at this time and it would be another four years before the Soviets rolled in.]
Respect is all I can say.
And yet again I threw all sense to the wind.
D readily accepted my offer of accompaniment.
It was not just an act of chivalry on my part it was also a tactical manoeuvre as I had now another pair of eyes to keep JL in check.
I had added to my entourage a second butter churn, a spinning wheel, a D and a partridge in a pear tree….
[Ed: No! back up a bit...]
Yes! your right! Not a bird in a tree but an old heavy well-worn chest, that by the look of it may have at one time belonged to one Davy Jones of nautical norioty.
A chest that would in the not so distant future
make me press the panic button again… [Ed: Here the link to Act 4..]
The Boat-Train {A Journey in 4 Acts} -:- Act 4
I was on my way between Cologne and London with the boat train. I had offered an inebriated Yugoslavian Tsimahian to accompany her onto London. After arriving at Oostende and gathering her luggage (five pink cases, a hay rake, butter (rancid) churn, one unopened 15 litre flagon of red wine and one flagon open with rapidly diminishing content) we were now heading for the Boat.
Act 3. Scene 1
I can’t remember how we got everything on-board; what I do remember is that JL and the boat had something in common - they were both erratically swaying about. This was not, in more ways than one, going to be the calm crossing I had hoped.
The next clear recollection I have is circling the boat looking for a large enough space to store the luggage. I marked the new found territory by depositing two of the pink cases on two empty deckchairs. The next phase was executed by running zigzag backwards and forwards between JL’s last co-ordinates - she had the tendency to wander off in search of further aliquots of high octane - and the pink cased deckchairs. I eventually moved the entire luggage to the new location.
JL was the last trip. I steered her to one of the deckchairs where she made a pirouette, sat down, sprawled out and started to snore all in one movement. I made sure that all her bits and pieces were in easy reach, slumped into the second deckchair and let out a sigh of relief that this scene was at an end.
Act 3. Scene 2
I started to reflect. I had time; it was another four hours until Dover. I could not quite believe what I have experienced in the last few hours. It was all a bit weird. I was returned to this bizarre reality only by looking at JL chilled out to my left and a mountain of pink and farm produce to my right. Had the ‘mountain’ grown since I looked last? No matter, I was tired and nothing could surprise me anymore.
But as before I was going to be proven wrong once again.
How wrong was going to be just before embarkation.
I suddenly realised that I had neglected my own body functions. No not that, the red wine had seen to that earlier. I was famished. Naught to eat in hours. By the look of it JL was off wandering her hunting grounds or where ever Tsimahians go went they slumber and so I prepared to hunt for the cafeteria or whatever they call them on boats..
[Ed: maybe aquateria?]
Nice one.
Interlude 2a
I will diverge a little while my hungry other self is off in search of nourishment.
’Is that ok?’
Sure, carry on; it will give an impression of time passing.
Good luck and Bon appetite.
‘Thanks’.
One of me meanders off in the direction of the next watering/eating hole. Arms straight out to both sides trying to compensate for the rolling boat, looking a right charley for the second time that day..
[Ed: Camera swings back.]
While he’s gone, I’ll front-track a little, before giving a commentary on present surroundings.
[Ed: Back tracking would not be the correct terminology as we are off into the future at this point.]
Shipping utensils of today - sorry I was still in food mode.
I mean boats of today, are nothing like the ones at the time of our four act journey. Today they offer a good British nosh up independent of the nationality of the captain and port of registration. They have stabilisers, giving the impression of a mill pond within contra to the choppy force 10+ gale without and thus relieving you of having to see your breakfast twice in quick succession. They have ‘wall-to-rail’ carpets – sticky in places following gastronomic mishaps due to ‘SSI’, but still carpets, and decent bolted down sit-ables, so that there are no surprises with unwilling sliding ‘deck tours’ when the going happens to gets rough.
It’s only when they start handing out seatbelts, that you know there’s really bounce-able weather imminent.
[Ed: SSI stands for Spontaneous Stabiliser Instability, this is the nautical equivalent to air turbulence while flying, especially when you have just got your hot coffee. (see Aerial pastimes no. 34 - 'The Lunch Box')].
But now back to the seventies, at that time, the channel crossing tubs in general and Belgium tubs in particular were - to use one word – diabolical.
A floating lump of rust.
I correct - a diesel stinking floating lump of rust.
I correct again - a grimy diesel stinking floating lump of rust.
You get my gist?
The faded paint would flake off just by looking at it. The decks where made out of thin wooden lacquered planks slighly curved upwards in the middle lubricated with a mixture of diesel/oil and salt water. Thus turning into a topsy-turvy skating rink with the slightest roll or jaw. Vacated deckchairs would indiscriminately hit shins by sliding around in droves. Maybe ‘droves’ is not quite the collective noun I’m looking for
..[Ed: How about “a waltz of deckchairs”?]
I must admit ‘waltzing about’ would be more appropriate, synchronised to a spray which slowly and surely soaked anyone above deck. Of course most people would be above deck, which was due to the intolerable heat and smell of diesel below deck.
I remember on one occasion I booked a cabin for H and myself for a night crossing, so that we could get a bit of a kip ‘en route’. Talk about a waste of money and mind. The cabin was a miniature version of a box room, had two bunks one above the other with blankets that had never seen a washing machine since their purchase. We were sandwiched between the boiler room and galley with the smell of burnt fuel and food. To top it all there was a constant droning noise and bone rattling vibrations. We held out for about 15 minutes before making a bee line for upper deck into a salt infested spray and freedom!
