The Mudskipper Cup

by Christopher Cummings

  They also had to buy some small pulleys and D-shackles. Then they proceeded back to Peter’s in time for afternoon tea.

  Peter grumbled the whole time. “I can see where that old saying comes from that owning a yacht means you pour money into a hole in the ocean while standing under a cold shower tearing up hundred dollar bills!”

  Next they addressed themselves to the problem of how to set up the Cat’s rigging, but could do little till the paint dried. In the end the new ropes stayed coiled up and they sat and talked before turning the Cat the right way up. Kylie insisted they finish the painting before putting it away. So Graham and Margaret set to work to paint while Peter and Kylie went off to collect the trailer wheels.

  Graham painted the upper works with cream paint while Margaret did the yellow trimmings. By the time the others returned they were finished. The paintbrushes were cleaned and packed away. Peter set to work putting the wheels back on while Graham worked at rolling up the sails and storing them.

  Margaret kept fussing as odd leaves drifted down from the trees onto the wet paint. She stood and plucked them off as soon as she saw them. Peter straightened up from tightening the last wheel nut.

  “OK, let’s put the Cat back in the shed.”

  Kylie shook her head. “We’re a mob of geese. We’ve put wet paint on all the places we have to grab.”

  They discussed the problem. Peter sucked his teeth. “We will have to leave her out overnight.”

  Graham looked at the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen. “Be OK. It won’t rain.” He noticed the sun was already well down. “We’d better get going. It’s getting late.”

  “You coming tomorrow?” Peter asked.

  “You bet. What time?”

  “Early. There’s a high tide just after lunch. I reckon we can be ready for a test run by then.”

  “We need a tiller don’t forget.”

  “I know. I’ll work on it tonight,” Peter replied. They said their goodbyes and made their way home, travelling via Margaret’s, which was only a few blocks away.

  That evening Graham did a bit more work on his model ship. He had gotten an idea from watching Peter putting some modelling clay into cracks in the buoyancy bulkheads. Now Graham opened a packet and proceeded to roll and flatten the modelling clay onto a plastic sheet. Then he sliced it into strips with a Stanley knife and pressed it into position below the stern windows. Next he squeezed a thin strip around above the windows. Smaller pieces were gently forced into cracks and at the ends.

  Graham paused, deep in thought, then pushed several short pins through the damp clay into the balsa frame. Next he picked up his tweezers and began carving the soft material. By pressing and incising he was able to mark patterns in the clay: spirals, whorls, flowers, crowns. It took half an hour. Then he stood back satisfied.

  “That will look like wood carving when it’s dry and I paint it,” he decided.

  He went upstairs and lost himself in ‘Lieutenant Hornblower’. The book was his favourite. He dropped off to sleep with his head full of images of himself battling to the top of those bloodstained ramparts as the dawn broke over Samana Bay.

  On Wednesday Max came with them to Peter’s. Roger joined them on the way, then Margaret. They arrived just after 9am to find Peter sitting in the port hull adjusting a twin tiller connected by a cross piece. He waved and grinned at them.

  Graham stopped to admire the Cat. He thought she looked very good. The yellow strake set off the black hulls very nicely.

  Max walked around the Cat and sneered. “What an old tub! We’ll never win in that!”

  Graham felt a surge of defensive anger. “Well, you don’t have to come if you don’t like it!”

  Roger agreed. “Yes Max. Besides, can you do better? Can you get us a Cat?”

  Max sniffed and did not reply. Graham proceeded to show the others the four lockers and got them to help him get out the mast and boom.

  He examined the mast carefully. At the thinner end, which he presumed was the top, two rusty bolts had been fastened through holes drilled in the bamboo. The first was half a metre down from the top and the other about fifteen-centimetres below that and at right angles to it.

  “I think I see how this worked,” he said. “The shrouds come up to this lower bolt, which is to stop them slipping down. The forestay comes up to the upper bolt and I guess the pulley for the sail hoist is attached to it as well.”

  Max sneered again. “It looks bloody primitive!”

