Taking the Plunge – Phase III… ish

For those that don’t yet know, my partner and I have decided to have our mid-life crisis in style and sail off into the sunset.  Despite one or two hiccups and distinct lack of sun, our plan to swap this:

 for this:

is still advancing full-steam ahead.  Whether to leave a forwarding address for our various offspring is still under debate, but the house is up for sale and the new boat-shell is at planning stage.

Alongside this, we’ve been sprucing up our little 37tft narrow-boat ready for sale, too:

Aquaduck is in situ in our now permanent mooring at Hanbury Marina and suddenly I’m reluctant to let her go.  Aside from all my hard-work, lovingly sign-writing her, black-bottoming her, crawling inside water tanks and down engine holes - me being petite but practical, my man says, looking admiringly on, coffee cup in hand, she’s stuffed full of memories.  I can’t help but reminisce about the many hours we’ve spent putt-putting along, viewing inner-cityscapes from a unique river perspective. 

Or chugging through wide-open countryside in all its rural glory – more often than not in torrential rain, but still, that comes with the territory. The places we’ve moored: city-centres for easy access to theatres and restaurants, quaint countryside pubs, happy to cater for the four-legged members of our family.  Weirs, perched precariously upon, unscheduled stop thereof, at which point the man pointed out – less admiringly, more panicky – how agile I was and gallantly assisted me up to the roof of the boat.  Wherefrom, he suggested, I sprout wings and clear the space between boat and overhead motorway bridge.

I’ll spare you the detail.  Suffice to say, being the determined sort – and averse to drowning, I did it, somehow.  Once perched on a really, really conveniently placed beam 50ft up and rope in hand, the man suggested I find a hole and tie the rope off.  The bridge is iron, I pointed out.  The beam is iron.  The only holes are filled with nuts and bolts.  There is no place to thread it through and tie it.

I’ll throw you the mallet and mooring pin, he yelled, a desperate edge to his voice now, as the fast-moving current threatened to sweep him to a watery demise.

What do you want me to do with them? I yelled back, equally desperate.

Hammer the pin the ground and tie the bloody rope onto it!

It’s concrete!! 

Well, tie it around your waist then!   

Let me put this into perspective:

Me:

Boat:

     

  

So, despite one or two hiccups, we’re still planning to …  Um…?