A muffled grunt suggested the bottom of my foot had found his face.
Ah yes, it was “Maintenance” Murphy comatose with seasickness again and lying on the cabin sole under a dozen or so sails.
Maintenance loved his boating, but it’s fair to say that boating didn’t love him all that much. In fact he was crap at it.
But when I look back over a few decades spent around boats, he is one of the memorable characters I’ve had the fortune – both good and bad - to have shared boats with over the years.
His nickname “maintenance” came from the fact that he was the anointed one in keeping our 46ft ocean racer in top notch shape. His tendency to cut corners to “save the owner money” had a nasty habit of biting us on the arse and frequently precipitated a major repair bill. Saving money on halyards that cut through the masthead sheaves – that sort of thing.
His tendency to crash with chronic seasickness the instant we lost sight of land was another habit – amusing because we just couldn’t resist sitting there murmuring in his ear that we were tucking into a feed of nice greasy pork chops, bacon and seven day old pavlova. It never seemed to make him feel any better.
Whenever we did an ocean race, within hours maintenance would be crashed on the cabin sole where, over the succeeding hours he’d be covered by sales and sail bags and anything else that got biffed down the companionway hatch. That included seawater – and it wasn’t unusual on a rough race to see maintenance partially submerged in bilge water and puke.
I never could work out why he didn’t just stick to harbour and coastal racing.
The then was the character – who shall remain nameless – with two wives. He wasn’t actually married to both, but they all lived together and he called them Root One and Root Two. They would meet him at the end of a race and off they’d go, God knows to do what.
He was an absolute charmer – one of those who thought putting on wet weather gear was “poofterish” and reefing the mainsail was for sissies. Ah well, I guess it takes all kinds and I do believe those kinds of attitudes catch up with you in the end.
At the other end of the scale is a character I can happily name. Duncan Stuart – aka Cookie - who for years skippered “The Big Yellow Trimaran” Krisis. He was a hugely fun character who liked to have a “nervous rum” before a race, then another after the start! He ran Fisher & Paykel’s legendary staff restaurant and when doing the longer races like the Coastal Classic trays of fresh pies, still warm from the oven, would come aboard. Tucking into one of them as you slid up past Bream Bay in the cool night air was a sublime experience.
That boat’s done a million miles but is now in its dotage, reconfigured as a cruiser (with that god awful ear shattering inboard rotary engine replaced by an outboard and the impossible to get to toilet relocated) and Duncan is still enjoying sailing her. Like I say, attitudes catch up you and Duncan seems to be thoroughly enjoying his retirement – he certainly was the last time I saw him outside the Loaded Hog with a cool beer in his hand on a scorching hot day.
Gamefishos would have to be among the hardest case – I think it’s something to do with the hours and hours of utter boredom followed by a few minutes of searing adrenaline rush.
Many seem to develop a passion for shouting – and I don’t mean the type of shouting you get at the pub either. One mate of mine starts screaming profanities the instant we get a strike and doesn’t stop until it’s over. He doesn’t even know he does it. I once videoed his performance and replayed it to him.
“Who’s that swearing,?” he asked, refusing to believe it was him … and still does. The first time he hooked up this season he was so wound up his foo-foo valve failed and he couldn’t speak at all for a day or so. He was still hoarse when I met him a week later for a beer.
They can be dangerous buggers too – we were trolling in a 60 footer off the top of North Cape when one of the rods went off – and kept going as we had an obvious hook-up.
The boat owner and skipper had succumbed to the excess rums the night before and was having a nana nap in the forward cabin. Tossing up whether or not to wake him I went forward and advised quietly that we were hooked up.
There was a great explosion from the bed – the blankets tossed aside and before I could get out of his way he’d cleared the way to the cockpit and was shouting orders. Hardly two seconds had passed. I picked myself up from the companionway floor and wondered – that’s gotta be bad for a man’s heart, doesn’t it.
Characters one and all – where would we be without them?
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
Great Stenches I have Known
This column is an opportunity every couple of months to go back and troll through the many vivid, great and spectacular memories I have from my years of boating.
I’m not sure why this month’s overwhelming memory has turned out to be smell.
Or, to be more accurate, stench. Boats seem to be machines that are capable of manufacturing and concentrating smells into some of the most incredible and awful things you have ever encountered.
So I thought I’d share the line up of Shane Kelly’s all-time greatest boating stenches.
