A Series of Inexplicable Events
Kirtlington Quarry is one of my favourite places to moor. Deer and rabbits wander past unawares, bats give their early evening displays, and generally nobody interrupts the washing up.
Today was different.
At about 2.30pm, I was using the hot water from the kettle on the stove. Having lit the stove, I had made the boat boiling hot, so all the doors and windows were open to let some air through.
Tisbury suddenly started barking. Not a little “look at that” bark, but a serious “THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG” bark.
I went to investigate.
There was a strange man standing on the back of my boat, looking absolutely terrified of Tisbury.
I had moored Daisy with her stern deep in the undergrowth, as I liked to do at the quarry. The man was hemmed in by brambles, with no obvious escape.
I shouted that I would call Tisbury inside so he could get away along the bank towards the front of the boat. By now, I was also rather conscious of all those open doors and windows.
I shut Tisbury indoors. He immediately worked out that he could run through the boat and rejoin the man at the other end. He was taking his guard dog duties extremely seriously.
I chased through after him, as keen to shut the back door as to stop the barking.
By the time I emerged, the man was in the water.
“WHY ON EARTH ARE YOU IN THE WATER? WHAT ARE YOU DOING? And HOW are you going to get OUT?”
I sounded considerably more authoritative than I felt.
He seemed unable to explain himself, but was clearly very keen to get out.
“What is in here?” he asked. “I’m sinking.”
He was beginning to panic. I thought I’d better find a way of getting him out sooner rather than later.
All summer, I had been swimming off the back of Daisy in the Thames, using a loop of rope as a step to climb aboard. I rearranged the stern rope to give him something to stand in. This involved untying it completely, leaving Daisy attached to the bank by a rather flappy middle rope and the front line.
No time to worry about that.
Somehow, we got him out. He was young and fit-looking, and I was still nervous about having a stranger on my boat. Soaking wet and shivering on the back deck, however, he seemed more in need of help than anything else.
“Have you got a heater?”
“No,” I said, unwilling to disclose precisely how hot it was inside.
I offered him a couple of Tisbury’s dog towels and spotted his phone in the brambles.
“Is there anyone I can call?”
“The phone’s dead.”
He looked dazed, as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was or how he had got there.
“How about I call the police?”
“NO.”
“An ambulance?”
He considered this.
“Yes, I think an ambulance might be a good idea. You should tell them that I have just snorted 3g of high-grade cocaine and eaten 3g of crack.”
This seemed to explain quite a lot.
I called 999. Explaining exactly where we were, and what was happening, proved quite difficult.
He was still shivering, so in my most matronly voice I told him to take off his wet clothes. Given the circumstances, this was an absurd instruction to find myself issuing. More surprisingly, he began to comply, then thought better of it and became agitated.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s walk towards the road. The ambulance will find us more easily there.”
There were two possible routes: steep steps or a path through the trees. I chose the trees, thinking they would be easier.
This quickly appeared to be the wrong choice.
The 999 man stayed on the phone while we stumbled uphill, asking me to find out more about my dripping companion. He was becoming increasingly frightened and erratic. I wondered whether the trees looked like snakes or monsters to him. Whatever he was seeing, he was truly scared.
Eventually, the wet man, the 999 man and I reached the road.
A police car arrived.
“I didn’t want the police,” said the wet man.
The officer explained that the ambulance was further away. They were there to help, not interrogate him, but kept their distance. The 999 man told me to keep talking to him.
Then another police car arrived. The first officer spoke to them on the radio, asking them to stand back.
It began to look rather like one of those hostage situations on the telly.
It occurred to me that the potential hostage was me.
The wet man, meanwhile, wanted practically no distance between us at all. By now, he was almost hugging me. I suppose I had become a familiar face.
Finally, the ambulance arrived. A matter-of-fact woman began talking to him about checking his heartbeat and getting him onto the trolley. This prompted further agitation.
Then ANOTHER car pulled up, containing four clearly emotional people.
One woman ran straight towards him and began remonstrating with him about ringing her when she couldn’t drive. I gathered she was his aunt, and the last person he had called before his phone died.
With family, police and ambulance crew now present, I felt my contribution was complete. I said goodbye to the 999 man and asked the policeman whether I could go.
He said yes.
I returned to find Daisy sticking out at a 45-degree angle from the bank, owing to the untied stern rope.
Tisbury was asleep.
I secured the boat, finished the washing up and had a cup of tea on the front deck in the restored peace and quiet.
Then I tried to make sense of the previous hour, and wondered whether anybody would ever believe me.