Of Foreign Build

by Jackie Parry

  Noel was champing at the bit to get to a pub, but we had to check in first. Customs came on board and stared at the white powder on our table. I blushed a little and said, ‘It’s talcum powder.’ We had just taken a quick ‘shower’ in the sink and had dusted off in talc. They believed us and just thought we were a bit odd, but we were used to that.

  They declined the proffered beer, and I batted my weary eyes to convince them to take a couple of pictures of us on English soil.

  It was Noel’s first time in England. What I found remarkable, and still do, is that Noel fulfilled a lifelong dream. He had always wanted to sail into England, not fly, and he had achieved that. How many of us have an unattainable dream, or even an attainable one, that we never achieve? I was very proud.

  Once customs had cleared us in, we were free to roam. On the way to the pub, Noel wanted a meat pie.

  ‘Remember,’ I said ‘if you ask for chips, don’t ask for hot chips. You’re likely to receive a smack.’

  Across the oceans, I had been training Noel in English-speak. To ask for chips in Australia, you asked for hot chips. That is because they don’t say crisps; they say chips if they want crisps. I giggled all the way to the pub while Noel practiced saying ‘Crisps,’ his lisp became heavier and thicker with each step.

  ‘A pint please and some ccrrrrispssss,’ announced Noel, as if he was an actor enhancing his esoteric character for the sake of an audience.

  Nowhere in the world, do they have pubs like English pubs. Australia ruins its drinking holes with TVs lining bars with the volume up high, blaring out horse racing events, betting, and slot machines.

  The low beams, dark cosy atmosphere, wrapped in hundreds of years of history and the occasional real fire is unique to our land; I love these places, the food and drinks are heightened in the palate by the splendid ambience. In one of these quaint English pubs, I rang home; I couldn’t contain myself any longer.

  ‘We’re in Kent!’ I exclaimed excitedly; Mum cried, which made me cry.

  The following day, we untied and made our way up the mighty Thames River to where we would spend winter in St Katharine’s dock in the heart of the city. Ironically, we had one of our best sails ever as we trickled past the Millennium Dome and sighted the London Eye for the first time.

  ‘I’ve only ever seen this in books. I’m really here,’ Noel said, a tear in his eye. ‘I feel like I’ve come home,’ he said, which caused a tear to appear in my eye. Some of the sights were new to me; I had come home, too.

  As we expected, as well as being home, we were also in the land of uncertainty; otherwise known as planet numpty. It’s that old familiar place, where one is not too sure whether to lead with the left or right foot. Where do we go now? How long do we stay? What do we do for work?

  We arrived in London amidst great fanfare. Crowds thronged the foreshore. Tugs hooted, the masses where cheering. Tears were shed. We had arrived. Yes, after fifteen thousand odd miles of sailing, we had made our destination; our welcome was much appreciated. Success was rewarded by that rare bonhomie that we humans show when a spectacular and daring feat had been achieved.

  Once we moved out of the way from the protesting tugboat, we dried our eyes and thus improved our eyesight. We could see that the crowd was cheering the streaker on the other bank. The long and short of it being that the welcoming committee was our heartfelt supporters, Roy and Valerie, my mum and dad.

  In October 2001, we puttered Mariah into her last lock for a while, the gates slowly closed behind us. Noel stared at those gates. I was smirking and itching to get off the boat to hug Mum and Dad. Noel frowned a little. Later, he admitted to feeling a bit sad, ‘Those gates closing behind me meant the end of a magnificent year; from here on out, I was heading back, not forward into the adventure.’

  By the time we tied up in St Katharine’s dock, it was near nine in the evening. Momentously, I was given the choice as to what we do. I wanted to go home, to Mum and Dad’s house; it was late and a couple of hours drive, but I just wanted to get off the boat and show Noel where I had grown up. The house at Shenley in Hertfordshire was called a cottage. It sat on two acres of land and was a square, pebble-dashed block, completely deceiving in what it contained inside its esoteric walls. With five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two enormous lounge rooms, dining and kitchen areas, a utility room, additional cloakrooms, and an entrance hall that was the size of lounge, it wasn’t hard to believe that Mum and Dad were overrun with stuff. Until ten years ago, there had been four generations living in the house: us kids, Mum and Dad, Mum’s mum (my nan), and her mum (my great nan). A house of all women except my long-suffering Dad!