Possibly the Worst Stench Ever and Certainly the Most Embarrassing
This stench came about when we borrowed a brand new Bayliner Trophy from the then-importer and took it down to the Motuihe Channel for a fish. Back at the dry stack much later we carefully cleaned the boat. Every square inch ... except that some bright spark forgot about a large bonito bait which had been secreted in one of Trophy’s many lockers. There are far too many lockers on those things.
Give it a couple of weeks brewing in the dry, very warm drystack and the importer turns up with a prospective client to show the boat. The crane lifts the boat down and the thing is hummin’. There were so many flies in that locker the boat floated 3 inches above the normal water line. We’re talking the maggot capital of the world. The result was no Trophy sale and one very pissed off importer who never again loaned us a boat. You can’t blame him really, can you?
Longest Stench Ever
The boys had been out fishing off Tiri and on returning to our launch site at Browns Bay, I injured my knee landing awkwardly as I jumped over the side. The result was me, bedridden with a sprained knee. The boys helped me get the boat home and it then sat in the front yard, with a dozen or so jack mackerel that had been left on deck slowly turning to pure fish oil and leaking down into the bilge. Down there was a little bit of salt water and the bungs firmly left in place. Let fermentation commence.
It took about three weeks before I came right and by that time the maggots in that boat were the size of anacondas. Laying traps for any birds that strayed too close and dragging them down into the bilge – they even managed to wrassel couple of neighbours’ cats down there. The clean up was not pretty.
The Swamp Gas Stench
Way back in the dark ages, I sailed on a 46ft ocean racer – some of the crews’ mad exploits have featured in this column before.
The boat used to exude a stench we called “the swamp gas.” Strangely enough this did not come from the head (although there were times when that appliance was sorely tested) but came from the keel. At least, we think it did.
You could see the swamp gas bubbling from the keel top through any bilge water that had accumulated and it smelt like nothing I’d ever experienced. We never did work out where it came from – possibly a void in the keel that some boatbuilder had crawled into for a kip during construction and they’d sealed him in there by mistake. You’d think they’d have noticed him missing but, given the state of many boatyards, perhaps not.
The Environmentally Friendly Stench
I do a lot of drift fishing. Therefore, I use the drogue a lot to slow the drift. The drogue I have is slightly different to many – it’s made from green nylon wind break/sunscreen mesh and has no hole in the back end. It works well, but has a bad habit of sieving the plankton from the water.
I discovered this to my retching cost after I slung it in the locker one day after fishing and left it there for a month or so – not knowing that it contained a football-sized wad of plankton. Now if you want to create really, really big stink, plankton is the finest way to get there. Trust me.
The Most Dangerous Stench
This came about many moons ago, when I unplugged my brother’s 16 cubic foot bait freezer from the wall to use the plug for something else. Just for a short while you understand, but I’m sure you can see where this is heading. I remembered its unplugged state a good long time later and was forced to engineer a blown fuse to that plug socket that would conveniently explain why his pristine bait supply was now slush. Stinking, filthy slush. He always was a violent bugger and I needed to divert attention. Fast. The fuse did the trick although they are surprisingly tricky to blow on purpose.
He doesn’t know to this day. Unless he reads this, of course, then I’ll still be toast, 30 years later.
I’m not sure why this month’s overwhelming memory has turned out to be smell.
Or, to be more accurate, stench. Boats seem to be machines that are capable of manufacturing and concentrating smells into some of the most incredible and awful things you have ever encountered.
So I thought I’d share the line up of Shane Kelly’s all-time greatest boating stenches.
Possibly the Worst Stench Ever and Certainly the Most Embarrassing
This stench came about when we borrowed a brand new Bayliner Trophy from the then-importer and took it down to the Motuihe Channel for a fish. Back at the dry stack much later we carefully cleaned the boat. Every square inch ... except that some bright spark forgot about a large bonito bait which had been secreted in one of Trophy’s many lockers. There are far too many lockers on those things.
Give it a couple of weeks brewing in the dry, very warm drystack and the importer turns up with a prospective client to show the boat. The crane lifts the boat down and the thing is hummin’. There were so many flies in that locker the boat floated 3 inches above the normal water line. We’re talking the maggot capital of the world. The result was no Trophy sale and one very pissed off importer who never again loaned us a boat. You can’t blame him really, can you?
