All at Sea Page 3

  ‘Dom, are you about for a beer?’

  Even though he’s a very old and close friend, as I bumped into the table inside the door of the pub, I realised I was oddly nervous about seeing Dom. The more I’d thought about it the less possible the bath project seemed without him. This had to go well.

  Returning to the table with beers, we began chatting about all sorts of stuff. In fact everything under the sun that didn’t involve baths or Channels. Eventually, I thought I’d just have to bite the bull and said, ‘I’ve got a plan … sort of charity thing … a bit like the paper boat … but I’m going to need your help.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well … I want to row the Channel and I know nothing about the sea.’

  ‘Should be fairly straightforward. I could teach you what you’d need to know.’

  ‘Hmmm … I want to row the Channel in a bath.’

  Dom looked as shocked as Jack. Then laughed out loud.

  ‘That’s a brilliant wheeze. It’s going to be tough and I’m not sure you’ll make it but I’d love to help.’

  Dom had joined the team and I’d found an officer to run plumbing command.

  ‘Have you checked with the French? They own half the Channel.’

  ‘Good point. I’ll get on to that …’

  ‘Another beer?’

  I’d invented a new maxim, ‘hard drinking leads to success at sea’, and attempting to prove it, the next night I met up with a man called Douglas. I didn’t know Douglas well. He’d been to a talk I’d given about the paper-boat trip and after it, he gave me his card. He was some sort of boat designer and said that if ever I needed his help I only had to ask. Before going to the pub that evening I finally checked out the website address on his card with my coal-fired laptop. It turned out Douglas was not just some sort of boat designer but a multi-award-winning boat designer. Asking a reputable boat designer to put his reputation on the line for a floating Crapper bath was a big call. Asking a multi-award winner at the top of his profession to do it would be almost impossible.

  We met in a pub just off Lots Road near the harbour in Chelsea. I bought beers and sat down opposite Douglas. In our short acquaintance I’d already become aware that he was one of life’s most cheerful people. Every time I’d seen or spoken to him he’d had a huge smile on his face. He seemed a man consistently one beat away from a gut-wrenching peal of laughter.

  We talked about all sorts of stuff, found common ground and drank lots of beer. Several beers in, I thought it might be time to chance my arm.

  ‘You know how you said you’d be up for helping if I had another idea?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well … I’ve got one.’

  ‘What is it now: a paper sail? A loo-roll Armada?’

  ‘I want to row the Channel in a bath.’

  There was a beat. Silence. Douglas burst into hysterics. He came up gasping for breath. ‘Brilliant. I’m in. What do you need?’

  ‘Well, do you think a bath can actually float and do this?’

  ‘Erm … I don’t know. Have you got a pen?’

  Together we drew countless designs on beer mats for the rest of the night. The more beer we drank the sillier the designs became and the more we laughed. Design mark 2B made us laugh so much we hurt doing Hamlet impressions in the style of Sean Connery, Roger Moore and Mrs Thatcher. Via several versions of the mark 8, we finally finished the night on a totally implausible design: the mark 12E.

  Two days later my phone rang. It was Douglas.

  ‘Mate, I’ve really got it.’

  ‘Still? Oh dear. My hangover’s just clearing.’

  ‘No, I’ve got the design. I’ve been working on design 12E.’

  ‘Was that the good one?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I’ll pop it in the post.’

  ‘Brilliant work, mate. Fancy a beer after work?’

  ‘Great idea …’

  Waking up somewhat later I remembered Dom’s words about checking with the French. Now I had the designs of one of the country’s leading boat designers, I was bound to be fine. I tried to look up the French Coastguard and was somewhat surprised that I couldn’t find one. I phoned the French Embassy.

  A slick diplomatic Gallic voice answered the phone, ‘Bonjour, the Embassy of France.’

  ‘Ah, bonjour, excuse me for asking but where is the French Coastguard?’

  ‘At the coast. Guarding.’

  ‘Perfect. Of course. Do you have any contact details for them?’

  ‘But of course.’ He rattled off the contact details of the French Navy.

  ‘Erm … I don’t think I want the Navy, I rather need the civil Coastguard.’

  ‘We have no civil Coastguard in France.’

  ‘I don’t mind if they’re rude, I just need to …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just need to talk to whoever it is in France that is the equivalent of the British Coastguard.’

  ‘This is the Navy in France.’

  ‘Thank you so much for your time. Or, should I say, merci beaucoup.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Merci beaucoup. I think it’s “thank you” in French.’

  ‘Oh sorry, bien, desolé. I didn’t understand you. Au revoir.’

  I thought I’d better check my new information. Perhaps I’d not been clear with the man from the Embassy and he’d got confused. I dialled the Admiral.

