Life Boat: How a Century Old Boat and a New Dream Inspired an Adventure of a Lifetime

By Mark Harwood

Mark, Karen and the Arab, a 100-year-old leaking lifeboat, battle October gales around the Coast of England, find themselves blocked in by ice in France, take unbelievable detours, and make minor mistakes that lead to major problems in the most unpredictable conditions. Equal parts romantic travelogue, suspense, high sea adventure and resurrection, Life Boat is one biographical voyage you won’t want to miss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781304799135

Book preview

Life Boat: How a Century Old Boat and a New Dream Inspired an Adventure of a Lifetime

Life Boat

How a Century Old Boat and a New Dream Inspired an Adventure of a Lifetime

Mark Harwood

Title -Life Boat

ISBN - 9781304729453

Third Edition – 6th Feb 2014

Copyright © 2013 by Mark Harwood

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.

For more information or books –

Mark Harwood,

1005 Delia Road,

Port Sydney, Ontario,

Canada

P0B 1L0

705 385 1452

[e-mail]

www.harwoodwatercraft.com/mybook

To follow our journey on google earth

www.LifeBoatAdventure.com

I would like to thank Karen, my first mate, my magnetic north, who made the journey such a joy, and my children, Jesse and Elena, the high water marks, for making our return such a joy.

The Introduction

Bristol 2001

Where did it begin for me? One memory really sticks out in my mind. I was sitting on a colleague’s boat, after a long day at work, having a few drinks with friends. When discussing his future, Mark told us that he was going to put a sail on the Arab and take her to the Med. I remember so clearly, thinking at the time, it would be a shame to say goodbye to my colleague. Never thinking, I wouldn’t say goodbye, but go with him.

Karen, First Mate

In the Beginning

I’d had no designs whatsoever on sailing the Arab when I found her in London. Certainly, never as far as the Med. Or that I might be blessed with the woman of my dreams as first mate. I just needed a place to live and fast.

My concern had been to get back on my feet; even if it were on the water. I had been living with a friend, David, after separating from my English wife and as these things typically transpire I had most assuredly veered into the ‘over stayed’ zone of my welcome. We had come to England, with our two children from my native Canada for various reasons, intending to stay a couple of years. After our separation I had gravitated to the floating harbour area of Bristol in much of my spare time. A flavourful and historic part of town, its banks were lined with a menagerie of boats. Finally it dawned on me; this is where I would live, on a boat. My spirit, lying dormant for some months, bubbled anew to the surface. I bought the appropriate publications and started with the process of searching out a cheap boat to moor at the docks.

Far and away the most represented boats in the publications were the Narrowboats, a uniquely English boat designed originally and specifically for their canals. As their name suggests they are long skinny barges that were used to haul freight before the advent of trains rendered them obsolete. Now they enjoy a new life in numbers as liveaboards and pleasure craft. Most of the people living on boats at the docks, did so on these.

I worked at a museum housed in the historic confines of Bristol’s (indeed the world’s), original train station and coincidentally one day, a gentleman by the name of Howard Smith, happened by my office. He struck me right away with an old world charm. I was sitting at my desk when I heard him.

Are you Mark?

I looked up to a short man with the remnants of many a pub evening wrapped around his midsection. Fair skinned with rosy cheeks. One eye glassed and funky; the other imbued with a rich glow of sincerity.

Yes I am, I offered getting up. Out came his hand,

Well Mark, I’m Howard Smith, but they just call me Smudger. They sent me to see you about getting some of my tools out of your clock tower.

Oh right…

He picked up on my bewilderment,

I was working on the old train in the yard, months ago now, and the project seems to have run out of steam so to speak. It was organised by the little fella; the director here…

Gareth, I offered.

That’s the gent; but we haven’t been here for a while now. Apparently, they didn’t get funds to refurbish it.

We each carried a tool box across the yard and back through the building to my office. When I asked him where his car was parked, he shook his head.

Nope, I’m on a narrowboat just across the bridge out back.

No kidding, I jumped in, I’m just starting to look around at buying one. You live on it?

I do so; two years now.

I’ve never been on one, would you mind if I come by and take a look?

We had spoken long enough that I felt I had a read on him. He was friendly and approachable, so I was confident that my somewhat forward request wouldn’t cause any unease.

By all means Mark. You’re familiar with the pedestrian bridge out back? Well you’ll see Annabelle from the bridge, that’s me.