Longest Stench Ever
The boys had been out fishing off Tiri and on returning to our launch site at Browns Bay, I injured my knee landing awkwardly as I jumped over the side. The result was me, bedridden with a sprained knee. The boys helped me get the boat home and it then sat in the front yard, with a dozen or so jack mackerel that had been left on deck slowly turning to pure fish oil and leaking down into the bilge. Down there was a little bit of salt water and the bungs firmly left in place. Let fermentation commence.
It took about three weeks before I came right and by that time the maggots in that boat were the size of anacondas. Laying traps for any birds that strayed too close and dragging them down into the bilge – they even managed to wrassel couple of neighbours’ cats down there. The clean up was not pretty.
The Swamp Gas Stench
Way back in the dark ages, I sailed on a 46ft ocean racer – some of the crews’ mad exploits have featured in this column before.
The boat used to exude a stench we called “the swamp gas.” Strangely enough this did not come from the head (although there were times when that appliance was sorely tested) but came from the keel. At least, we think it did.
You could see the swamp gas bubbling from the keel top through any bilge water that had accumulated and it smelt like nothing I’d ever experienced. We never did work out where it came from – possibly a void in the keel that some boatbuilder had crawled into for a kip during construction and they’d sealed him in there by mistake. You’d think they’d have noticed him missing but, given the state of many boatyards, perhaps not.
The Environmentally Friendly Stench
I do a lot of drift fishing. Therefore, I use the drogue a lot to slow the drift. The drogue I have is slightly different to many – it’s made from green nylon wind break/sunscreen mesh and has no hole in the back end. It works well, but has a bad habit of sieving the plankton from the water.
I discovered this to my retching cost after I slung it in the locker one day after fishing and left it there for a month or so – not knowing that it contained a football-sized wad of plankton. Now if you want to create really, really big stink, plankton is the finest way to get there. Trust me.
The Most Dangerous Stench
This came about many moons ago, when I unplugged my brother’s 16 cubic foot bait freezer from the wall to use the plug for something else. Just for a short while you understand, but I’m sure you can see where this is heading. I remembered its unplugged state a good long time later and was forced to engineer a blown fuse to that plug socket that would conveniently explain why his pristine bait supply was now slush. Stinking, filthy slush. He always was a violent bugger and I needed to divert attention. Fast. The fuse did the trick although they are surprisingly tricky to blow on purpose.
He doesn’t know to this day. Unless he reads this, of course, then I’ll still be toast, 30 years later.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
THE OCCASIONAL MANIAC
Ahhh Mr Kelly, come aboard.
I stepped onto the water taxi being provided to take media and “celebrities” across the harbour to the rock concert held on a barge off the Devonport foreshore in Auckland. I fit into the former category of media, working as I did in those days as a journalist for a boating magazine.
The driver was a young blond dude. As soon as we were aboard, we were off, throttle mashed hard down to the stops and the 140hp Yammie howling. The driver, readers, was not a person who believed in moderation as far as throttles were concerned. I’ve since learned that he feels the same way about red wine – but that’s a story for another day.
We got to the rock concert, which had drawn a large crowd. The musos were playing on a barge moored some distance off the seawall. There were lots of girls in flimsy white dresses but the thing that grabbed my attention most – no, really it was - was the likelihood of the musos being electrocuted.
Standing on a steel barge, moored in salt water, with power generators and humming wires everywhere as well as stacks of speakers – the poor buggers looked nervous as hell. No wonder that concert has never been repeated – these days the OSH Nazis would line everyone up against the wall and shoot them.
Then it was time to return, and Mr Throttle Guy gave us an unforgettable demonstration of what happens when you apply his philosophy to wind against the tide conditions. We hit the first of the pressure waves, leaped out of the water and landed with a huge crash. Repeat 77 times.
There were several dozen beer stashed up by the bow. It was the real type, in big quart bottles and wooden crates. They bounced their way aft, smashing and exploding and sending foaming brown liquid and shards of glass down the boat towards our jandals-clad feet. Try keeping your feet in one place when the floor is jumping up and down about 6ft.
The passengers hung on for grim death, the women were screaming and the children crying, as the bloody maniac crashed his way up past the wharves and finally into the calmer weather. And that’s how I met the editor of this magazine. I forgave him, but the bugger still owes me several lunches by way of compensation.
You come across these maniacs from time to time in boating, don’t you? The Mr Throttle Guys who have spines of steel and legs made from cast off Super Truck shock absorbers.
The most entertaining I ever traveled with was at a fishing contest and there was a strange “twist” to the occasion.