  On the land, my parents’ owned were six breeze block stables, two double garages, a couple of caravans and various shapes of sheds. A JCB and a dumper truck added to the menagerie of fun. Various horses of different shapes and sizes were kept with various people of different shapes and sizes coming to look after, ride, and generally enjoy the countryside. Grazing fields, which were dappled with other horses, surrounded the house. It was blissful, and I loved it there.

  Noel had heard about this house from Colin and his wife Brenda, who had both seen the house and added to its mystique by trying to explain the ethos of it. This is hard to do; it is hard to understand just how the house ran unless you’d seen it. It was an open house and the best way to describe it came from my childhood friend Sharon.

  She said, ‘If a stranger is sitting in your mum’s lounge with a cup of tea, none of you would ask, “‘Who are you,”’ You simply say, “‘Hello, would you like a biscuit with that!’” She added, ‘On a second visit to Shenley, everyone is issued with a back door key.’

  None of us ever used the front door. It was bolted from the inside, and you could not open it from outside. The back door was entrance and exit. Noel found it a bit disconcerting getting used to strange people walking in and out of the house at odd times, with dogs, cats, and children. But the house was alive, living. It wasn’t tidy, but no one ever felt out of place or uncomfortable; everyone was relaxed and felt completely at home.

  Amid the mayhem, Mum and Dad had kindly agreed to let us bring Mariah up to their garden for our stay in England. We had some savings left, and we could either continue our voyage and arrive back in Australia with nothing or use the money to buy a house, renovate it, and hopefully earn some rent, while completing our journey around the planet. Mum and Dad loved the idea of having a boat securely on land; it meant we were staying. There was an old, disused road that was now covered in earth and part of the garden, all securely fenced in with large trees and even larger black iron gates. It was here Noel and Dad dug and probed to unearth the road. We needed a stable base to sit Mariah’sten tonnes atop.

  The big day came; we had sourced the only crane that lifted boats out in London. We had also enlisted the help of my Dad and Colin to help out. The firm we hired for lifting and transporting Mariah on a low loader came with two guys: a father and son. There was much organisation to be done with arranging suitable times a safe route under low bridges. We also had to take down the mast. Noel, Colin, Dad and I squished on board Mariah for several days while we prepared the boat for hauling out.

  The big day came. The marina handled the crane that loaded Mariah onto the truck; I felt sick as I watched our home swing in the air, with just two slings holding her several feet above hard, unforgiving concrete. The truck guys took Mariah under their wings and spent hours sitting her properly, tying her down, checking, rechecking, and then checking again. It took many hours, but they were absolutely brilliant – never had our boat been in better hands.

  It still didn’t stop me becoming a jittery, clucking chook. I started fussing, asking, and pointing until Dad said, ‘How about you and me go get everyone some brekkie?’

  Everyone was delighted at the prospect of Maccie D’s and wholeheartedly agreed that we should go. I loved adventuring out with my dad, no matter what we were doing; we always had a good time and a laugh. As we drove in
to the city to find some sustenance, I relaxed.

  ‘I was becoming a pain wasn’t I?’ I asked with a lop-sided grin.

  He laughed, ‘You’re alright; it’s just a big day for you.’

  I could streak through London naked, randomly shooting at people with an AK47, and Dad would understand and excuse me; he really is a special man.

  Noel and I could ride in the truck with the lads. Colin and Dad were driving behind. As the huge lorry swept out of the marina gates, I cried, ‘Watch it!’

  The truck driver stopped. Turned off his engine, put his hands calmly in his lap, and regarded me with his deep, gentle eyes. The low-loader cab was separate, so swinging around the corner it appeared that we were going to hit the wall. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

  ‘Look, love,’ he said, ‘I have been doing this for twenty years; you have been in my cabin for twenty minutes, I do know what I am doing. You are going to have to trust me.’

