While the others were busy preparing the evening meal and collecting firewood, Titty slipped away from the camp and made her way to the harbour. The two boats Swallow and Amazon lay securely at their moorings. Much as she loved the others sometimes she felt the need for some solitude, just to sit and think. The others would call when it was time to eat. Until then she she could spend time alone with her imagination.
Titty climbed into Swallow and sat back with her eyes closed, imagining the boat was hers and hers alone. Putting a hand on the tiller she pictured herself sailing Swallow single-handed to a new destination, perhaps an unexplored tropical island. She caressed the wood, still warm from the afternoon sun, and whispered, "What adventures did you have before we found you?"
To her amazement the boat seemed to reply, "Do you really want to know?"
Titty opened her eyes and warily looked around, thinking that her brother Roger had heard her words and was playing one of his tricks on her. No-one was in sight. She closed her eyes again and said softly, "Did you really speak to me just now?"
"So you can understand the language of boats then? There are many good sailors who can read the shape of a sail or the pressure on the rudder but never get further than that. There are not many who can understand all we say. You must be especially sensitive.
You are interested in my story you say? Well, I'd better start at the beginning then."
Titty said nothing but nodded her head in wonder.
"I was built more than twenty years ago in Crossfield's boatyard at Arnside. He built many boats like me, and larger ones too, for the fishermen who worked the waters of Morecombe Bay. It was those waters that defined my shape. The bay is shallow and the sand-bars and channels shift with nearly every tide, so I was given a long shallow keel, not a centreboard sticking out two or three feet under the water like a lot of boats have. One of those would keep catching on the bottom and get stuck, or worse still, break. Unfortunately it means I can't sail as close to the wind as some boats, but it's better to take longer to reach your destination than never arrive at all. My single sail is easy for one person to handle but gives a fair turn of speed when the wind is right.
Not having a centreboard means there is more space for the nets and fishing gear, and, as you know, I'm a stable boat, so as to make it easier when hauling in the nets.
I was built specially for a fisherman called Jim. He and his elder son, Alf, would take me out most days and shoot out the nets for fish. Some days I would come home low in the water with the weight of our catch, other days we would return nearly empty. Jim would then complain that fish were not as plentiful as in his father's time. Generally, though, we caught enough to sell at the market to enable Jim to feed and clothe his family.
Jim was a good sailor who knew how to treat a boat properly. Rarely did he do anything reckless that risked me or himself. He had been well taught by his father how to navigate those shifting sands. At times I could hear him instructing Alf how to recognise shallow patches by the colour of the water and how the tide created waves and calm areas.
In addition to Alf he had three daughters and a younger son, also called Jim, who was usually known as Young Jim or Jimmy.
Once or twice a year Jim would bring all his family down with him, and, instead of going out into the bay, he and Alf would row them all up the river for a picnic. Other than that I didn't see much of the others. Working the tides and currents of the bay is man's work, not for women or the young and inexperienced. This all changed one day. Several times Jim and Alf had spoken of a war and whether Alf would have to 'do his bit' as he termed it. Alf must have had to go because one evening he said, "Well, that will be my last day out with you for a while, Dad. When I'm back may be I'll look to getting a boat of my own."
The next morning when Jim came to get me ready for a day's fishing it was Young Jim who was with him.
Now Young Jim had been out with us before, but that was always with Alf along as well. This time Young Jim was obviously expected to help his father with handling me and hauling the nets. What with him being much smaller than Alf and Jim having to keep checking everything he did, we caught much less than usual during those first few weeks.
As that summer went on Young Jim got better at helping his father. He was still not as strong as Alf when it came to hauling in the net, but he learnt the skills of how to sail me. Though I could always tell when he was holding my tiller to steer, he tended to use short jerky movements, forcing me where he wanted me to go, whereas Jim was always firm but smooth, letting the sail guide me rather than using the rudder to push me.
At the end of the summer Young Jim had to go back to school so he could only help his father at weekends. Other fishermen must have been in the same situation because Jim started working with another man. Sometimes they would take me, sometimes they would use the other man's boat.
This carried on all through the autumn and winter. I remember one day we were coming back in with a catch and Jim said, "Looks like my missus is down to meet us. I wonder what she wants."
Well when we got in I could hear her sobbing and crying, "Oh poor Alf! Jim what are we going to do?"
Jim leapt ashore to see to her.
"We've got a telegram. The Admiralty regret to announce..." And she broke down in tears.
It was a while before Jim could get any more sense from her. Later I understood Alf's ship had been sunk and he was not among those rescued.
Jim was never quite the same after that. Sometimes I could tell he was not properly concentrating on sailing or fishing. A wave that normally he would have steered to meet properly might throw us about more than usual. Then Jim would cuss and swear.
Jim and Young Jim took me out on a freezing cold winter day. My ropes were stiff and froze with ice when they got wet. Now normally we would not have gone out when it was like that, but catches had been down, and Jim needed to earn as much as possible to feed his family.