Annabelle was a brand new forty foot vessel completed inside by Smudger. She was immaculate. Kept as only a retired person could. Someone with time to busy themselves with the fussiest of cleaning, polishing and tidying. Smudger was one proud skipper. I thanked him for the tour, the hospitality and the beer. I asked him to let me know if he heard of any cheap boats for sale. I walked away further inspired that this was the way forward for me.

Shortly thereafter, I visited two narrowboats and a little cruiser, but they were all in varying states of dilapidation. My enthusiasm suffered a blow, it seemed my price range wasn’t going to get me much. One day going through a fresh publication I was intrigued by an advert that read –

Roberts of Mevagissey Self-righting Lifeboat

36 feet, Historic Padstow Lifeboat, ‘Arab’, Served 1901-1931

New Top, Hull Teak. Lister Engine, BSS Certificate, Basic Liveaboard/Cruiser

£7,500 quick sale. Lying Kingston-Upon-Thames.

I was already visiting London so, although it was beyond my price range, decided to call. On the phone Tom, the owner, warned me that there was a provisional buyer for the boat, but that I was welcome to come see her.

On descending the three steps of the companionway I was engulfed with my first breath, inside and out, by an aura that permeated the cabin. An aroma distinctive in its presence, if not its source, charmed the atmosphere. She felt like a proper little ship; her wooden hull painted white, lit up by summer sun pouring through eight brass portholes. Standing room was only afforded under an ornate skylight amidships. I sat down at the table with Tom where he gave me her story.

Tom had worked in a boatyard some years back, situated where we were now docked. The Arab had been lying derelict on the Thames, shamefully half sunk against a bank. He had salvaged and restored her back to her present state. There were two intriguing items on the companionway wall; a fuel tank and electrical panel, robust and utilitarian, that Tom had also salvaged from a sunken naval vessel. A scar on his forearm from an eel, during the dive, a perpetual reminder of the deed.

The restoration done, he had moved on board. He’d had no idea of her history until he returned to a note taped on deck by a passing lifeboat aficionado. He opened up a folder packed with information on her from the RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institute), with whom she served. She had been launched in 1901 and decommissioned in 1931. She had carried ten oars and two masts. She had been launched in service more than forty times and had retrieved seventy-five souls from Davy Jones’ Locker. Twice her coxswains were awarded with medals for their exploits on the rescues.

Tom got up and left me alone. He was having lunch on a patio with his family and told me to follow him when I was ready; no hurry. I sat still for some time on a side bench intoxicated. It struck me that she held an essence of her years. Planks steeped in time. She far outshone the other boats I had been on, but at £7,500 was more than I could afford. I sat looking out upon the Thames, through the scope of the portholes, while the Arab nodded and winked suggestively. I told Tom of my limit financially and that I loved the Arab. Two days later, back in Bristol my phone rang. Deal fell through; she was mine for £5,500. Tom reasoned, it was fate that the other buyer had waffled because he’d had a gut feeling that I was the right one for her. I had a gut feeling that he was right.

I immediately booked two weeks holiday and ventured to London the following weekend. School being out, I loaded my kids, Jesse and Elena, 11 and 7 years old respectively, in my camper van telling them that we were going camping. They slept in the back, while I drove late into London. In the morning they looked a little baffled waking on their camping trip in London.

The Arab was moored on a private dock. I opened the ‘Residents Only’ gate, much to Jesse’s dismay who read the sign out to me in case I hadn’t noticed.

I stopped at the Arab, What do ya think of this one?

Elena wasn’t too impressed, as she had found a mother and ducklings paddling amongst the marshy morning reeds, but Jesse’s eyes lit up,

Oh yeah, that’s neat.

I sprang on board and his face contorted, horrified.

Dad. What are you doing?

She’s ours; I bought her, I said, raising my arms in triumph.

He immediately hopped through his horror; stepped beyond his surprise, and jumped into his joy. He landed beside me, simultaneously yelling to his sister,

Ellie, come on our boat; Dad’s bought it.

When Tom arrived with his wife and children, he agreed to ride along the Thames for a couple of locks to make sure I had a feel for it. We motored along and through a beautiful afternoon enjoying a couple of beers, periodically rescuing his dog who kept jumping in the river. Abruptly, at a lock, Tom jumped off teary eyed and quickly paced the distance out of sight without looking back. She was mine.