  I did, and I shut up. Everyone was highly amused; I was embarrassed. Watching our ten tonne boat do fifty miles per hour along motorways was heart-stopping. I continued to wiggle in my seat, biting my lip.

  Dad and Colin were driving behind the truck, but soon slowly pulled right back. When we stopped to check all was well, I asked them why.

  ‘As you approach a bridge, it looks like there is no way in hell you are going to make it underneath,’ my Dad laughed. They both held their hearts, the whole adventure was great fun, but adrenaline and minor heart attacks were part and parcel of the escapade.

  At last, we made it to the narrow lane where Shenley Lodge Cottage sits. We eased up the winding road; we were greeted by family and many friends. It wasn’t everyday that an ocean-going sail-boat comes up the highest hill in Hertfordshire! The mobile crane was ready and waiting, a marvellous piece of equipment that everyone oohhhed and arrhhed over.

  Everyone eyed the wooden props Noel had organised to hold Mariah up sceptically. But Noel had done this many times before; my confidence in him never waned. After just a few hours Mariah sat in my parents’ garden. Her cockpit was under an enormous, old oak tree, resplendently vivid green leaves dangled over her stern. Sitting in the cockpit felt like sitting in a huge tree house. Her mast was tucked beneath the eves of the stable block, the length fitting perfectly, as if the stables had been made to measure.

  Much to everyone’s bemusement, Noel and I mostly stayed on board at night. The house at Shenley was huge, but we liked our home, our independence. We could watch what we wanted to watch on TV, have a drink, party, or sleep.

  When Mariah was settled, we purchased a car and explored the lands looking for a house to renovate. We were about ten years too late to buy anything in the south and headed further and further north. In Staffordshire, we purchased a characteristic terrace house, which needed everything done to bring it back to life. We spent eight months lovingly renovating it and the successfully rented out the house to a lovely lad who loved the place as much as we did. We returned to the south and set about working, because now we had no money left at all.

  Noel quickly landed a carpenters job, working in the glorious fields of Hertfordshire, converting old stables to offices. I refused to go into an office. I’d noticed that Mum and Dad’s house was bursting at the seams. Shenley housed furniture and belongings that were my great nan’s, nan’s, my (and my sisters’ gear), and now my nieces and nephews’ stuff, and of course, Mum and Dad’s collections. My parents and I came to an arrangement: I would clear out the house and renovate it. Dad was working full time and had just eased back to four days a week. He still could not keep up with all the repairs and renovations the old house needed. I set about clearing up. Auctions, garage sales, newspaper adverts… soon the gear was vanishing. Nothing was of any great value, but there was so much stuff that hundreds of pounds were earned by us all.

  Dad wanted an en suite in the main bedroom. So Dad and I worked together three days a week, while the other days I battled on alone. It was glorious. I could give back to the house I had grown up in, the house that had looked after me all these years. The three days working with Dad were great fun; we both liked getting jobs done, no matter what time of day they ended. We always had a giggle and conversation, ideas and old stories bounded around the rooms while we worked in harmony.

  Life was strolling along nicely, then it spiralled frantically downhill and made us all stare into the face of reality.

  ‘Jack, Jack, wake up. JACK!’ Thump-thump-thump on the hull. At 2 am, Dad had come running out of the house, across the garden, trying to wake me up in our well-insulated boat. I jumped up and followed Dad into the house. Mum was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, holding her chest, gasping.

  ‘Where’s it hurt, Mum?’ Her face was just a railroad of lines, the pain in her eyes almost tangible; she couldn’t speak. ‘Is it your chest? Does your chest hurt,’ I said forcefully, I had to get some sort of answer. She nodded. I looked up into Dad’s concerned face, ‘I’m calling an ambulance.’

  Dad still hadn’t said a word. He simply nodded. Nervously, I made the call, worried about the ambulance finding us, as we were in an odd location compared to our address.

  This terrifying occurrence happened many times, at least once a week before the doctors realised it was more than indigestion. As Mum deteriorated and became yellow with jaundice, the ambulance drivers started to grill her. They were frustrated with what they believed was a minor ailment. Dad and I were at our wits end.

