THE LIFE OF RILEY
BY FRANK RILEY ©

BOOK ONE - SPIKE ISLAND
Chapter Ten - Winter Sports

By coincidence, as we record the visit of the narrow boat Earnest to the Sankey on our cover and in an article above, from Australia comes Frank Riley's latest chapter of his biography - and the power of the Mersey tides is his subject...

From time to time on the island there would come huge tides thundering up the river. Usually the tides would range between fifteen and thirty feet in height, as I remember, but occasionally we would be visited by a monster which, at high-tide, could be as high as forty feet, and sometimes even beyond that.

It was an awesome sight, at times like these, to see the first flood of the tide come rushing inexorably up the river. Imagine, if you will, a river, which in parts was almost a mile across, being assailed by a wall of water many feet high, like a monstrous Waikiki comber unable to locate a beach on which to crash itself. It would sweep everything before it as it raced headlong to its destination; parts of the river bank would succumb to the pressure and crumble away to be swallowed by the maelstrom; any boat left poorly moored by the bank would be carried up river perhaps for miles, some never to be seen again. Nothing could stand in its way.

And yet, it was magnificent. Such power! So all-consuming. Awesome though it may have been, it was a wondrous spectacle to behold - and to hear, by gosh! It was as though a steam train were racing through a tunnel. You could hear the low rumble, like distant thunder, as the first flood approached. Although not yet in sight, the blood would race with excitement as the sound increased in intensity. And then, as the wall of rushing water rounded the bend in the river, the noise would grow louder. As it passed the island it was as though a horde of African drum-beaters had been let loose. And when the water crashed upon the sandbanks you could hear them groan as they trembled under the weight.

On a number of occasions large sections of the island would become flooded. Once, the water came right up to our doorstep, but, thank God, it stopped rising just in time to save the house. It was strange on that occasion, looking back to those times, to see the whole promontory had disappeared. The river now came right to the door - literally. The locks had vanished, the old pump-house and storage-shed, and the derelict office buildings were now surrounded; isolated by the river. Where once solid earth had been, now, if you had a boat, you could sail away on the tide without having to walk further than the doorstep.

The river and the canal had now become one body of water. All sense of proportion had been thrown awry. Where was the footpath? Where did the canal begin? For a time, that is, until the tide turned, it was far too dangerous to set foot outside the house. Although I had lived in the house for centuries and knew my way around the island blindfolded, now it was impossible to tell where everything was. One step too far and I would end up in the canal. Two steps too far and I would go the way of the boats which had been wrested from their moorings.

In times like those it was easy to let the imagination run free. With the water surrounding every building and the canal and river now as one, it was as though our humble, railway-owned cottage had magically been transformed into an ocean-going liner. There, away on the starboard side, the great Atlantic rollers came careering ceaselessly towards us. And on the port side, if you looked carefully, you could just make out the treacherous shapes of icebergs close to the horizon. "Keep a sharp look-out there, lads, " the captain would caution us. "Helmsman, keep her steady as she goes." "Aye, aye, captain, " I would respond, my hands firm upon the wheel. Oh, what a desperate voyage! Would we ever see land again? In the course of time the oceans would recede and the icebergs all melt away, and the world, as I knew it, would return to normal, soggy perhaps, but returned nonetheless.

One night, when such a tide had been predicted, there happened to be a terrible storm breaking around us. The wind screamed in malevolent anger and the rain lashed the island pitilessly. High-tide was due around two o'clock in the morning and the storm, if anything, looked as though it would worsen. At around ten we heard a loud knocking on our front door. Dad, thank goodness, especially considering what was about to happen, was upstairs in a deep, liquor-assisted sleep and did not stir. Mike rushed to the door, fearful that continued knocking might wake him, unlikely as that might have been, and opened it. On the doorstep, soaked to the skin and shivering from the cold, was a friend of Mike's, grim of face and wild of eye.

"What's up?" Mike inquired, as I peered fearfully around the back of him.

"Me dad's boat's on mud where I left it this afternoon an' he's not here an' if it gets washed away in this storm he'll kill me 'cos I wasn't supposed to go on it!" our visitor blurted out, all in one breath, disgracefully omitting all his commas.

"Where did you leave it?" asked Mike.

"On the mud-bank down by the marsh."

"Bloody hell! It'll get washed away when the tide comes up, yer know."

"Yeah, I know. Can yer give us an 'and to shift it?"

"Wot', just the two of us? It'll take more than that!"

"Young Frank, there, can help, can't he?"

"Oh, heck, he's too small, aren't you, Frank?"

"I, er... I don't know, " says I, one half of me hoping they would let me go with them, and the other terrified of the consequences if they did.