After the summer, I hauled the Arab out to make some changes and repairs. In the yard next to me were a couple, Dan and Sarah, working on their old wooden fishing boat, the Cocoon. Married just the previous summer they had spent their honeymoon sailing the Cocoon from the purchase point back toward Bristol, as far as their allotted time allowed. Like myself they were anxious to get their boat back in the water to live on. Finally on a bright and beautiful Easter weekend our freshly painted boats were gently laid back into the embrace of their element.

Dan was an enthusiastic sailor and soon was lending me books by numerous high seas adventurers, hallowed names to the boating fraternity like Knox-Johnson and Moitessier. There wasn’t a bad one just better ones. I tore through them all into uncharted territory.

One visit late summer, Dan sat on the starboard bench of the Arab. The buzz of the season resonated in the harbour waters and the Arab fidgeted on her lines.

I’m serious you should put a sail on her, it’d be great. With that he leaned forward for a pinch of tobacco from his pouch with an infectious grin on his face. It wasn’t the first time that he had suggested a sail on the Arab, but it was the first time I took him seriously. I was duly primed by all the sailing stories; their words fermented in my mind, a volatile brew that finally exploded before the spark of our conversation.

Preparation Quay

The night after my conversation with Dan, I stood back from the Arab; draped her in an assortment of sails and began considering that he may be right.

It didn’t take long upon reflection for the voice of reason to command the parliament of the mind. Where would all the money come from? Not only would the Arab need a sail, mast and accompanying hardware and lines, a formidable expense in and of itself, but what of the long list of paraphernalia for safety and navigation? My wages were subsistent at best. These realities would be a constant and significant drain from such a meekly finite source. However, if money appeared a major hurdle then my lack of experience seemed a wall. I had never so much as sailed a dinghy on a lake; let alone a thirty-seven foot boat at sea. They wouldn’t call them dreams if they withered before the breath of reality. First things first, that voice of reason would need to be quieted for a while; perhaps smothered under a blanket of yeses.

I set to task by trying to gather as much from as many as I could. Anybody having anything to do with boats, whether they worked on them, lived on them, sailed or fished on them, they were all given the third degree by yours truly. All my time and energy I now dedicated to getting myself and the Arab ready.

I was sitting at my desk having lunch at work going over some information I had been sent in regards to a sailing course. The courses were accredited by the Royal Yachting Association who issued a certificate upon completion. A correspondence school, it was solely theoretical, but the practical courses were far too cost prohibitive. It would have to do.

The door opened and Simon, a co-worker, walked in. He saw the literature strewn upon my desk as he made his way to a seat by the window.

What’s up? he said, pulling out his tobacco pouch.

Oh, I’m just looking into some sailing schools. I said, leaning back in my chair.

I liked Simon. He was a young guy, not long out of school, but had maturity beyond his years. Possessed a hearty laugh that he would comment through, so it would come out like machine gun fire. He had surprised me during an after work pub session when the Arab was in dry dock.

So, what ya got goin’ on this weekend? he’d asked reaching for his Guinness.

Workin’ on the Arab. I said matter of factly.

Need a hand?

Sure enough the following morning came a voice from below.

Hello, hey what’s the protocol here; do I need to ask for permission to board a boat that’s not in the water?

A box of donuts was tossed into the cockpit while he took to the ladder to climb on board. I had grabbed the donuts,

Well ordinarily I’d say yeah; but anyone who brings a Canadian donuts is given carte blanche.

Back in the office Simon put the finishing touches on his cigarette.

What’s it cost?

Few hundred quid, I said, adding facetiously, but there’s a good discount if two sign up at once.

What is it for two? he said, and I saw that he was serious.

The course material soon arrived, by which time we had made some tentative plans on sailing the Arab. We immediately dove in. We had worked over the first couple of chapters together before Simon started lagging behind. Within a month things changed monumentally. Simon had become involved with a work colleague, Melanie, while Karen, yet another work colleague and I, became embroiled in a romance all our own.

Karen had been at the museum for a while by then. Simon and I had helped her move from the fringes of Bristol into the centre, about a mile from the Arab. We were spending more and more time together. She was quiet and easy-going but, as I had witnessed at work, no shrinking violet when someone turned up the heat. Our paths crossed often at work. She would stride into my office for a few words and I would wait to see if this would be one of those occasions when she would take the clip from her hair when she sat down, freeing long silky strands of blonde hair to land in sultry patterns upon her shoulders; freeing blood from the headwaters of the heart.

