Day eleven of two weeks on the English Canals

Day 11
Tuesday
July 30, 2002

I was still trying to clear the sleep from my eyes and the fog from my head as I slipped my hand into the cold brown water of the canal and groped for the propeller. I was flat on my stomach reaching through a hatch on the stern, which gave access to the prop. Called the weedbox, it had to be checked every morning before starting out. I stretched and strained to reach the propeller shaft. My fingers explored the blades, looking for plant material, plastic debris, fishing line, or anything else that could possible foul the propeller. I found nothing amiss. I removed my dripping arm and grunted as I lifted the heavy metal hatch cover and slid it into place, securing it with a impressively heavy metal screw clamp.
     "Better boats than this have been sunk by not securing the Weedbox hatch correctly," Tom had told us at the start of the trip.   If the hatch cover leaked, the propeller surge might find its way into the engine compartment, possibly sinking the craft by the stern.
     I slipped in to the head (lavatory) to rinse away the thin layer of canal water still clinging to my arm. When I returned, Caroline had the engine hatch cover off and was peering at the oil dipstick. Satisfied with the oil level, she struggled to slip the bent dipstick into its hole.   Then the coolant water needed topping off--exactly 1 1/4-soda bottle full of water always brought it up to the mark. She started the up diesel engine and put the boat in gear. Our vessel, still tied up, stained at the mooring line, the wash from the prop surging strongly up against the underside of the weedbox hatch. We watched carefully for signs of water being forced up, past the weedbox cover. There was none. This had been a morning routine throughout the trip. Gradually, I had become the de facto weedbox guy aboard the Tame Valley.
     We were underway by 8:00 AM, slightly ahead of Tom's boat. More than once Tom had chided the crew of our craft about being ready to cast off on time in the morning, so our timing was a source of some small satisfaction. We rigorously navigated the 18 locks of the Lapworth flight after which we found ourselves floating through verdant neighborhoods with well-kept yards and canal-side trees.
      That afternoon we moored just over a steep bank from the Blue Bell Cider House. We hadn't been there long before it started to rain. This was not a wimpy drizzle such as we're used to on a prolonged basis in Oregon. This was an in-your-face, I-can-be-a-monsoon-too downpour.
     Pam had gone to get take-out Chinese food. When it arrived, everybody hunkered in on the Weaver Valley and had a family style meal. After dinner, we had a group sing and lots of warm conversation. Tom talked at length about Stan Rodgers and how he admired his ability to work with music, words and ideas. By the time Sara and I left to return to our boat, the rain had stopped, the weather gathering its strength for what would be a further onslaught. Instead of returning directly to our boat, we decided to stop by the Cider House, not having yet experienced such an establishment. Of course, they also sold ales and hard liquors as well as the deceptively potent cider. We tried both the dry and sweet ciders and decided we liked the sweet one.
     The clientele was very friendly. Unfortunately, I could understand very little of what many of them were saying because of their strong regional dialects. I explained my problem the best I could to the friendly blokes, apologizing for my ignorance. They tried to make me feel better by telling me that they could understand me just fine.
      Sara and I exited the bar in even better moods that when we entered, the good cider helping to instill in us the false hope that the rain was gone for good and tomorrow would be a beautiful day.