Water has always been with me; when I was a kid, I lived by the banks of the River Mersey, and when the thick, murky fog rolled in, the fog horns of the ships would pierce my smoggy world. I would lay there, transported into a world of foreign lands, where pineapples grew in prickly splendour, grapes hung from vine like rich lavender baubles, or like sunrise-yellow droplets both sweet to the taste and ripe for the picking.
The fog draped the mighty Mersey like an old grey overcoat, but on the land where the smoke from our fires mixed with the fog from the sea, came smog; a think dangerous pea-soup concoction that choked the old and suffocated the young. Industry was the life of Liverpool when I was young. It filled the ever-open mouth of The Mersey, and the feeding frenzy of ships that tallied, cargo holds empty, waiting for the multitude of goods produced in the North-West of England. I was warm in bed, listening to those sounds, of boats and horns, busses, and cars, but oftentimes, no footfall. That was smothered by the all-encompassing smog, only the smokers cough could be heard, a thunderous convulsion ripping out from their lungs.
I loved the sea so much that I joined the sea scouts, and what a disaster that turned out to be. Once, and I must have been about eight, we took the canoes down the beach. The Mersey was in fine form, grey-green waves rolled in with great fury, five, six foot high, and me, just four foot four. Then it started to rain.
It didn’t take long for the waves to pick us up and throw us backwards out of the canoe. It’s funny, but I never panicked, I slipped out of the upturned canoe, crawled along the sand, passing a startled starfish on my way, until I could stand, but only briefly, the waves had other ideas, propelling me shoreward with great gusto.
So, I stood on the shore, dripping, startled, with a wet wind whipping my cold, chaffed legs. I remembered the horrified look of Skip as he rushed over with towels for us both. I wore a heavy knitted zaffre blue pullover, with heavy blue shorts that tripled in weight when wet, something a small hand towel did little to dry my freezing body. We were bungled into his combi van, canoes lashed to the roof, and driven back to the hall, there, we were fed with coco and had our clothes laid on a stone-cold radiator while we changed into Skips spare kit.
When I was eventually dropped home with my steaming duffle bag of wet clothes, I was swept into the loving arms of my mother.
‘A nice hot bath!’ She said, but frankly I had had enough of water that day. The other thing I remember – or don’t remember more like, was a life jacket. It must have been one of those optional extras so common in the sixties.
My other memory of the sea scouts was a camping trip to Anglesey, off the coast of Wales. It was the first time I’d been camping, and I was not impressed with the whole thing. Firstly, it started to rain, and, as always in Wales, it forgot to stop, secondly, the big canvas tent I slept in, leaked, and I was stationed under a particularly annoying drip, and thirdly, a lad in another tent sleepwalked and repeatedly came into our tent telling us such tales, like Skip was about to commit mass murder, or that he had to sleep in the mess tent along with the rice crispies, cornflakes and bread.
Nothing is more refreshing, after a sleepless, wet night, than a jolly jaunt along a narrow cliff path, with a heavy sea crashing mercilessly against the rocks below.
‘This is where the Royal Charter was shipwrecked in 1857.’ said Skip in a cold, sober voice. ‘Of the 483 souls, only 21 were saved. All the rest, were killed, smashed against the jagged rocks below. It is said that a lover walks the cliffs at night, waiting for his love to return. ’
I stopped dead in my tracks, and very gingerly looked over the cliff edge at the pounding waves far below, smashing onto the rocks. I was certain I could hear a wailing cry ripped from some poor souls’ lung then shredded on the lashing winds. We trudged on, more slowly now, cold and wet, our feet squelching in our sodden shoes and our spirits dampened. We told each other harrowing tales of ghostly ghouls, but even that couldn’t lift our spirits.
Funny, but I never slept much that night either. I left the sea scouts soon after. It was all too dangerous for me.
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