Eventually, and coincidentally on my birthday in October, a group of us from work were squeezed into a tiny pub by the docks; Karen and I side by side. Her hair I noticed, hanging down in a fabulous new pattern. I told her how excited I was with my sailing course before missing my lips with my pint of John Smiths, spilling beer down my credibility. She leaned forward laughing.

You’re not really taking the Arab to the Med are you?

Well that’s the plan, I countered, dabbing my shirt with a napkin, not to worry though, I’m not taking any John Smiths on board.

Later, we were walking back to the Arab when I thought I would finally try to endorse my feelings. I took extra care not to miss my lips again. To my relief, and pleasure, she helped to make sure that weren’t to happen. Next thing we knew my crazy idea was our crazy idea.

With my studying well underway a plan of action on the fitting out of the Arab needed to be set in motion. Figuring prominently on the list was what rig? I went to the Central Library in Bristol for an answer. It was a stately, sculpted building shouldered next to the beautiful cathedral. They had a decent selection of books on sailboats. It came as no surprise given the storied maritime heritage of this once vibrant port. Never having sailed, I looked at each in turn in an unbiased, albeit, elementary fashion. I read about sloops, ketches, yawls, schooners, gaffs and cutters. It was an unusual one in the far end of the list that most caught my eye. The Chinese junk. The initial appeal was to its aesthetics. It was shapely and elegant in the way it fanned out at the top, like some graceful prehistoric butterfly wing. I decided to research it further.

I maxed out my library card and unleashed my bicycle from the hitching post.

Let’s go Spacemaster, I whispered to it, before starting my ascent up to Karen’s flat perched high upon Whiteladies Road. It was the heart of winter and I took to filling in the puffs of exertion in the frosty air with warm imaginings. We bunkered down in Karen’s flat for much of winter’s reign, filling in many hours studying the course material and planning the changes to the Arab.

Karen sourced a junk rig website on the Internet and there was no looking back. Dating back hundreds of years these rigs offered much beyond their initial appeal. They were low tech and could be made and repaired economically. They were easily set and reefed from the safe confines of the cockpit, without having to clamber around on heaving decks. The sails were hung on unstayed masts that were much lower than their counterparts, resulting in a lower centre of gravity and reduced heeling. That made sense even to me. The more I read, the more this seemed the right choice. We had found the rig to grace the Arab. The junk rig site graciously offered the loan of the definitive book on junk rigs and I drew up a plan.

Spring was quickly approaching and we wanted to leave before summer’s end. There seemed to be an overwhelming amount to do. One day, picking up Jesse and Elena, my ex-wife informed me that she had become involved with someone in Canada and planned to go back to live there when school was out. I couldn’t be long behind them; I was much too far away already at a couple of miles. If this adventure was going to happen it needed to be this summer.

Fate played into my hand near this time, for I put in a bid for some after hours work and landed that. It would bring me an extra month’s wage for a couple of weekends work. Karen gave up her flat and moved aboard the Arab with me, freeing up further cash for our final push. Perhaps the double edged sword of time/money could be kept from slicing up our plans.

One day in April we sat down in front of a formidable to-do list: GPS, steering compass, hand bearing compass, inflatable lifejackets, harnesses, lifelines, guardrails, depth finder, trilight, fire extinguisher, electric bilge pump, two anchors, two lengths of chain, two lengths of warp, VHF radio, flares, anchor buoys, radar reflector, charts and a tender. All this was aside from what was involved in the rigging of her. A list equally as extensive. We looked at one another; nothing said, though our eyes betrayed our thoughts. We resolved to not get too stressed about it. Maybe it was too much to accomplish. So be it. I consoled myself that the skippering course, in and of itself, was interesting and worthwhile. As for the money and resources going into the Arab; hopefully that would be recovered when my allotted time with her ran its course. It gave me pleasure looking after and improving her anyway. So, we buried ourselves with all our efforts to ready us for an adventure. Beyond that, beyond our little stage, there was little else we could do but send off silent pleas beyond the walls to any gods who would listen.

One important item we had forgotten from our list was suggested to us most conclusively by Karen’s mum, Carol Hudson. It had started innocently enough, with a short visit on board before a theatre engagement. I had sat down to a late meal while Karen escorted her mum off the boat. I heard my name shouted just after the splash, and just before, my first taste of dinner. Karen’s mum, dressed in full evening regalia had plunged into the murky waters. Never the time to ask whether or not your guest could swim, I had jumped in after her. Thankfully, she could swim. Problem was, getting back on board. Only members of Cirque Du Soleil could achieve the task of getting back on the Arab from the water. We swam to a more accommodating narrowboat to drag ourselves out. It quickly became apparent that we needed to add a boarding ladder to our inventory. I dutifully fashioned it out of manila rope and pine slats. We christened it ‘The Handy Hudson,’ in a solemn ceremony and it lived forever more in a locker in our cockpit.