"All right, then, but don't tell me Dad I forced you, " said Mike, making my mind up for me before I'd had a chance to say anything further.

He turned to the visitor, "We'll have to get someone else to help us as well, yer know. Is there anyone yer can get at this time of night?"

"I'll try me mate, see wot 'e says, okay? "I'll be back in 'alf an hour, all right? Yer will wait, then? Yer will help us?"

"Yeah. Off you go, then. See you in 'alf an hour."

Away the poor wretch scampered, bowing his head before the driving rain as he crossed the bridges and moved out of sight.

Mike and I went inside to prepare for the task ahead. By this time I was beginning to regret that I hadn't spoken up about my lack of necessary height. There were so many "what ifs" to consider. The two uppermost in my mind were: what if we get washed down the river and drown, or worse, what if me Dad finds out - he'll kill us!

However, there was no turning back now. In a short while Mike's friend would return, hopefully, with another hand or two to help us and that would be that. Mike cautioned me to stay close to him and watch his every move, and for once I listened with very keen attention.

It was almost an hour before Mike's friend returned and when he did he had with him a boy whom I had never seen before. Hurried introductions were made and then all four of us trudged off to the marshlands. The wind raged on, driving the rain in horizontal sheets across the island. Already the tide was on the flow. We would have to work fast if we were to save the boat.

Across the marsh we tramped, sinking into the deep grass and muddy undergrowth. The night was almost pitch-black and the going was rough. Mike had had the presence of mind to bring along a torchlight, but the glow from its beam hardly penetrated the darkness. Any conversation had to be conducted at the top of our voices to be heard above the wind. The rain continued to lash around us, soaking us to the skin. I was both excited and frightened as we neared the spot where Mike's friend said the boat had been left.

At last we reached the river's edge. Mike shone the torch into the gloom to see how the boat was lying. With what little light could be had from the torch it was at first extremely difficult even to locate the craft, but after several sweeps in the general area someone spotted a faint patch of white paint.

"There it is!" he shouted.

"Where? Where?" we cried.

"Over to yer left. Not that way, yer daft bugger. Over there!"

We all took hold of the mooring-line and attempted to pull the boat to the river-bank, but it was stuck fast in the mud. The river was rising rapidly. Soon it would be up to the gunwhales of the boat. If we couldn't pull it free in the next few minutes the damn thing would be swamped. "Heave! Heave!" we all shouted, pulling with all our might. Still the boat would not budge. "Heave! Heave!" we cried again, straining every muscle. The river kept on rising. The wind was becoming even stronger and the rain belted at us ceaselessly.

It was difficult keeping one's feet in the muddy conditions. Everyone had fallen over at least once. The friend of Mike's friend actually slipped and fell into the river, that is, into the vee-shaped cut in the river-bank where the boat should have been moored. We thought we had lost him for some anxious moments, but several hands grabbed at him and saved him from going under. He was dragged unceremoniously up the muddy bank to safety and once again the pulling resumed.

The water now began to slop over the decks of the boat and the situation had become critical. Were we about to lose her? Was all this strain, not to mention the danger, to amount to nothing? Oh God, do we really deserve this?

Then, all of a sudden, she popped out of the mud, and as she did so the wind took hold of her. She was moving so fast we nearly let the mooring-line run right through our hands, but at the last moment somehow we managed to hang on. Now came the muscle-tearing task of hauling her in to the bank, fighting all the while against the contrary wind. The river was now over the bank and this was the most dangerous part of the exercise, for now we could not see where to plant our feet. One false step and any one of us could be six feet under and in these conditions it would be virtually impossible to be found again.

At last, after a tortuous struggle we finally managed to moor her properly: one rope from the bow was attached to a stake driven deeply into the soggy marshland; two ropes aft, one on each side done similarly and she was secured. It was a glorious battle against the elements, but we had emerged victorious.

The storm still raged and the marsh was now completely under water as we made our way back to higher ground. It was like being in a rice-paddy, although a heck of a lot more treacherous, as we tried to pick a safe way to extricate ourselves from the marshlands. It was as we were heading towards the edge of the marsh that we heard other voices shouting above the wind. Other boatmen were probably attempting the same thing we had done. We left them to it - our job was done.

Mike and I finally made it home about four or five o'clock in the morning. We rid ourselves of our sodden, muddy clothes and climbed wearily into our beds as silently as it was possible to do. Dad never did learn of our nocturnal exploits. He would have killed us if he had found out - he was always going to kill us for this something or that something. You would think he would tire of trying to kill us. If left to our own devices we could very well do it ourselves...

...as you'll be able to read in the next Chapter of Frank's tale: "Brotherly Love".

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