The Outward Leg

Next morning the crew rose early and grumpily.   It was still dark with the feintest hint of a dawn along the eastern horizon.   Emerging sleepily on deck Potkin listened for the sound of birds breaking wind, but heard nothing.

Ebenhaezer Coleye had cooked up  a satisfyingly filling Full English for the crew, to be followed by toast and preserves whilst for Potkin he had prepared pan fried Portuguese sardines topped with a Kean's Farm vintage cheddar cheese melt, lightly browned under the grill.   The moment breakfast was over and still holding steaming mugs of tea, the crew turned to on deck and Moses Smith descended into the engine room with a blow torch.   After roughly twenty seven minutes of pumping and hammering, some coaxing and cursing in his native tongue and, eventually a wheezy mechanical cough, there came the easy, hollow donk donk donk of a gently idling single cylinder marine Bolinder diesel which made the stern bounce and blew smoke rings from a nine inch diameter exhaust pipe in the mizzen rigging. Potkin tried to keep out of the way as everyone pulled on ropes and the skipper shouted orders.
The mooring lines were cast off and the Centaur chugged a slow gamelan as she followed the river down stream.   Once the tops'l and foresail were set the ageing Bolinder was silenced and the majestic barge ghosted down river in company with the other contestants.   By the improving light of morning further sails were set.   The main sheet was hauled out, hooked to an iron ring on the horse and moused securely in place. (For those of you who, like me, are finding this a bit technical: a sheet is a rope what controls a sail and a horse isn't a horse it's a big beam of wood going from one side of the boat to the other so as the sail can flap and clank along it; and I have no idea what the mouse was doing.   Or... if you are still confused, imagine a lot of fluttering sails and slapping ropes and people jumping about and a bit of shouting followed, mostly, by a period of calm and everything looking like it's supposed to.)   A stays'l thrashed it's way slowly skywards and was brought under control.   The mizzen sail was set and trimmed.   Rich taught Potkin to “tail”.   The stalwart cat was not sure what he was doing, exactly, but he gripped a rope firmly in his teeth and pulled backwards as hard as he could while Rich and the mate heaved and grunted.   Eventually all the sails were billowing out and the barge heeled to le’ward, straining in the freshening breeze.   It started to rain.
As they approached the start line they saw a mass of barges zig-zagging past each other, at speed.   There were distant multiple cries of, "Starboard!"
To Potkin's horror Absalom Rowbottom drove Centaur straight into the centre of the mayhem and joined in, "Starboard!" he cried, spinning the wheel wildly.   A dozen vast and unwieldy craft swept back and forth along the start line waiting for the gun.   They ducked under sterns, shot across bows.   As a dented, steel hulled barge named Ironsides rushed smugly by, rashly close to Centaur's stern, Absalom surreptitiously took a rusting shackle pin from the pocket of his long coat and, whistling innocently, lobbed it high into his rival's tops'l.   It rattled onto the deck where a whiskerless lad retrieved it, looked worriedly aloft and rushed with it to his skipper.
Something akin to a smile, but much more scary, split across our skippers face.
"They'll be a long time wondering where that's come from."
On the five minute gun all the barges rounded up and commenced their dash for the line.   (There is, I am assured only one gun, a little brass canon, but several bangs.   On the ten minute bang everyone must switch off their engines and the five minute bang signals frantic manoeuvring by the keenest skippers for the best position at the start.   The aim is to reach the starting line, going flat out, just as, BUT NOT BEFORE, the start bang goes off.)   Several craft, including Centaur, were neck and neck as there came another report and a puff of white smoke from the committee boat.   The race had begun.
With the leading barges clearing the mouth of the river the wind became a gale.   Dark clouds twisted and turned as they rolled past and the chill rain stung Potkin’s face.   He was glad to be wearing his waders and sou’wester.
Centaur began to pitch wildly as the lumpy seas battered her hull, great waves crashed over her bow and swept along the deck.   Potkin was cold and a little frightened.   He could taste his breakfast when he burped and was sure his fur was turning green.   He found an upturned bucket by the mast and curled up beneath it.
The crew, hunched against the wind, was still pulling on ropes called sheets while the skipper shouted, “Lee ho!” and “Leggo!” and the sails crashed from one side of the ship to the other.
As they swept onwards towards a buoy far out to sea, Eben staggered on deck with mugs of hot tea.   Potkin was wishing that he had stayed at home, but after the warming drink he felt a little braver and the queasy feeling in his stomach began to subside.   He nibbled a ginger biscuit and quickly perked up.   With barely a memory of his former discomfort Potkin was chatting to Rich about how much he was enjoying the voyage when they rounded the black and yellow north cardinal buoy which had been designated as the outer mark.