FERRYMAN
by Arthur Jenner
Sculling, as you all know full well, is the ‘art’ of propelling a boat by means of a single oar resting over the stern. The sculler, holding the oar with both hands, makes a figure-of-eight motion with his hands and arms and at the same time, by twisting the oar, causing the oar’s blade to emulate the motion of a fish’s tail or a ship’s screw. A skilled sculler can make a boat move very fast. Most deep-sea sailors have limited sculling skills, and I, being a deep-sea sailor, was no exception. Coastal seamen and fishermen are often extremely proficient at it.
I was once on a small coastal tanker, called the ‘MV Anonity’, of about 700 tons. She was owned by a company called Everards whose home port was a little place called Greenhithe, a few miles west of Gravesend on the lower reaches of the Thames. Just off shore, maybe a hundred yards or so, the company had moored a large pontoon for their ships to tie up to, and on the occasion that I am going to tell you about, we were tied up to it. -
When in port all ships appoint one member of the deck crew night-watchman, a twelve hours on and twelve hours off job, which generates extra pay in the form of overtime. In spite of the extra money and light duties, the watchman’s job is not sought after by many people because it means staying aboard while everyone else is enjoying themselves ashore. But because I was saving up to get married, I had volunteered for the job in every port on this ship, and thus I was night watchman on this occasion.
Normally a night watchman’s job is very easy. It entails checking the moorings occasionally, keeping the galley fire alight, calling the cook and the crew in the morning, and very little else. In this situation another task was added to the watchman’s duties; that of ferryman. This meant conveying members of the crew ashore after tea and picking them up later in the evening; usually after the pubs had shut.
Going ashore with a boatload of potential inebriates was easy. They were nearly all keen to show off their sculling skills, and besides it was high tide, so there was very little current flowing. So I landed them all at the right jetty and managed to return to the pontoon without much difficulty. I was beginning to consider myself quite a sculler.
How wrong I was.
As the evening progressed, the tide began to ebb, causing the flow down the river to increase. By ten-thirty the current was flowing fairly fast. I had arranged to pick up my shipmates at eleven, but I thought I had better leave early to be on the safe side.
As soon as I cast off from the pontoon, the boat seemed determined to go away to sea. Before I could get my oar over the stern, we were rapidly heading for the North Sea. I started sculling and although I couldn’t actually make any headway against the current, I did manage to reduce our headlong rush and by angling the boat slightly towards the shore I actually began to make progress shorewards. This type of situation is definitely not the best time to try to improve ones sculling skills. I tried increasing the angle of the blade. I tried making bigger figures of eight. I tried sculling faster but all to no avail. I found that my original style, primitive though it was, seemed the most effective and I continued to close the gap between the boat and the shore slightly although I was still progressing downstream in the direction of Gravesend. I then had a brainwave. Why mess about trying to scull? There was another oar in the boat. I would row. I picked up the second oar, sat on the thwart, and started pulling. Alas, I was making even less headway against the current, than when sculling, apart from the ground I had lost during the changeover. I shipped my oars and resumed my place in the stern, losing ground again whilst changing back.
I was still moving slowly but steadily downstream and imperceptibly closer to land. ‘Thank God’, I thought ‘It’s night-time and no-one can see me making such an idiot of myself.’ There is one advantage in travelling stern first while facing aft. You can see where you are going. I was still about thirty yards off shore and wondering where I would end up, when a very high jetty loomed up in the moonlight. It was directly ahead (perhaps I should have said astern). I had to continue sculling to keep the force of contact with the jetty to a minimum, and I drifted nicely up to it. I shipped my oar and managed to fend the boat off the piles with my hands. It was a simple matter then to work the boat towards the iron ladder. I tied the painter to the ladder, ascended to the deck of the jetty with the intention of walking back up the road to where the lads would be waiting.
Imagine my horror, when, arriving at the top of the ladder, I saw my passengers grinning down at me. They had followed my progress by the light of the moon and sundry shore lights and had anticipated my arrival at the jetty.
Once aboard the boat again I offered the oar to whoever felt inclined to test his skill. My offer was eagerly accepted by the least likely looking candidate; a weedy lad of about nineteen; a very junior engineer on his first trip to sea. He took the oar and with the most incredible speed and dexterity, shot us back to the pontoon like a speedboat. I found out afterwards that he came from some small place on the Solent and had spent all his life ‘messing about’ in small boats.
I was married a few weeks later and left the sea for good.