These tubs disappeared over the years and were replaced with somewhat modern lumps of rust, the smell was better and the food - well - I’ll leave it just there. I have always wondered where the original floating wrecks ended up, not at the bottom of the channel that’s for sure. As they were a load of 'junk' anyway maybe they were put to good use by pirates for gun running and high-jacking in the Straits of Malacca.
[Ed: I know high-jacking is used for planes, is it used for boats as well?
In French it literary means ‘pirates of the air’.
If high-jacking is for planes then low-jacking is probably for boats.
How about “aqua-jacking”?
Sounds better eh?
What about “terra-jacking” for cars?
ok, ok, I know that look it’s getting silly..]
Interlude 2b
As we have time before embarkation I’ll move on to the topic of deckchairs.
On board there were striped canvas contraptions stacked up ‘en masse’ all over the place. There were a few ‘normal’ bolted down seats available but never enough to go around. The pushing and shoving up the gangplanks from ‘in the know’ frequent travellers and the resulting ‘seat’ skirmishes – a restricted localised variation on ‘street’ skirmishes - were probably the only entertainment on offer for the boat personnel.I think it was all a set up so that they could make bets on the number of causalities ensuing. It’s amazing what people will do not to have to strain their IQs by trying to set up a deckchair in a gale force wind. During the many trips I made in the ‘70s, one got to hear of rumours of passengers going over board, tangled in their deckchairs fighting with it to the last gurgle. I believe I now know why the trips to Dover took so long; it’s to allow fatigued passengers following a four hour deckchair battle, to sit triumphantly for five minutes writing postcards home describing the melee in detail before having to disembark.
I could see a business here, jobbing on a boat and a side line getting paid putting up deckchairs for passengers. All you would need is a few hours practice, a finished deckchair with a sign on it saying..
| Longing for a relaxing trip? |
|---|
| Frustrated due to an unruly deckchair? |
| This one was put up in 35 seconds flat! |
| It could be yours for a fee of only 3 pounds! |
| Delivery to the deck of your choice for a small additional charge |
| (Reductions for families) |
I must admit I haven’t been around places where deckchairs are popular in a long time; maybe there are people that fill this slot, no idea.
‘Hi I’m back, are you finished?’
Well yes, I think that should do for this divertimento ...
‘Good. I’ll take over from here’
Ok.
One of me disappears in my own literately construct.
Act 3, Scene 3
Now where was I? The food was not to my liking, there was no visible rust in the baguette, but was still uncannily gritty and the Belgium beer is nothing to write home about. [Ed: This opinion was revised after a pub crawl between small independent Belgium breweries lead by a native. ]
I sat down and surveyed our little island of luggage. JL was still out for the count. The cases were huddled in the corner probably afraid of the bands of irate deckchair fighters roaming the decks. The rake was propped up against JL who was hugging her wine depot. Two butter churns standing next to the spinning wheel … wooa ……. rollback.
Two butter churns?
A spinning wheel?
Had I ended up in a Grimm fairy story or was there something in that beer! I could not believe my eyes; this was way over what I could handle in one day – a week even. I could probably have forgotten a butter churn it had been a long day, maybe there were two to begin with….
But a spinning wheel? No, that I would have remembered.
Spinning heads – yes, spinning wheels - no!
I was absolutely certain that on arrival at Oostende we did not have a spinning wheel with a dollop of un-spun wool hanging from it. Therefore, my dear Watson, the spinning wheel and the extra churn were not ours! What a relief this knowledge brought, my panic level went down a notch for the first time that day!
Now my curiosity was aroused - who owned these contraptions? I surveyed the area behind the spinning wheel and found a girl sitting on a huge sea chest with metal clasps and locks, stickers and labels. [Ed: The chest not the girl.] I asked her if the butter churn and spinning wheel was hers and she nodded in the affirmative. She was about my age and looked bushwhacked.The reason why was obvious after listening to her story, which was on par with JL’s.
D was returning from a field trip to Kabul where she had been sent by the British Museum. She was to spend two months with a nomadic tribe and if possible to win the trust of their resident shaman, mainly to obtain an insight into the local customs from a shamanic view point. This she did and before her return was heaped with presents.
The chest she was sitting on was full of medications, local remedies and talismans from the shaman. The tribes elders, or equivalent, had given her the butter churn and spinning wheel. I don’t remember how she had got this far, it might have been a land and/or air route. [Ed: Afghanistan was relative stable at this time and it would be another four years before the Soviets rolled in.]
Respect is all I can say.
And yet again I threw all sense to the wind.
D readily accepted my offer of accompaniment.
It was not just an act of chivalry on my part it was also a tactical manoeuvre as I had now another pair of eyes to keep JL in check.
I had added to my entourage a second butter churn, a spinning wheel, a D and a partridge in a pear tree….
[Ed: No! back up a bit...]
Yes! your right! Not a bird in a tree but an old heavy well-worn chest, that by the look of it may have at one time belonged to one Davy Jones of nautical norioty.
A chest that would in the not so distant futuremake me press the panic button again… [Ed: Here the link to Act 4..]
The Boat-Train {A Journey in 4 Acts} -:- Act 4
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