Old Buckets

The 'bucket list' is a an example of crass sensory consumerism. Not only are we urged to be more productive in our work, but we're now being compelled to do likewise with our leisure time. Indeed, what does living life to the full really entail? Are we just tourists, collecting sensory trinkets to adorn our otherwise lonely interiors? Perhaps there is more; something about deepening into the quality of life through stillness. Presence to 'what is' rather than desire for 'what will be' or nostalgia for 'what was'. Finding more in less. My 'north of forty' compass tells me that I could tick off every one of 1001 items on a carefully considered bucket list without growing one iota as a human being. The experiences that really touch us so often emerge unplanned from the tangled web of life. Which reminds me...

At the beginning of June, my partner and I gleefully hauled our backpacks onto a train for the journey to Cornwall. We were to rendezvous with the good ship Keewaydin at Penzance for a week atop the waves, blown (hopefully) in the direction of the Isles of Scilly. Alas, inclement weather prevented Keewaydin from reaching Penzance from her home port of Falmouth and so a last minute detour was required, detraining at Truro and following the branch line to its coastal limit. Arriving in Falmouth, we wandered down to the dock, a little anxious about how shipworthy an 80 foot Lowestoft trawler built in 1913 could be.

Personally I will also admit to being more than a little concerned about the company we were to keep over the next week. This was the typical 'friend of a friend' group where one is wholly dependent on someone else's judgment on the sanity or otherwise of the invitees. I wouldn't have been so anxious if it were not for the fact that I knew it would be difficult to escape from unwanted company without engaging the services of the coastguard.

My fears were thankfully unfounded and the next morning we set sail in a forceful but tolerable breeze. Learning the ropes was straightforward although the weight of the sails and booms was impressive. The skipper, being an authentic type, had not added in any modern accoutrements such as motorised winches. It was all hands on deck and haul up the main brace (or something). I could go on at length about the vast emptiness of the sea, the stark reality of our relationship with the elements etc. But let's cut to the chase...

It was Thursday and we were on our way from the largest of the islands, St Mary's, to a stretch of water between the smaller islands of Bryher and Tresco. It was important to arrive more or less at high tide because without the tide, well... there was very little water at all. A motor launch had been weaving around us for half an hour or so, apparently taking footage for an upcoming TV programme. We were trying to sail nonchalantly, posing for the camera only as absolutely necessary. We were preparing dinner, with half of us on deck cutting up vegetables and the other half down below in the galley. I was doing neither - for good reason.

For the past 10 minutes, I had been at the side of the yacht, looking down into the water and marvelling at how clear it was. The bottom was easily visible. A little too visible, perhaps. Little hairs were starting to stand up on the back of my neck. I looked off to our left (‘port’ apparently) and saw a small motor boat speeding towards us. The next few minutes all seemed to pass in seconds. Firstly, I noticed some rocks below us which seemed to be startlingly close to the surface. Secondly, the man in the motor boat reached us and started to shout and swear, triggering somewhat indignant looks from the crew. Thirdly, there was a sickening grinding noise and the slow progress we had been making ceased entirely. We had grounded.

It is worth saying that the skipper had sailed this section of water some considerable number of times before. Perhaps enough times to become complacent. Whatever the reason, he had misjudged the channel and allowed the strong ebbing tide to push us too far to port, causing us to ground on a notorious rock called the 'Queen's Ledge' off of the island of Bryher. In the minutes following, there was an impressively quick response. The chap who had (as it turned out) tried to warn us what was going to happen, sped off. Moments later we saw first one large ferry, and a few seconds later, another one. In an ebbing tide, every second counts. Tow ropes were made fast and, with roaring engines and seething foam, they tried to dislodge us. It was not to be.

The concern now was to evacuate all sixteen of us to the shores of Bryher, a distance of only 25 metres or so. As the water level fell, the Keewaydin started to list noticeably. Not knowing whether we'd be back on board - whether she'd make it through the night - we packed everything and departed, women and children first (along with dinner). It is true to say we were never in any danger. The Keewaydin and the skipper's livelihood on the other hand, were in great danger. As the tide rushed out at an alarming pace, I was presented with views of Keewaydin's under-charms by the soft light of the evening sun as we ate dinner on the pier. Beautiful as she was, this was not a pleasant experience for any of us.

