couple of rust spots inside the hull which needed quick attention, and there was the bloody tooth which was now flaring up again with all its old intensity.
At first I ignored the tooth on the principle that a pain ignored will go away. It didn’t. Instead it got worse, so, three days after the funeral, I rowed ashore and telephoned dentists until I found one who could see me straightaway. That meant another bus ride, only to be lectured by a pompous little twerp who told me I didn’t brush my gums properly. He said I’d need to make a series of visits while he first drained the abscess, then scraped out the root canal to save the tooth.
“I don’t want it saved,” I said irritably, “just take the damned thing out.”
“But it can be saved, Mr Rossendale.”
“Take it out,” I insisted. Teeth are a human design fault, like appendixes, and all design faults are life- threatening at sea. This tooth wasn’t one of my front ones, so the lack of it wouldn’t make me ugly. Besides, it would be far cheaper for me to have the tooth drawn in England than giving me trouble across the Atlantic where you need to take out a mortgage before you dare see a dentist. The pompous little twerp was unhappy, but finally did what I demanded, grunting and heaving with his pliers. The Novocaine must have been from a weak batch because the extraction hurt like hell, but that was better than drawing the tooth myself a thousand miles to sea. A friend of mine did that once. It took him half a day and the best part of a bottle of Scotch, and when it was done he found he’d pulled the wrong one.
I consoled my pain with a large whiskey in the pub, then went down to the town pontoon where I’d left Sunflower’s inflatable. No one had stolen her, perhaps because I’d pasted a score of false repair patches on her faded black skin so that she looked as though she was ready to give her last gasp and sink. Her oars were underwater, weighted with a length of chain and tethered by a tatty piece of fraying rope. I retrieved them, then rowed myself slowly out through the murk. It was still raining. Grey clouds were scurrying low over Goodshelter, then depositing a misty and obscuring rain on the moorings. A crabber engine choked into life, but otherwise the estuary seemed as empty as winter. I planned to motor Sunflower up to the drying mud of Callapit Creek. I would spend a few days scrubbing her hull, then go back to sea. I made a mental list of things I needed to buy: galvanised shackles, valve springs, welding rods, an angle grinder, fuses. My face felt swollen, numb and tender.
I stopped rowing and turned to see if I was aiming the unwieldy dinghy in the right direction. I was a quarter-mile from Sunflower and way off course, blown there by the wind which was carrying the dinghy too far to the north. That’s one reason I hate inflatable dinghies; they’re prey to every gust of wind and current.
But if the dinghy was an unwieldy brute, Sunflower looked magnificent. I rested on the oars, admiring her. She looked drab and scuffed among the smart yachts on the other moorings, but her drabness was the result of long sea miles and it gave her the battered beauty of functionalism. She was weather- beaten, tough and practical. Then, as I gazed at her, a man’s head appeared in her companionway. He stared around the moorings, glanced at me for a second, then ducked back into the cabin.
For a moment I was shocked into immobility. I even doubted what I’d seen. Somehow all the years of ocean travel had not diluted the prejudice that blatant thievery is more common abroad than in an English harbour; certainly not in genteel, yellow-wellied Salcombe.
And the intruder, if I had not imagined the whole thing, had to be a thief. I’d left Sunflower’s companionway locked tight, so he must have broken the big padlock to get inside the cabin. The intruder had not been Charlie, for the man I’d seen had black hair, and Charlie’s thatch was as fair as mine. I wouldn’t have cared if Charlie had broken the cabin lock, then drunk all the whiskey on board, but I was damned if some stranger would steal from me. I began rowing again. As I did so the dark head appeared again in the companionway. I rowed steadily, aiming well away from her, and the man must have decided that I posed no threat for he ducked back down into the cabin. I rowed on, keeping well to Sunflower’s beam. I knew the intruder might still be watching me through one of the thick cabin ports so I pretended to be going to a mooring north and east of the boat. I didn’t hurry. I did nothing to make him suspicious.