It was blowing a stiff breeze, and Jim muttered that it might even pick up to a gale later. We had been out for a fair time when Jim decided it was time to give up for the day as the wind was rising. Young Jim hoisted the sail and we set back towards home.
That wind was causing some nasty waves over the sandbanks as we headed in. I could feel them lift me up from behind and try to twist me round. As the waves broke against me they filled the air with flying spray.
I don't really know what happened next. Young Jim was steering while his dad sorted the few fish they had caught and tidied up the gear, when suddenly the sail and its yard came down with a crash. Perhaps where the ropes were stiff and slippery the lad had not fastened the halyard properly.
The falling yard caught Jim and he fell to the bottom boards. Young Jim was yelling, "Dad! Dad! Are you alright?" and let go the tiller to see to his father. Normally if left on my own like that I would keep a fairly straight course, an advantage of a long keel. But, with part of the sail in the water and part sticking up catching the wind, I was out of control. I slid round sideways to the waves and a breaking crest caused me to lurch violently, tipping over almost to the point of capsize and letting a great deal of water come slopping over my side.
The cold water must have revived Jim as I felt him move and grab for the tiller, but I could tell from the shift in weights that Young Jim had fallen overboard with that wild lurch.
As quickly as he could Jim got me back under control by pointing into the wind, but from the way he handled me he was clearly not well, and not thinking straight. At first he tried to turn back to find his son, but with the sail dragging over the side it was a hopeless task. Eventually he sorted out the wet canvas, pulling it from the water and roughly bundling it up.
All the time he was frantically calling, "Jimmy! Jimmy! Where are you?"
Jim tried rowing back to where we had been but the wind and waves were against us. I knew we were being driven towards the shore. In the end he sat back and took the tiller with something like a sob, and steered with just the wind blowing against my mast and hull to push us along.
I don't think Jim was steering towards anywhere in particular, just back to the nearest land. We ran onto a beach some way from home and Jim just sat where he was, still crying out his son's name. Two men, other fishermen I think, carried Jim ashore, then hauled me up the beach and made sure I was secure.
I didn't see Jim again.
A man from the boatyard came a few days later and took me back to Arnside. For some time everyone spoke of me in hushed tones. Saying things like: "That was Jim's boat. Brought him back through a rising storm it did." Or "A good boat that, pity about poor Jim. Losing both sons so soon after each other, no wonder he's in such a state."
The yard cleaned me up and gave me a new coat of paint. When my sail went in the water it must have caught on something as there was tear in it, which they repaired neatly with a square patch.
Crossfields put me up for sale. Whatever money they made was to go to Jim's family. None of the local fishermen were interested. They had their own boats and although they all reckoned I saved Jim's life they preferred to stay with their own.
As you might know, boats are not really alive unless we are afloat, we tend to sink into a deep sleep when out of the water for long, so I don't know exactly how long I was kept there in the yard. I remember being moved and the next time I was really aware of where I was it was on fresh water. It turned out a cousin of the owner of Crossfields had a yard beside the lake and he thought I might be suitable for use there.
A man, who I later found was called Mr Jackson, bought me. He was a farmer who liked to relax by going fishing. His fishing was not with nets like Jim used, but with a rod. Maybe once a week he would take me out and quietly wait for the fish to take his bait. He was not interested in catching a lot. I think he just liked to sit and unwind.
His wife came out sometimes, not to fish but to enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. One day she asked Mr Jackson if he had decided on a name for me. He replied that he had not any ideas that seemed right. Mrs Jackson thought and watched some birds swooping low over the water as they caught insects to take back to their chicks.
"How about Swallow?" she suggested. "There are several pairs of them nesting in the back of the boathouse, and more in the bottom barn, it seems sort of appropriate."
Mr Jackson just grunted in reply, and I didn't know if he agreed or not. Later though he brought a pot of paint down to the boathouse and carefully painted my new name, SWALLOW, across my transom.
Some say it is unlucky to change a boat's name. All I can say is that has done me no harm. Life is very peaceful now. I am never taken out in bad weather and am well looked after. A few years ago now the Jacksons started taking paying guests like yourselves at their farm. Most of them did not concern me, but Mr Jackson let some of them take me out so they could enjoy the lake. Mainly they just rowed me around the little bay by the farm. Some tried sailing but none of them really knew what they were doing. I collected a few bumps and scrapes when an inexperienced person came alongside the jetty a bit too hard. Each winter I am taken out of the water and my paint freshened up ready for the next spring and summer.
Yes life is good, but sometimes I remember Jim and his sons, and wonder what has become of the rest of the family."
A whistle blew shrilly. Titty roused herself.
"That was Susan's whistle, so tea must be ready. Thank you for telling me your story. I always knew you were a special boat. I must go now but I hope I can steal away and listen to you again soon."
She stepped out onto the beach, paused briefly to caress Swallow's side, and ran off to rejoin the others.
Author's Note: This has been edited to correct typographic errors, and implement some of the grammatical changes suggested by StopTalkingAtMe and Mnemosyne's Elegy. Thank you both.