THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND

Chapter Seventeen: A Viking's Funeral

It was inevitable, I suppose, that sooner or later Mike and I would become boat-builders, being surrounded as we were by so much water. Not that we ever posed a threat to the likes of the great Clyde-side ship-builders or anything like that, but we did try our hands at making rafts and coracles and even canoes. At least Mike did; I mainly supervised and generally got in the way. We had first been influenced by the very successful efforts of Pat, one of our lodgers, who had made a canoe which could just about fly over the water.

Mike had been privileged to have several rides in Pat's canoe and was so impressed by it all that he decided that we should build a boat too. We thought perhaps a canoe at this early stage in our maritime career was a trifle ambitious so we set about making a raft.

First, we gathered together a half-dozen or so logs then borrowed a few lengths of rope from the store-shed, (the ropes would be returned within a year or two), and began to lash the whole thing together. Mike did most of the underwater work, since I was too young to breath underneath the surface and very soon we had the great vessel ready for its first voyage.

We acquired a long pole to use as our source of propulsion, climbed aboard and set off for the southern oceans. The journey was going to be a long one, perhaps we should have taken on food supplies.

Mike used the pole to push the raft from the canal bank and, ho, we were at sea. Unfortunately, we hit a snag right from the outset. The pole we were using did not reach bottom and there we were, in the middle of the ocean, adrift and helpless. The swells were getting higher. The sun beat down on us ferociously. "Water! I need water!" I cried. "Belay that, you mangy seadog!" the captain bellowed at me. Would we ever sight land again?

The constant strain of the heavy swells took its toll on the lashings around our raft. The logs decided to part company, each in their own particular direction and as the tropical sun sank slowly over the horizon, we sank into the unforgiving sea, never to be seen again. Our first ship, and on its maiden voyage she had foundered. It was one of the most famous maritime disasters of the twentieth century. The journey had lasted all of a minute and a half.

Actually, we were to be seen again, I'm happy to report, but it was a near thing. Another day or two might have seen the end of us.

For our next attempt we decided to go for something a little more sturdy, something which wouldn't break up when the first heavy seas came thundering towards us. Mike came upon a big wooden crate which had been used to carry some sort of heavy machinery. "Eureka!" he said, or words to that effect, and began, with my expert assistance, to ready her for sea.

The crate was about four or five feet long, about three feet wide and about a foot and a half deep. It was perfect! The seven seas were now within our reach. We dragged it to the back of our house and immediately began working on her. All day we slaved, happy in the knowledge that soon we would have our very own sailing vessel. Mike sent me to look for bits of old rope to use as corking to stop up the holes in the planks. He found a board, from which he fashioned a long-handled paddle. And as soon as Mike deemed it to be sea-worthy, we dragged it to the canal ready for launching.

We were going to invite the Queen to perform the launching ceremony, but she was off somewhere doing her queenly bit and frightfully unavailable. So, rather than stoop to any lesser personage, we launched the boat ourselves. "May God bless her, and all who sail in her." we intoned solemnly, as she slid gracefully into the water.

Captain Michael Joseph Riley went aboard and took command as I held her close to the bank. "Let go forrard', let go aft," he ordered, and the HMS Spike Island got under way. About three days into the voyage, well, about three feet from the canal bank, the ship sprung a leak. "Man the pumps!" he ordered. "Slow all engines. Bring the wheel amidships," he continued bravely, undaunted by the precarious situation. He swam out of the boat which by now had become completely filled with water and dragged it to the side of the canal. Without his weight, it became easier to handle and with some effort we managed to empty it and haul it on to dry land.

Time to re-think this whole operation. "We need to water-proof it," he said, stating the obvious. "Yeah? How do we do that?" I queried. "Canvas and pitch, that's what we need," he explained, as though I could understand. Off we went in search of the vital materials. The canvas we located on top of one of the wagons, which the railway company had thoughtfully left there for our convenience. The pitch we found lying around unused in the store-shed. So, with the materials safely gathered, we went back to the boat and commenced the re-fitting of her.

Then, covered in canvas, the leaky planks corked and pitched, even a keel in the shape of a four-by-two, the plucky vessel was ready for sea-trials again. Once again, Mike was piped aboard, as I stood to attention and saluted smartly. As she went away from the bank, Mike knelt down in the bottom and began to paddle. It was at this precise moment in history that we learned that in order to have a boat move forwards, it is essential, first of all, to have a bow and a stern on the vessel. A square-ended box just flatly refuses to go where you want it to go.

Round and round he went, paddling furiously to try to make some headway, but it was hopeless. The stupid thing didn't know it was a boat; it acted like a puppy dog chasing its tail.

As you may imagine, the unworthy vessel was de-commissioned forthwith and reduced to firewood in a trice. Back to the drawing-board.

Mike still had visions of building a canoe. His experiences with Pat's flier had set his heart aflame and there was no stopping him. We spent the next few days scavenging for the proper materials and once they were found we began to build. Hammer and hammer, knock and knock, saw and saw, stretch the canvas, paint the pitch. Then came launching-day.

It looked so sleek sitting there in the water; all black and shiny and waiting for the skipper's orders. Mike grabbed the paddle and eased himself into the canoe. He let go of the bank with his one free hand and the canoe promptly turned over. Well, I thought to myself, this is a novel way to sail. He came up spluttering and bloody-helling and dragged himself out of the canal to the accompaniment of my uncontrollable titters.

He bade me most earnestly to be quiet, or else, and prepared to try again. He tied it alongside the bank and lowered himself into it again. It turned over. Time after time he tried it, and time after time it turned turtle. The longest trip he made was a record-breaking five yards. Nothing would make it stay upright. The project would have to be abandoned; there was nothing else for it. But what could we do with a canoe which wouldn't stay up the right way? What possible use could we make of it? And after all that work, too!

Over in the river the tide was on the ebb. The sun had just set and the skies were darkening. Twilight time! The perfect time for a Viking funeral! We dragged the canoe out of the canal and lugged it over to the river wall. Once there, we filled it with old newspapers and twigs and set it alight. Very soon it was blazing. With a heave and a ho and a few singed hairs, we threw the canoe into the river. Amazingly, it landed the right way up and, to add insult to injury, remained upright for the remainder of its last, glorious voyage.

Such a grand sight it was to see this blazing, floating funeral-barge, as it sailed majestically down the river. The flames leapt high into the night, sending the fallen Viking's spirit soaring to the Heavens. We watched it side by side as we stood on the promontory, until it disappeared round the bend in the river. The canoe had had a short and unhappy life, but, oh, what a magnificent way to go.

Index for this issue     Index of all Canal Cuttings issues      Home Page

Site design and content © 2002 - 2009 Sankey Canal Restoration Society
Site design by Phil D.Long