Pete Atkinson has lived aboard his boat on the Huon River for the last three years. On the weekend he moved house from his current mooring, upstream to the new marina in Franklin. His boat is a cruiser, though propellerless, so required towing. The deed was arranged for 7am on Saturday. Lloyd would bring his yacht.
We woke to the phone call from Captain Pugwash's mobile; it was Lloyd, recruiting an extra hand. They were already half way up the river. Our enthusiasm quickly filled with sweet rising air, I drove Michael to the river. The early sun had cast its line low, and the whale blue water curved, in still reflection, except for the silver trail of their two boats coursing silently upstream.
Riding the watery swathe with a certain majesty, our whiskery companions -- Captain Pugwash and Admiral Hornblower -- gave a royal salute as they headed into dock. Peter settled in to his new berth without mishap and Lloyd invited us aboard for breakfast. He keeps a tight ship. It is the smallest canoe-stern yacht in the southern hemisphere, and Lloyd describes the cabin, his living quarters, as a Chippendale wardrobe. He keeps it moored behind the Apple Factory and has attached himself and his floating home to the local river culture here, on and off, for the past five years.
As the sun rose, the river traffic was heating up with rowing teams down for a weekend regatta. Lloyd had been doing some sculling himself the night before, as evidenced from the empty bottles he'd polished off with Peter and Vanessa Shield -- orchardists and leisure yachties from up the river. They were tied up behind since Peter was doing some competition rowing for the seniors that day. The rowing club was right nearby. I'd chat with them later.
After bacon, eggs and coffee, (I declined the beans), I fossicked for stories. I found this pair of half century old barnacles, and tried to pry open their shells. Both Pete and Lloyd were full of yarns and I was hoping for a pearl.
Captain Pugwash was easy to crack. "Arrghh!" he growled, his lined face squinting into the sun. "Did I tell you about the time I had a rat on board?
It must have come aboard when I was docked at the Royal Yacht club in Hobart. I set off for a weekend sail down the Huon and Channel. On the way I could hear this "scratch, scratch, scratch". I could see its beady eyes staring at me every time I opened a cupboard, or looked under the seat to get a bag or a rope -- there it was.
"Farkin Oathe!" Lloyd rasped, and took another drag on his smoke.
By the time I got to Kettering, I'd phoned up a mate who arrived with a monster rat trap. It had chewed the bottle caps of my cooking oil and was still rattling around in the cupboards. We set the trap up in the cupboard under the sink. That night I couldn't sleep, waiting for it to go off. Finally I heard it snap. I still couldn't sleep with the thought of it squealing. Finally, I opened the cupboard the next morning.
The bloody rat was wild and ready to fight me. It'd only been caught it by tail, and it was angry. It was vicious and I had to fight it. I used the barbeque tongs to get it back in but, the bloody thing escaped.
But it was ugly, and I hate rats. I didn't sleep for three days. Finally the last day I'd caught a really good northwest breeze and sailed right around Taylors Bay. The rat was still on the loose, but I reset the trap with some salami. I was dog-tired, so that night I got pissed. I was so pissed I was scratchless -- by the time I got home I nearly fell out with the anchor when I put it out. Then I heard the trap go snap. "Beauty!" I thought. I used the tongs to get it out and chucked the rat overboard. It was last seen swimming towards Huonville.
"Mmmn!" methinks -- Huonville. I'd heard reports of scurryings from our local council chambers there. Though before I could say anything -- Peter pipes up:
"That's when I caught it -- the poor rat was in a terrible state!" Pete said, "I thought about calling the RSPCA; instead I nursed it back to health for three days. When it was full recovered I put it back aboard the Belle Brandon.
The Belle Brandon? (you say)… Well, that's another story!
© Gail Galloway 2000
© Jonathan Sturm 2001