If our spirits were lifted at all, it was by the generosity shown to us by the community of Bryher - all 83 of them. 'Campsite Pete' - a self-appointed moniker - appeared like a Big Friendly Giant, be-bearded and benign. He arranged for us to stay at the newly completed Community Hall and pointed us in the direction of the island's sparse but delightful amenities, including the local pub, the Fraggle Rock.

To call the Fraggle Rock a 'pub' really doesn't do justice to its unexpected sophistication. The food was exceptional, the atmosphere delightful and the service overwhelmingly friendly. The following evening, when fourteen of the ship-wrecked crew rolled up for a bite to eat (doubling their expected clientele in one shot) they couldn't do enough for us. The daughter of the landlord was also a fire-woman on the island and had left a little note on the notice board when she was called out (see aside). I had the feeling everyone on Bryher was something else too.

So back to our tale. As the tide and night both fell rapidly, we were gratified to see that Keewaydin was not going to roll off the rock and break her back or indeed any other part of her anatomy. She settled at a disquieting angle but seemed steady. The skipper and a few of the crew set to, working frantically to 'cork' the more obvious cracks before the tide returned. With the water so far out that we could walk from shore to ship, it was clear - by torchlight - to see that damage had been done. The rock had torn parts of the keel ragged. In other parts of the hull, cracks in the boards had appeared through the sheer weight of her as she came to rest. The question was simple: when the tide refloated her, would we be able pump the water out faster than it came in?

I mentioned a fire-woman. Well, she and two of her colleagues turned up at some point in the middle of the night to assist by lending us one of their pumps. This industrial strength pump would add some muscle if required. There came a point about 1am when there was little more to be done but wait. We traipsed back to the community hall for a few hours shallow and turbulent sleep. High water was to be around 5.30am. At around 4.45am I found myself wide awake and saw the skipper and a few crew had vanished into the night. I decided to follow suit and walked the mile or so down to the site of Keewaydin's troubles. Dawn was gently prising open the darkness, and in the misty half-light, I saw Keewaydin all but afloat as I rounded the corner. Even as I looked on, she seemed to start drifting, the only sound, that of the pumps buzzing angrily. The plan was to float her off the Queen's Ledge and take her round to a spot we'd identified so she could be beached on sand for further repairs. The plan unfolded without drama and soon Keewaydin was secured, once again awaiting the ebb tide.

The following day – Friday – was filled with a combination of exploration, recuperation and reparation. By some astonishing good fortune, there was a sailor on another wooden yacht moored off Tresco who had the very rare expertise required to ‘cork’ Keewaydin’s boards. He rolled up and offered his services for the day, thus doubling at a stroke the speed at which we could work. Meanwhile various groups of us split up to enjoy the most charming island of Bryher. I will not say more of Bryher other than: visit the island. You will not be disappointed.

During the Friday, the jungle drums were beating hard and news spread of the Keedwaydin’s misfortune. We had a steady stream of curious well-wishers. One less welcome visitor due later in the day was an Inspector from an agency responsible for assuring the safety of Keewaydin as a passenger-carrying vessel. He duly turned up and following inspection set the conditions for her journey back to the mainland. Had I mentioned the skipper’s wife was 5 months pregnant? The Inspector insisted that Keewaydin needed to stay afloat for 24 hours and that a crew of only 3 could sail her back home, excluding “the pregnant lady.” So it was that we spent another night on Bryher, sleeping on the floor of the community hall, and enjoying the hospitality of the residents.

Come Saturday morning, we arranged to return by ferry to Penzance, via St Mary’s. We were lucky to find places as there was quite an influx onto the island for a visit by the Queen that day. The irony of Keewaydin’s flirtations with the “Queen’s Ledge” was not lost on us. Campsite Pete was on hand again to transport out kit with his tractor and to see us off for the last time. Bless him.

The rest, as they are wont to say, is history. As a collective we were minor celebrities for a few days, reported in a newspaper or two. The trip back to Cornwall on the ferry Scillonian was marked by a sighting of Keewaydin, making the same voyage albeit some distance north of us. We arrived in the afternoon and she arrived back in Penzance around 10pm, before darkness fell (another of the Inspector’s conditions if I remember).

I would never have put ‘shipwreck’ on my bucket list (if indeed I had one – which, you will be unsurprised to hear, I don’t). Yet, the combination of fear, excitement, despair and elation, were shared experiences that created ‘us’ as a group. We all took something away from that adventure, kids and adults alike, that is meaningful beyond the immediate experience. I think it was the sheer ‘now-ness’ of it. It all just happened. Beyond our control. And we just reacted. Together.