I have never attempted to scull again, and my only essay into boating since then has been the occasional hour spent rowing the kids around the park lake.
by Arthur Jenner
Sculling, as you all know full well, is the ‘art’ of propelling a boat by means of a single oar resting over the stern. The sculler, holding the oar with both hands, makes a figure-of-eight motion with his hands and arms and at the same time, by twisting the oar, causing the oar’s blade to emulate the motion of a fish’s tail or a ship’s screw. A skilled sculler can make a boat move very fast. Most deep-sea sailors have limited sculling skills, and I, being a deep-sea sailor, was no exception. Coastal seamen and fishermen are often extremely proficient at it.
I was once on a small coastal tanker, called the ‘MV Anonity’, of about 700 tons. She was owned by a company called Everards whose home port was a little place called Greenhithe, a few miles west of Gravesend on the lower reaches of the Thames. Just off shore, maybe a hundred yards or so, the company had moored a large pontoon for their ships to tie up to, and on the occasion that I am going to tell you about, we were tied up to it. -
When in port all ships appoint one member of the deck crew night-watchman, a twelve hours on and twelve hours off job, which generates extra pay in the form of overtime. In spite of the extra money and light duties, the watchman’s job is not sought after by many people because it means staying aboard while everyone else is enjoying themselves ashore. But because I was saving up to get married, I had volunteered for the job in every port on this ship, and thus I was night watchman on this occasion.
Normally a night watchman’s job is very easy. It entails checking the moorings occasionally, keeping the galley fire alight, calling the cook and the crew in the morning, and very little else. In this situation another task was added to the watchman’s duties; that of ferryman. This meant conveying members of the crew ashore after tea and picking them up later in the evening; usually after the pubs had shut.
Going ashore with a boatload of potential inebriates was easy. They were nearly all keen to show off their sculling skills, and besides it was high tide, so there was very little current flowing. So I landed them all at the right jetty and managed to return to the pontoon without much difficulty. I was beginning to consider myself quite a sculler.
How wrong I was.
As the evening progressed, the tide began to ebb, causing the flow down the river to increase. By ten-thirty the current was flowing fairly fast. I had arranged to pick up my shipmates at eleven, but I thought I had better leave early to be on the safe side.
As soon as I cast off from the pontoon, the boat seemed determined to go away to sea. Before I could get my oar over the stern, we were rapidly heading for the North Sea. I started sculling and although I couldn’t actually make any headway against the current, I did manage to reduce our headlong rush and by angling the boat slightly towards the shore I actually began to make progress shorewards. This type of situation is definitely not the best time to try to improve ones sculling skills. I tried increasing the angle of the blade. I tried making bigger figures of eight. I tried sculling faster but all to no avail. I found that my original style, primitive though it was, seemed the most effective and I continued to close the gap between the boat and the shore slightly although I was still progressing downstream in the direction of Gravesend. I then had a brainwave. Why mess about trying to scull? There was another oar in the boat. I would row. I picked up the second oar, sat on the thwart, and started pulling. Alas, I was making even less headway against the current, than when sculling, apart from the ground I had lost during the changeover. I shipped my oars and resumed my place in the stern, losing ground again whilst changing back.
I was still moving slowly but steadily downstream and imperceptibly closer to land. ‘Thank God’, I thought ‘It’s night-time and no-one can see me making such an idiot of myself.’ There is one advantage in travelling stern first while facing aft. You can see where you are going. I was still about thirty yards off shore and wondering where I would end up, when a very high jetty loomed up in the moonlight. It was directly ahead (perhaps I should have said astern). I had to continue sculling to keep the force of contact with the jetty to a minimum, and I drifted nicely up to it. I shipped my oar and managed to fend the boat off the piles with my hands. It was a simple matter then to work the boat towards the iron ladder. I tied the painter to the ladder, ascended to the deck of the jetty with the intention of walking back up the road to where the lads would be waiting.
Imagine my horror, when, arriving at the top of the ladder, I saw my passengers grinning down at me. They had followed my progress by the light of the moon and sundry shore lights and had anticipated my arrival at the jetty.
Once aboard the boat again I offered the oar to whoever felt inclined to test his skill. My offer was eagerly accepted by the least likely looking candidate; a weedy lad of about nineteen; a very junior engineer on his first trip to sea. He took the oar and with the most incredible speed and dexterity, shot us back to the pontoon like a speedboat. I found out afterwards that he came from some small place on the Solent and had spent all his life ‘messing about’ in small boats.
I was married a few weeks later and left the sea for good.
I have never attempted to scull again, and my only essay into boating since then has been the occasional hour spent rowing the kids around the park lake.