By Martin Colebrook.
My Dad was a policeman. He was very strict. I grew up in a little village in the midst of farming land in Kent, UK. He was the village bobby and so I had to be a good boy at all times, which I was but was always being told off for something or other. He used to wait outside the red telephone box by the village club. It was too small for a pub. The telephone box was at a good vantage point, being at the crossroads a hundred meters off the main Maidstone to Tonbridge road, at the junction with Church road. Church Road led to the church, and then on to the gates of Barham Court, which was the stately home of Sir Albert and Lady Stern. If there was any trouble when the boys and girls were walking up the hill, after being dropped off by the local bus, my Dad, the only bobby in the village, would be there to stop it. There was a river, the River Medway, across the main road, and down the hill a bit, past the railway crossing. I was not allowed to go there until I had my fifty-metre swimming certificate. It took a long time to achieve that because Mrs Horsfall the swimming teacher wasn’t a very good teacher and she was a bully so we were all scared of her. The pool was in one of those ancient Victorian, chlorine infused bathhouse type places with changing rooms around the edge. The bottoms of the timber doors were rotting due to lack of maintenance. The original Aussies amongst us don’t realise how good they have it.
My first car, a 1960 mini was bought for £17 ($30) from my girlfriend’s next door neighbour. It was £17 for a reason and by the time I finished making it roadworthy ish it became as much a police magnet as a babe magnet.
The reason why I am writing about this is so to provide an understanding of my police phobia. I should have got over this by now, I know, but there you go…… So, there we were put putting in the little rib, known as Stefan, so-called because that is the name of the manufacturer. Don’t buy one they are PVC rubbish, and hole if you rub them with your fingernail. We were negotiating Spit Bridge at a sedate 4 knots when I spotted the water bobby (boating safety office) on the far side of the passage by D’Albora marina. I had the usual reaction. My heart started beating faster. Please don’t come this way. Our aim was to collect Slac N Off from her Seaforth Bluff mooring and motor back in time for the 1415 bridge and the Twilight race. Time was not on or side, but, we were adhering to the speed limit, although I am not saying I don’t sometimes push it a bit on other occasions, in times of emergency. Stefan has a 15hp outboard, which I bought as I like long-distance exploring when we are on an extended cruise and a bit of speed helps. The Maritime boat man (safety officer) decides to ruin the day of one pensioner and one middle-aged, very nice lady, wearing bright life jackets, motoring at a mere 4 knots. Stefan develops a bit more wake than a rib with a 5HP motor as it is heavier and the stern sits lower in the water giving it the appearance of it going faster than it is, at slow speeds. Once on the plane, the wake is minimal.
The nice boating safety officer asks us if we know what the speed limit is, which we do of course. He tells us 4 knots is slower than we think it is. We were travelling at no more than 4 knots but I have learnt not to answer back to ‘policemen’. He introduces himself as Jesse, our new patrol man. Meanwhile, I am wondering why he is bothering with us and not chasing the lunatics in the stink boats charging along at crazy speeds doing untold damage to other boats and the harbour banks and sea walls, including mine. I don’t ask. The conversation goes something like this: Name? Martyn …..…Address? 107 Seaforth……. Licence? No. (I forgot I had a digital version on my mobile phone). Glad to see you are wearing life jackets. Do you have a whistle? No. I have some which you can have. Oh, thank you very much. Do you have a bailer? Yes. Two. Torch? No. It is daytime. I have portable navigation lights which I bring when I am out at night. You need a dolphjn waterproof torch at all times. Ok.
Do you have an anchor? Yes.
Registration? No. I plead ignorance. Stefan is a tender for my catamaran. You need a registration document. The motor is over 5HP. Either register it or change the engine. Ok. I am going to give a warning. You have 21days to register the boat. Telephone me when you have done it, or you will be fined.
What did I learn?
Ok. Hands up. I should have registered the boat. It doesn’t cost that much, just another piece of red tape and three visits to Brookvale Roads and Maritime on account of their inefficiency, although they were very nice.
Carry a waterproof torch at all times. Carry a whistle. I guess a horn would also do the job.
Also. Carry a boat licence, anchor, bailer, and wear a kill switch (make sure you use it). Wear lifejackets. Always be scared of policemen, however old and wise you think you may be.
Addendum
Guess what happened today? (Last Thursday) I collected the boat from its mooring, tied the dinghy on the back. I have been tying dinghies on to my boat for years and know what I am doing, so don’t understand why Anna has to tell me how to do it every time she is with me. Today I am solo, so I do it my way.
I head for the bridge and am a couple of minutes early so start the process of readying the yacht for berthing. I don’t notice how strong the tide is. I think I have time to tie the bowline, look up and see I am about to be washed into the bridge, so run back along the deck to the wheel and put the throttle in reverse as hard as I can. I was inches from running into one of those oyster encrusted concrete buttresses. The dinghy, which I am towing, is now flat against the stern being pushed sideways.
I hope the painter doesn’t foul the propeller.
I make it through the bridge unscathed. Relieved, I tie up at MHYC. I tidy things up and then go to untie the dinghy.
No dinghy! I look everywhere. I head to the marina office for help. They have a tender so we can go and look for it. It can’t be far away. My phone rings. It is the water police. Someone has reported a lost dinghy and they have dragged it onto Elliots Landing beach. I am very lucky.
What I didn’t mention was that I left it rather late to collect the rib and I hadn’t applied the registration numbers. Jesse the water safety officer phoned me the day before to ask whether I had registered the boat. His parting words were “ have you put the registration numbers on the boat?”. I said not yet because I hadn’t used the boat. Make sure you do before you use it. I was going to take a chance and do it later but as fortune would have it I saw the police boat motor past so had 5 minutes to stick the numbers on the boat, otherwise, I miss the bridge opening. Am I glad I did because it meant it could easily be identified when lost. When I collected the boat from the beach on the other side of the Spit bridge the painter was intact. Maybe I should have listened to Anna, and put an extra turn on the cleat but as she wasn’t there she needn’t know.
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