One man and his canoe

Ever since I was a child I have been fascinated by the idea of floating, whether it be on the river or the sea by boat or canoe.

I suppose my first experience with a dingy came when still at school; my cousin became interested in the Mote Park Sailing Club and joined as a cadet, followed shortly by me. The dingy that we practised in was called the shark, mainly recognisable by the teeth that had been painted on the bow of the boat. When others, more able, went flying past in their Moths, Enterprises and Herons we drifted about somewhat aimlessly waiting hoping and praying for a more violent gust to push us a little.

My first river worthy vessel was purchased from a school friend, I think I paid five shillings, or was it more, I think on reflection that he had the best part of the deal. It is difficult to describe what this vessel looked like, suffice it to say that it was red, big, and ugly, and again needed an enormous amount of effort to move it at all (still at least I did feel more the master of my own destiny, it was paddle power).

My second attempt at navigating the rivers of the world or should I say the Medway began when I bought a proper canoe. Strangely I can’t remember where I bought it from or even from whom. I do remember that this was the real thing though; it cost me seventeen shillings and six pence, measured nearly twenty foot long and was a pig to move. The mate that assisted me in moving the canoe insisted that we negotiate the main road, the Loose Road, by walking diagonally across which caused a few irate hoots.

I remember parking the thing in Charlie Wallis’s boat yard in Tovil for which I paid him two shillings a week, the scoundrel.

The canoe was, as many were in those days, made of canvas stretched tightly over a framework of wooden struts. All the books warned of the dangers of snagging the bottom on rocks.

I remember navigating the Medway with a cousin (himself an excellent swimmer, and me a puny novice), when horror of horrors we snagged the damn thing on something that was sticking up out of the water. My cousin (the swimmer you will recall) shouted abandon ship, ABANDON SHIP, what the heck did he think we were going to do. I still smile when I remember him swimming to the bank and calling for assistance leaving me to gracefully paddle to a safe mooring. It really was a very small hole anyway.