I wanted to trap him. He was thieving from my boat, and I wanted to make him regret it. I knew I would have to be cunning, for he was surely alert to the possibility of the owner returning. So I kept rowing away from Sunflower, though now, because I was past her, I was able to watch her constantly. The man did not reappear in the companionway, so he must have felt safe.
I went a good two hundred yards past Sunflower’s mooring, then turned south amongst a gaggle of moored Salcombe yawls. I rowed until Sunflower’s bows were pointing directly towards me, then I let the ebbing tide carry me down towards her. I steered with a single oar over the dinghy’s transom. I noticed there was no tender tied to Sunflower, which was odd, but, when I was just twenty yards away, I forgot the oddity because I heard voices. There were evidently two intruders aboard, a man and a woman. The woman’s voice, sharp and penetrating, seemed to make a protest, but the man’s voice overrode her.
I put out a hand and caught the rail of Sunflower’s pulpit. The tide was trying to take the dinghy down Sunflower’s starboard flank to where I would have been visible through the cabin ports, but I held the dinghy back, took a breath, then slowly hauled myself over the bows. The big hull rocked gently under my weight, but not enough to warn the intruders of my presence. I’d kept the inflatable’s painter in my left hand and I quickly hitched it to the pulpit rail. The inflatable would bump softly against the steel hull, and I prayed the tiny thumping would not alert them. The man was speaking again, low and urgently, but I could not hear his exact words.
I crouched over the forehatch. I guessed that the man and woman would be in the main cabin. I could just see the twisted remains where they had forced the hasp of the main companionway. I briefly thought of making my entrance there, but my footsteps could have alerted them as I negotiated the cabin roof and I wanted to surprise them. I took the bunch of keys from my pocket and, taking exquisite care not to make them jangle, found the small key for the forehatch padlock. The dinghy, driven by the wind, thumped softly and persistently against the hull. Rain slicked Sunflower’s teak-planked deck.
The key went unwillingly into the lock, resisted, then turned. I eased the padlock out of the steel hasp, laid it with the keys on the deck, then took hold of both latches.
Then a bellowing roar made me twist round. I should have realised that the man and woman must have used another boat to reach Sunflower, which boat, to prevent suspicion, had left them aboard before going a safe distance away. Their accomplice on board that other boat had belatedly seen me, and now he was accelerating towards the rescue of his companions. The rescuer was a huge man, built like a prizefighter, who conned his small boat with a noticeable clumsiness. That boat was a small aluminium dory, flat bottomed and driven by a big outboard which was flinging water white to either side. The noise must have alerted the intruders, for the man’s head reappeared in the companionway. I saw sleek black hair lying close to a narrow skull, then the man turned and stared in astonishment at me.
I had snatched a boathook from its rack on the cabin roof. I kept two boathooks there. One was for hooking boats or moorings, but the other, the one I seized, had a more specialised purpose. I had sharpened its spike to sail-needle sharpness, then ground a blade edge down the outer curve of the hook. That done I had hollowed out the head of the shaft and weighted the weapon with lead. In effect I had made myself a miniature boarding pike that had proved its worth more than once. Any yacht in far waters is fair game for a thief, and a lone sailor had better take precautions or else he or she will end up as crabmeat. Now, in Salcombe’s supposedly peaceful harbour, I swung the weighted blade, blunt side forward, at the black-haired man. He turned away from the blow, which nevertheless caught him on the back of his neck. It half felled him, or else he was already falling, for he disappeared down the companionway.
I was shouting, part in rage that the intruders had dared to break into Sunflower, and in part to scare the man. I scrambled over the liferaft and coachroof, then jumped down into the cockpit where I turned and held the boathook like a poised harpoon. The dory was slewing round, spraying water in a great curved sheet. The big man at its controls shouted incoherently at his companions on Sunflower. I could see the woman’s legs in my cabin. She was sitting on the starboard bunk, but I could not see her male companion. “Stay there, you bastards!” I shouted. I planned to trap my intruders inside Sunflower, cow them into docility, then use the VHF to call the police. The man in the dory was having trouble controlling his boat, which was a blessing because I didn’t fancy fighting a man of his
