THE L-PLATE LIVEABOARDS
MIKE BODNAR: There’s nothing like taking a leap into the deep end to quickly improve your knowledge, boating or otherwise. We learnt all about this as we set off down the Saône
Having provisioned Liberty and practised manoeuvres midstream, we at last headed down the river Saône, which treated us kindly. The engine roared with confidence, even if those in charge of it had none.
Occasionally we saw signs on the tree-lined riverbank with the letters PK followed by a number, different on each, such as PK214. Liz and I theorised that the French were teasing us about our Pitiful Knowledge, before discovering in the canal guide that they were distance signs: PK standing for Point Kilometre, the number underneath being the distance from a fixed point. So we were 214km upstream from Lyon (though Pitiful Knowledge with 214 things still to learn seemed more appropriate).
As our first lock approached, I nervously activated the VHF radio. Apart from playing with walkie-talkies as a kid (“Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird Two, come in, over…”) I had no experience of formal radio communication, but did at least know my Alpha Bravos. Ten minutes from the lock, and hoping I didn’t sound like a complete Tango Whisky Alpha Tango, I transmitted in strangled French that we were a bateau plaisance called Liberty, heading downstream ( avalant) and would be there in about dix minutes – just as the canal guide said we should.
To our surprise, the lock keeper acknowledged our call (“Rojerrr, Sunderbird Fahve…”), and minutes later we tackled our first huge, commercial-sized lock, with a drop of around 4m. Luckily we had it to ourselves, relieved not to be sharing it with 300 tonnes of commercial boat, and emerged at the other end unscathed.
Over the ensuing days we encountered a very wide variety of boats or, more to the point, a variety of very wide boats. Some, especially those laden with gravel, appeared to be sinking, the river actually lapping against their gunwales. It was clear who would win in any game of chicken, so we gave them a wide berth and made sure not to make any waves – literally or figuratively. In fact, everything went swimmingly (though that’s probably not the best phrase to use when you’re cruising mid river with no idea what you’re doing), at least until we arrived at Lyon’s marina.
This new and sparkling facility, created from an old industrial area to the south of the city, was, we discovered, just shutting down for the season as we arrived. “Ze capitainerie ees closing tomorrow,” the hunk in charge told us. He was devastatingly handsome, much to Liz’s delight. “But,” he continued in his charming French accent as Liz steadied herself from swooning, “Zere will be power and water available for ze next two weeks for free and you can stay as long as you want.”
Liz wanted to stay forever, but I tactfully suggested that a few days would do us. We weren’t the only ones to take advantage of this free mooring bonus; not long after we’d tied up, a lovely old wooden cruiser pulled in, displaying a faded elegance and smoky exhausts. We helped the skipper to moor, as you do, and as he turned off his engine and without pausing even to check whether our knots were up to scratch, told us in a heavy Cockney accent that his name was Michael, only of course he pronounced it Markle, as in, “My name is Markle Caine…”
“Last time I was ’ere this was all a building site!” he said, gesturing grandly to the marina and its brand new apartments, cafés and bars. “Bleedin’ ’ole in the ground this was.”
Anyway, he wanted to chat, and chat, and… chat. We listened politely to his life story for about two weeks before finally navigating ourselves away from this uncharted hazard. After that, we vowed to keep a low profile, and tiptoed past his boat every time we went ashore. The day we left, we slipped our moorings as stealthily as possible, only starting the engine once we were clear of the pontoon so we could make good our escape. We drifted out on to the river and turned south as quietly as possible.
From that moment on, to be ‘markled’ entered our boating dictionary. Verb, past tense: to be ear-bashed by an enthusiast; to lose the will to live as a result.
Apart from playing with walkie-talkies as a kid (‘Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird Two, come in, over...’), I had no experience of formal radio communication