We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea. Arthur Ransome

ashore from them. Then, in the afternoon, an old dinghy had been found for them, and now they were afloat themselves, paddling about, admiring the yachts in the anchorage.

      It was getting on for low water. They had watched the falling tide leave boat after boat high, but, as Roger said, not exactly dry, on the shining mud. On the hard, men were walking round a barge that had been afloat in the middle of the day, and were busy with scrapers and tar-brushes. A clock chimed six from among the trees on the further side of the river. The river, wide as it was, seemed almost narrow between the bare mudflats, but a tug, fussing down from Ipswich, set the moored yachts rocking as it passed.

      “Almost like being at sea,” said Titty.

      “Gosh! I wish we were,” said Roger. “Which boat would you like to have?”

      “The big white one,” said Susan.

      “But look at her long counter,” said John. “I’d rather have one with a square stern, like a quay punt. Daddy says they’re twice as good in a seaway.”

      “What about the blue one?” said Titty.

      “Not bad,” said John.

      “She’s got a proper capstan on her foredeck,” said Roger. “I wonder if she’s got an engine.”

      “It’s the sails that matter,” said Titty.

      “Yes, I know,” said Roger, “but all the same an engine is jolly useful.”

      John rowed a little harder to keep up against the tide.

      “Now, for instance,” said Roger, “You’d be jolly glad if we had one.”

      There was nothing to be said to that.

       “What’s written on that buoy?” said Titty.

       John glanced over his shoulder, and pulled harder to have a look. Close to them a black mooring buoy with green letters on it swung in the tide.

      “Goblin,” said Roger. “Funny name for a boat. I wonder where she is.”

      “There’s a boat coming up the river now,” said John, “but she may be going right up to Ipswich. . .”

      “Her sails are a lovely colour,” said Titty.

       A little white cutter with red sails was coming in towards the moored boats. Someone was busy on her foredeck. As they watched, they saw the tall red mainsail crumple and fall in great folds on the top of the cabin.

      “There’s no one at the tiller,” said John.

      “I say,” said Roger. “Is he all alone?”

      “He’s gone back to it now,” said Titty. “He’s heading straight for us.”

      “I bet this is his buoy,” said Roger.

      “Look out, John!” cried Susan. “We’ll be right in the way.”

      AMONG THE MOORED YACHTS

      John pulled clear of the buoy, and watched, paddling gently so as not to drift down river. More and more slowly the little cutter came towards them. Staysail and mainsail were down. Only the jib was pulling, out on the bowsprit end. It certainly looked as if there were no one aboard except that big young man, whose shoulders were so broad that no one who had not seen his face would have guessed that he had only just left school to go to college. He was standing up, steering with a foot on the tiller, with his eyes on the buoy ahead of him. Suddenly, when he was still a few yards from it, they saw him stoop and then run forward along the side deck. The jib was flapping. The young man had grabbed the boathook and was waiting, ready to reach down and catch the buoy.

      “He’ll just do it,” Titty said almost in a whisper.

      “Beautifully,” said John.

      “Oh,” gasped Titty. “He can’t reach it.”

      Perhaps the ebb pouring out of the river was stronger than the skipper had thought. The wind had dropped. Under jib alone the little cutter had been moving very slowly. Now, with the jib flapping loose, she lost her way. Just as the young man reached down with his boathook she stopped moving. He made a desperate lunge for the buoy but the boathook was an inch too short. He tried again and missed it by a foot. Already the tide was sweeping her back.

      “That’s done it!”

      He was looking quickly round. There were moored yachts on all sides. He grabbed at his jib, but must have seen in a moment that he could not get his ship moving fast enough to save her from drifting down on a big black boat lying astern.

      “Hi! You!” he shouted. “Can you catch a rope and make it fast to that buoy?”

      “Aye, aye, Sir,” shouted John.

      “Sit DOWN, Roger,” cried Susan.

      “Duck your heads,” said John.

      A coiled rope was flying through the air, uncoiling as it flew. John caught it and gave the end to Roger. Three quick strokes brought their dinghy alongside the buoy, which had a rope becket on the top of it.

      “Shove it through,” said John urgently. . . “A lot of it, and give me the end.”

      “Aye, aye, Sir,” said Roger. He pushed the end of the rope through the becket and passed it back to John, who had pulled his oars in and was waiting with a loop in the rope. He took the end from Roger, passed it through the loop in the rope, round the rope itself and back again down into the loop, and pulled it taut all in a single movement.

      “All fast,” he called, and hurriedly pulled the dinghy clear as the young man began hauling in hand over hand. In a moment the buoy was up on the foredeck, and the young man went on hauling in the buoy-rope, wet and thick and green with seaweed. A few yards short of the black boat the Goblin had stopped going astern. She was coming forward again.

      “He must be jolly strong,” said Roger.

      “I say,” said John, “she’s got a square stern.”

      “Goblin,” said Titty, reading her name.

      Breathlessly they watched. The end of a rusty chain was climbing out of the water. It went aboard over a fairlead at the stemhead. A yard . . . two yards . . . the Goblin’s skipper was making it fast. He stood there panting. Then he stooped, and pulled on something at his feet, and they saw the jib roll up on itself like a window blind. He stood up again, looking from boat to boat and then down at the four of them in the dinghy.

      “Narrow squeak that was,” he said with a slow grin. “Jolly good work on your part. Who taught you to tie a bowline knot?” “Father,” said John.

      “He’s in the Navy,” said Roger.

      “Lucky for me,” said the skipper of the Goblin. “I’d have been in a proper mess if you’d fumbled things just then.”

      He stretched himself, dipped a mop over the side, used it to wipe his hands, black with mud from the mooring chain, and began to tidy up. John, with a steady stroke of his oars, was keeping close by. All four of them were watching. It was almost as if they had come home from sea themselves. They watched the skipper of the Goblin make the tiller fast. They watched him clamber forward again and turn the staysail into a neat sausage, drop it through the forehatch and disappear after it. They watched him come up again, not out of the forehatch but into the cockpit, lugging with him a huge pair of crutches, like big wooden scissors. He opened the crutches and stood them on the after-deck. Just as he went forward to lower the boom the crutches slipped. He came aft and balanced them once more.

      “Shall I come aboard and hold them steady?” said John trying not to sound as