  Thankfully Noel piped up, ‘You are here to take the woman to hospital. Please just do your job.’

  The following day the doctor told an extremely tired Dad and me that kidney stones had caused a blockage, causing the jaundice.

  ‘Your mum is lucky,’ he said gravely, ‘in these situations the best case is normally intensive care.’ It took a while for this to sink in; we found out that when stones get stuck and block pipes, the body’s poisons often cause death.

  Mum is one of the kindest, gentlest persons I know, so I was quite amused when she became an awful patient. I would often tell her off for being so rude to helpful doctors. Despite the initial lack of correct diagnosis, the staff at the hospital was brilliant. I always admire these people; you have to be someone special to do this kind of work.

  Dad and I became tired, and work slowed a little. Dad wanted to retire. He had worked all his life, giving his family a wonderful upbringing; it was his turn.

  They started to receive details on houses for sale in a small town where they used to live. They wanted a bungalow, a small house so their children (me!) wouldn’t keep coming home to stay. We were all frank with each other, and we all loved each other dearly, but really didn’t need to live together anymore.

  Mum was in hospital, and Dad wanted to view a bungalow in a street he had always liked. We snuck off, not telling anyone, and viewed the place. We both loved it and enjoyed telling Mum at the hospital visit that afternoon of our antics. Dad visited Mum every day in hospital, and I visited almost every day. Mum had done so much for me in my life that I had to see her to make sure she knew what was happening in the outside world, and that I cared. I know if I had been in hospital, she would have made the effort for me.

  They purchased the first bungalow they saw (after viewing other properties too) and are incredibly happy, which in turn makes me exceptionally happy.

  17

  Whale collision

  After almost two years in England turning the boat into a large garden gnome, working, buying, and renovating a house, we decided it was time to go.

  ‘Why are you leaving?’ One of my nephews asked.

  My heart broke as his bewildered face was tinged with fear; it was the type of fear youngsters instinctively have in a situation they cannot understand. I could only hug him tight. ‘I don’t know. I want to go and have new adventures, but I’m sad that I have to say goodbye to people I love, like you.’ Knowing that he’d never understand, because I didn’t, I added, ‘I just want to see places –
something inside me just makes me keep moving.’

  It was now June 2003 and launch day. In little time, Mariah was crane lifted in the air and swiftly secured onto the low-loader. By mid-afternoon, we were in Southampton waters, gently eased in by the mobile crane and relieved that there were no leaks. Feeling a little out of practice, we started to manoeuvre to our berth. Noel, Dad, and I were ready with ropes, fenders, and hearts in mouth; the engine started, and we eased backwards. Without warning, the engine stopped. Now we were totally at the whim of the wind. We slowly glided towards two pristine boats. With limbs flailing, voices wailing and fending off, we just managed to avoid colliding. With a look of despair, the marina staff towed us safely into our berth. With pink faces, we admitted to leaving the fuel cock off!

  The next day we moved into a different berth; this time all went well, which boosted our confidence. After a lay-in and a hearty breakfast, Noel and my Dad worked at putting the mast back together while, I worked on trying to find a home for all our possessions, which lay in a hideous heap within the boat and on the deck. Trying to safely store every possession, tool, and spare part on a thirty-three foot yacht that was eleven feet at its widest was no mean feat. Attached to the inside of every cupboard was a list of each item that was stored within it. This may sound a bit pedantic, but in an emergency, it was a godsend. By 4:30 pm, we were exhausted. The last two months had been filled with fifteen-hour days, trying to get to this point.

  On 12 July 2003, with a good weather forecast, we left Southampton. As it was a weekday, there was not much traffic. The channel was well buoyed and the tide carried us along nicely through the Needles (the narrow channel between Isle of Wight and Southampton). After feeling a little like we were in a washing machine, we were spat out safely into the open sea. For the next six hours a westerly wind blew. We were heading west, so it was a bumpy ride, which wasn’t much fun while we were trying to recover our sea legs.