I was fishing the Ramco Cup in the Bay of Islands and had been invited to join a couple of hard cases for the day. The weather had been ugly for a couple of days and as we left the Waitangi River there were huge swells rolling into the bay.
Richard was “Mr Throttle Guy” on the trip and … it went straight to the “Wide Open” setting.
The boat roared off across the ocean, leaping and crashing. From the cabin, huge boxes of frozen pilchards and squid, the day’s lunch, drinks and spare clothing bounced their way aft to end up against the transom – where I was perched – in a great filthy slimy mess.
Richard’s mate had had enough. He reached across and grabbed Richard’s ear and twisted it …hard.
“Slow the f*** down,” he shouted.
Richard wasn’t having a bar of it.
Another handful of ear, a severe twist and another gentle plea to “slow the f*** down.”
Also ignored.
By the time we arrived at Bird Rock, Richard’s ear looked like one of those bright red twisties on a plastic bread bag and we were ankle deep in smashed pillies, squid, food, drink and clothes. I have to admit, it was bloody funny.
“Jeez sorry about that mate,” Richard apologised.
I had to tell him I wouldn’t have missed that spectacle for anything, even if I was now 4 inches shorter. Why is it you never have a video camera when you most need it?
I stepped onto the water taxi being provided to take media and “celebrities” across the harbour to the rock concert held on a barge off the Devonport foreshore in Auckland. I fit into the former category of media, working as I did in those days as a journalist for a boating magazine.
The driver was a young blond dude. As soon as we were aboard, we were off, throttle mashed hard down to the stops and the 140hp Yammie howling. The driver, readers, was not a person who believed in moderation as far as throttles were concerned. I’ve since learned that he feels the same way about red wine – but that’s a story for another day.
We got to the rock concert, which had drawn a large crowd. The musos were playing on a barge moored some distance off the seawall. There were lots of girls in flimsy white dresses but the thing that grabbed my attention most – no, really it was - was the likelihood of the musos being electrocuted.
Standing on a steel barge, moored in salt water, with power generators and humming wires everywhere as well as stacks of speakers – the poor buggers looked nervous as hell. No wonder that concert has never been repeated – these days the OSH Nazis would line everyone up against the wall and shoot them.
Then it was time to return, and Mr Throttle Guy gave us an unforgettable demonstration of what happens when you apply his philosophy to wind against the tide conditions. We hit the first of the pressure waves, leaped out of the water and landed with a huge crash. Repeat 77 times.
There were several dozen beer stashed up by the bow. It was the real type, in big quart bottles and wooden crates. They bounced their way aft, smashing and exploding and sending foaming brown liquid and shards of glass down the boat towards our jandals-clad feet. Try keeping your feet in one place when the floor is jumping up and down about 6ft.
The passengers hung on for grim death, the women were screaming and the children crying, as the bloody maniac crashed his way up past the wharves and finally into the calmer weather. And that’s how I met the editor of this magazine. I forgave him, but the bugger still owes me several lunches by way of compensation.
You come across these maniacs from time to time in boating, don’t you? The Mr Throttle Guys who have spines of steel and legs made from cast off Super Truck shock absorbers.
The most entertaining I ever traveled with was at a fishing contest and there was a strange “twist” to the occasion.
I was fishing the Ramco Cup in the Bay of Islands and had been invited to join a couple of hard cases for the day. The weather had been ugly for a couple of days and as we left the Waitangi River there were huge swells rolling into the bay.
Richard was “Mr Throttle Guy” on the trip and … it went straight to the “Wide Open” setting.
The boat roared off across the ocean, leaping and crashing. From the cabin, huge boxes of frozen pilchards and squid, the day’s lunch, drinks and spare clothing bounced their way aft to end up against the transom – where I was perched – in a great filthy slimy mess.
Richard’s mate had had enough. He reached across and grabbed Richard’s ear and twisted it …hard.
“Slow the f*** down,” he shouted.
Richard wasn’t having a bar of it.
Another handful of ear, a severe twist and another gentle plea to “slow the f*** down.”
Also ignored.
By the time we arrived at Bird Rock, Richard’s ear looked like one of those bright red twisties on a plastic bread bag and we were ankle deep in smashed pillies, squid, food, drink and clothes. I have to admit, it was bloody funny.
“Jeez sorry about that mate,” Richard apologised.
I had to tell him I wouldn’t have missed that spectacle for anything, even if I was now 4 inches shorter. Why is it you never have a video camera when you most need it?
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