  “It is,” Peter agreed. “But I’ll bet it works. Graham, I’m appointing you bosun.”

  Graham beamed with pleasure. “Good. And I’ll double as Chief Bosun’s Mate and flog the mutineers and slackers. Aye, aye.”

  “What’s a bosun?” Margaret asked.

  “He was the man on a sailing ship responsible for all the rigging - the ropes, not the sails,” Graham explained.

  “Where does this mast go?” Roger asked.

  Graham pointed to where two beams joined the two hulls together at the break of the focsle. They were only ten centimetres apart and in the middle a small timber box was nailed on. “I’d say we put the foot of the mast in there.”

  “How is the boom attached?” Kylie asked.

  “That iron hoop sticking out of the end. It just slips over the end of the mast,” Graham said.

  “Let’s set it up,” Roger suggested.

  “We are going to. Now help me with the sails,” Peter said.

  They hauled the sails out and unrolled them. Once again Max made disparaging remarks and pulled at the edging, causing a small rent to appear.

  “This one,” Peter decided. They bundled the sail up and took it to the boat. It had a series of a dozen brass rings like large bangles sewn onto the rope edging. Graham proceeded to thread them onto the bamboo mast from the bottom.

  “Like curtain rings on a curtain rod,” Margaret said, clapping her hands with delight.

  Max was incredulous. He was used to modern alloy masts in which the edge of the sail slid up in a groove. He shook his head.

  “Put the boom on, then tie those foot ropes around it,” Graham instructed. The foot of the sail had to be tied to the boom. He was careful to ensure the two lower corners - the foot and the leech were securely fastened.

  “Reef knots Kylie! Reef knots!”

  He selected a pulley, then cut a metre length piece off the red cordage.

  “Cut that green rope into three pieces: one ten-metre length and two twenty metre lengths and back splice the ends,” he instructed. While they did that he whipped the ends of his cord with new string, then threaded the rope through the eye of the pulley and securely lashed it to the top of the mast at the top bolt. It felt very satisfying to be doing something he was good at, to work with his fingers, to demonstrate to the others he had some useful skills.

  The splicing took longer than they expected and was much harder than they thought. They had all been taught how to do it in Scouts or Guides but hadn’t really paid attention. Margaret looked so miserable and made such a tangle Graham went and sat beside her and helped her. She was annoyed with herself and worried he would just think her a silly little girl.

  It took so long they gave up.

  “My fingers hurt!” Kylie moaned.

  “OK. Finish the one you are doing and we will whip the other ends,” Graham said. He back spliced his, then went to critically examine and help the others. He then spliced both ends of the twenty metre red rope.

  This he fed through the pulley and tied securely to a brass eyelet in the top corner of the mainsail. The other end he secured to the boom at the hoop. He pulled at it to ensure it ran freely. With every minute he was becoming more and more excited. It was working! The Old Cat was coming alive! She would sail again!

  The ten-metre green rope, the new forestay, was threaded through more brass rings on the hem of the jib. Graham lashed the top of the forestay to the top of the mast. Then he secured a second pulley just below it and threaded through it
the orange rope which would raise and lower the jib. One end of this rope was tied to the hoist of the jib and the other to the mast below the boom. Next Graham tied the two twenty metre green ropes around the mast between the two bolts so that an equal amount was free on each side.

  “These are the shrouds and backstays,” he explained.

  “How do we get the mast up?” Roger asked.

  “Same as the skiff. One of you hold the forestay and Roger you take that other backstay. No, not that one, the other one,” Graham instructed, pointing. “I will lift the mast and position the butt in its socket. Ready? No, you girls don’t help. We have to do this as a team.”

  Graham walked to the end of the mast and lifted it, then walked along it pushing it up and holding the butt so it went into the box. It was easier than he expected but they had trouble with the branches of an overhanging tree.