Our efforts were in fact rewarded by good fortune. For every step we took, two prints it seemed, were left behind. Encouragement, advice, materials and even labour came in from all over in the course of that Spring and Summer. With it came the realization that any major undertaking is a tapestry of humanity. We all have people around us who are willing to contribute and share in the achievements. Even the naysayers with their dire warnings, helped to temper our perspective. I tried my best to leave prejudices and ego out of my dealings with those who offered advice. Tried to extract vital insights from those whose ideas clashed with mine, and conversely, to find the faults of logic with those who I most respected. In that way, I hoped to build a balanced idea of the reality. This was perhaps folly for I indeed possessed a huge bias; I had already decided to go. Still, I looked for suspects who might hijack our resolve.

I was sitting in a sunny courtyard on a fine spring day, in a new complex next to where I worked. I had my head buried in the junk rig textbook, oblivious to the comings and goings of the herds of business stock shuffling over the concrete field.

Mark.

I looked up from my book to see the smiling face of Dan before me. It was good to see him. I had seen less and less of him and his wife, Sarah, over the long winter months. He sat down and eyed the book on my lap. I closed the book to expose the cover and told him I was taking his advice and sailing the old Arab.

Of course, his face lit up, the junk rig, why didn’t I think of that? That’s perfect.

He obliged me while I went through all the details of the rig. Always listening attentively with nods and encouragement. Punctuating my enthusiasm with ‘that’s a great feature; that’ll be nice and simple; I’ve got some bits and pieces you can use’.                                                                          

I felt on top of the world when we parted ways after lunch. The fact that I had been able to send my ideas through him and see them come back in living colour was a nice piece of energy to have. It would provide some important inertia for the long road ahead.

The days were longer; the light was stronger;

Blossoms of spring had awakened.

Time and place occupied our space;

Waves of spring were breaking.

Someone along the line had told us about a great chandlery on the south coast, near Southampton. Chock-a-block full of used stuff, if you had the time and the patience to go through it. I had already gotten rid of my VW van by this point. Fortunately, a colleague at work, Barb, had made us a generous open ended offer; if ever we needed to borrow wheels... I put on my best puppy dog face and went to ask. She didn’t hesitate. Made me feel it was I who was doing the favour. Truly gracious. I drove away with a big smile and a warm heart. Thankful for so many of the stops along the path of this journey already.

Karen and I drove up a single lane dirt road toward the boaters’ scrapyard. There were boats in varying states of decomposition marking our arrival. Heaps of outboards huddled here; masts lying there. Narrow paths fought their way through to various outbuildings in a random sprawl of trails. A long ramp invited us into a shack. It sat on the edge of a small bay that waited forlornly on the tide. An assortment of boats were dragged up on the silty banks, like spent summers trying to catch their breath.

Inside it didn’t take long to cross many items from our list: Self inflating life jackets, floating light buoy (for man overboard retrieval), anchor, hand bearing compass, anchor chain, warp and radar reflector. Directly across the road was a chandler of new goods. There we picked up much of what was left: Flares, barometer, trilights, VHF radio and GPS. With this one trip we had managed to fit ourselves out with much of what we would need in the way of equipment. We felt good. Held hands as we raced back toward Bristol. Marvelled at how much we had saved on the items from the funky old boatyard.

Despite this, I would sometimes drift away into the recesses of my mind on that trip back. I found myself engaged in conversation with someone far less attractive than Karen; far less agreeable, negotiating over the price of experience. They were shaking their head at me; I was emptying my pockets; telling them that I was good for it. In the end, they’d slammed the door in my face and I re-entered the small, safe, confines of the car left to wonder what, pray tell, I could borrow off Peter to pay Paul.

Mark Rolt owned and operated the boatyard next to our mooring. It was where I had earlier done some of the major work on the boat. He couldn’t have been friendlier to me. Whenever I had a notion to do something that required his help, or at least approval, he was there for me. When it came time to tackle my mast he was there again with advice and space in his yard to work. This included entrusting me with the key to the gate and even allowing me to purchase the lumber in his name, so I could benefit from his commercial deal with the lumberyard.

Brian,