  When the mast was upright Graham shook a shroud loose, looped the end through the D ring on the gunwale and hauled it taut. Then he paused, considering what knot to use. Real square-riggers used two blocks called ‘Deadeyes’ with a triple or quadruple purchase to strain the shrouds tight. Ah! Strain! He quickly loosened the rope, twisted it to make a bight and then a loop and fed the end up through the loop and hauled down. “A straining hitch,” he explained.

  Graham did the same to the other shroud, then helped Max to fasten the forestay the same way. Next the two backstays, each about a metre aft of the line of the mast, were similarly tightened. Graham looked up at their handiwork and grinned with pleasure.

  “OK Roger. Haul the jib up and tie it on.”

  They watched as the jib transformed itself from a crumpled grey mass to a sail. It flapped in the breeze because there was no sheet ‘bent’ onto the leech. Graham tossed Roger the remaining five-metres of orange rope and told him to “bend it on and belay”.

  Max then hoisted the mainsail. The pulley squealed and the brass hoops rattled over the joints in the bamboo and Graham felt even happier. ‘Now she really looks like a sailing ship,’ he thought.

  The boom swung in the breeze. Peter picked up the yellow mainsheet but Graham stopped him.

  “We need a ‘traveller’,” he said. “A rope from one side to the other which allows the lower block, that’s this spare pulley, to slide from side to side as the boom is swung across. We don’t really need it but it works better.”

  He cut a length of white rope, threaded it through a shackle on the outside end of the beam which ran across the two hulls just in front of the helmsman’s position. After feeding the pulley onto it he led the rope back across to a similar shackle on the other end of the beam. He pushed it through and then tied the two ends, leaving the loop of rope slightly loose.

  “I’ll just ‘mouse’ the ends of this knot so it doesn’t come undone,” Graham explained, pulling out his sheath knife and reaching for the string. “Pete, you tie the end of the mainsheet onto this lower pulley, take it up through the one on the boom, then back down and through the bottom one. Then tie the end to the beam.”

  When that was done they all walked around and pulled at various ropes. They felt very pleased with themselves.

  “Let’s go and try her out,” Graham said.

  “Hold on,” Peter said. “Let’s take it all down and stow it. Then we need to collect all the other things we need, like the anchor and chain, the lifejackets and so on.”

  “A couple of old tins or something to use as bailers,” Max said. “We are going to ship a lot of water.”

  They untied the backstays and shrouds and took the mast down. The sails were rolled into sausages and stowed in the hulls. Then they set about collecting all the stray items they might need. These were lined up on the lawn. Graham shackled the anchor chain, still rusty, but useable, back to the bolt in the chain locker. He stowed the chain and anchor then again oiled the hinges and bolt on the locker hatch.

  They lifted the Cat onto the trailer and loaded all the items on board. Peter added the old lifejackets.

  Max picked one up. “What the hell are these made of?”

  “Cork and canvas,” Peter replied.

  “Did you rob a museum? Where did these come from, the Titanic?” Max cried.

  “Nope. Grandad.”

  That made them laugh and eased the tension. Some old plastic ice-cream buckets were added as bailers. Graham stowed these, plus the spare rope and string in the starboard locker. “This is the sail locker and bosun’s store,” he said.

  “We ready?” Max asked.

  “What about lunch first?” Roger suggested.

  They laughed but Peter looked at his watch. “Yes, lunch. It’s ten to twelve. Mum will be expecting us.”

  So they had a quick lunch. Then they formed themselves around the trailer and towed it out the front gate onto the footpath.

  CHAPTER 19

  WHAT WILL WE CALL HER?

  It took only ten-minutes to wheel the Cat to the Esplanade. The trailer was left in a parking area and the boys lifted the Cat and carried her across the lawn and down to the small strip of beach. The incoming tide had covered all but a metre or so of the black, glutinous mud which filled much of the shallow inlet.

  They lowered the Cat and set to work rigging her. On Peter’s direction each was allocated a job they were to specialise in. Graham, as the ‘Bosun’, again lifted the butt of the mast into position, helped raise it, then tightened the shrouds and stays. He then walked around and tested each for tautness while Roger secured the foresheet and Max secured the main sheet.

  “OK, let’s put her in the water,” Peter said.

  “Put your lifejackets on you boys,” Kylie called.

  Graham, Peter and Roger all picked one of the old jackets and tied them on. Max refused. “No. They stink. I won’t.”

  Graham shrugged. He smeared sun cream on his hands and face, pulled his old scout hat on tight and rolled his sleeves down.

  “Shouldn’t we name her as we launch her?” he asked.

  Max sneered. “What are you suggesting? That we get Lady Muck to smash a champagne bottle over her bows?” he said.

  “No. But I think we should give her a name,” Graham persisted.

  “I agree,” Peter said. “What do you suggest?”

  Graham thought of romantic names from storybooks and history. “What about naming her after a pirate ship; like Captain Kidd’s Adventure Galley, or Blackbeard’s Queen Anne’s Revenge?”.

  Max snorted. “Pirate ship! Strewth you play with yourself Graham!”

  Graham went red with embarrassment. “Don’t be crude in front of my sister thank you,” he replied stiffly.

  Max glared at him, also embarrassed. “Let’s not talk about sisters shall we?”

  Graham pursed his lips and went redder than ever. He noted Kylie’s eyes narrow and knew she would ask him later what he had said or done to Max’s sister. He felt a surge of guilt. Margaret gave him a hurt look.

  Peter interrupted. “Stop bickering you two. It’s my Cat and I’ll decide.”

  Roger spoke next. “If this voyage is anything like the last we should call her the Bounty.”

  They laughed at that.

  “No,” Graham said. “That’s my dad’s ship.”

  “Graham!” Kylie cried. “Don’t be horrible.”

  “Sorry Sis. But you don’t have to work on the bloody thing. Scrub this! Clean that! Chip that rust! Grease that winch!” Graham retorted.

  “What about calling her The Black Cat?” Margaret suggested diffidently.

  “Or Bronsky’s Folly,” Roger quipped.

  “The Black Cat! I like it,” Peter said. “Hmm. Maybe I’ll think about it. Old Cat will do for the moment. You girls name her, one to each hull. This one is Old and that one is Cat.”

  The girls blushed and giggled but were pleased and stepped forward to do so. The boys gave a cheer.

  “OK, let’s shove off,” Peter said.

  “Don’t you boys forget the tide,” Kylie warned. “You’ve only got ha
lf an hour to High Water.”

  “She’ll be right,” Peter replied. “OK, grab hold, ... Ah! Yuk!”

  He had stepped into the black mud which squelched and instantly covered his clean sandshoe to the ankle. After briefly studying the mess he said: “Shoes off I think, until we are underway.”

  Max wasn’t wearing any. The other three sat and took their sandshoes and socks off and tossed them into the hulls.

  “Watch out for broken glass and sharp shellfish,” Kylie warned.

  “Risk we have to take,” Peter replied, but he did take care as he walked into the mud. Graham was amazed at how cold and slimy the mud was as it squished up between his toes.

  Roger cried out in disgust. “Ay yuk! It will ruin the paintwork,” he said.

  Peter shrugged. “Tough! Can’t be helped Roger. You go up the front on the other side from Graham. Max you walk down the back with me.”

  They tried to lift the Cat to carry her down but Graham and Roger slipped and instantly sank to their knees in the ooze. Roger fell and came up with one arm coated in black slime.

  “Ah! Yuk! Bugger!”

  They had to slide the Cat in, ignoring the scraping sounds on the new paintwork. Graham and Roger kept wading out, sinking at each step until they were in water over their knees. There were still only a few centimetres of water over the mud.

  After squishing out for twenty-metres they found the water was only just deep enough to float the Cat. By then all four were soaked to the waist and their legs were coated in the greyish, black mud.

  “It’s like liquid bloody plasticine!” Graham cried. He pulled a leg free with an audible gurgle. As his weight came on the other leg so it squelched down. He had to use the Cat for support.

  Peter stopped them. “This is no good. I’ll get aboard and set the mainsail and rudder. Then we will try leaning on her to make her slide across the mud.”