  ‘It seems it’s the French Navy that I should be talking to about the Channel crossing not the Coastguard.’

  ‘Right. There’s no Coastguard in France. They let the French Navy do it. They have to give them something to do. It’s not good for national pride to have to disband it so they turned it into a Coastguard. I think it does a few other bits and bobs too.’

  ‘Right-ho, thanks … I’ll phone them.’

  It was 2004 – the 100th anniversary of the Entente Cordiale – or the centenary, in the pre-decimal system of measurement. Signed on 8 April 1904, the Entente Cordiale was a series of agreements between France and the UK attempting to put an end to the rivalry that had dogged the two nations up to that point and usher in a new era of peaceful co-operationfn1.

  I thought: what better way to celebrate 100 years of love between our two great nations than to row the waterway that separates us in a giant piece of sanitaryware? With the fervour of a terrorist, I wrote to the Prime Minister to tell him of my plan. I didn’t hear back. Then I picked up the phone and dialled the French Navy.

  ‘Bonjour …’

  He went on in French. This was something I’d not bargained for. Fairly early in the conversation it became obvious even to me that the French Navy spoke nothing but French. I did GCSE French, or as it should be known ‘French for the stupid’, and being stupid, passed with flying colours. The course was themed around a series of books: the first one was called Tricolore, the second was called Encore Tricolore, then they ran out of words to rhyme with ‘Tricolour’ and for the third book settled on Tricolore Trois. As it was written on the book cover as Tricolore 3 I always suspected it was probably pronounced ‘Tricolore Three’ but arguing this with my French teacher would have been less pleasurable than my castration and probably lead to a similar result.

  The Tricolore series had irreparably drummed into me how to ask the way to the station: ‘Où est la gare?’ I remember repeating the same phrase over and over again, yet at no point in the whole murderous series had I been taught the one phrase that would have been actually useful to me: ‘Hello sir, I would like to row the English Channel in a bath, please.’

  I tried hard to improvise. I knew the French for ‘hello’. I knew the French for ‘sir’. I even knew the French for ‘I would like’. Surpassing myself linguistically, and in the spirit of the Entente Cordiale and basic politeness, I’d even looked up the French for ‘the English Channel’.

  The French, somewhat surprisingly, don’t like calling it ‘the English Channel’ but do
n’t seem to feel justifiably able to call it ‘the French Channel’ either. Mysteriously they call it ‘la Manche’ which translates as ‘the Sleeve’. I discovered later that the same word – the Sleeve – with a slightly different accent shift or a Carry On style eyebrow wiggle is also a slang term in France for condoms. In England, slang for condoms is ‘French letters’. Knowing this, everything became clear.

  ‘Please’ is easy in French and again had been drummed into me, coupled like the passenger carriage to ‘Où est la gare?’ So the only hurdle I could see was the verb ‘to row’. Cursing myself for not being better at French and desperately flipping through the dictionary I heard the naval man on the end of the phone repeat helplessly, ‘Pardonez moi, monsieur, mais je ne comprends pas.’

  I found the ‘R’ section, ran my finger down the page and apprehensively shut the dictionary. A bead of sweat appeared on my forehead. I felt nervous, self-conscious, dishonest and cagey: the classic signs that a stout-hearted Briton is milliseconds away from attempting French.

  In a French accent developed through a lifetime of using English I said, ‘Hello sir, I would like to row the English Channel in a bath please.’

  What actually arrived in the ear of the French Navy man was, ‘Hello sir, I would like to fight a condom across a bath if you please.’

  The naval man clung to his mantra like a monk in a whorehouse, ‘Pardonez moi, monsieur, mais je ne comprends pas.’

  I had to think fast. The education system of Thatcherite Britain had failed me at the first hurdle. What option was left to me? Politely, I tried slowing down my questions, which did not help. I tried using monosyllabic wordsfn2, which still did not help. Then I tried the age-old trick of the Briton abroad and raised my voice. This really did not help.

  Finally, desperate to communicate, I attempted mime to try and get my point across. Innovative mime was my best shot and would have worked had we not been separated from each other by a phone line. I finished in my best French by thanking him for his time and asking if he knew the way to the station before putting the phone down.

  I phoned the Admiral back.

  ‘It’s no use, Admiral, the French speak nothing but French.’

  There was a short pause on the end of the line then his voice rattled into life like a sabre.

  ‘They’re lying, Tim!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The French Navy must by law speak English, as English is the international maritime language of the sea.’

  ‘Has anyone told the French that?’

  The line went dead for a moment before he thundered, ‘Yes: Nelson. At the battle of Trafalgar.’

  I tried to stifle an irresistibly British giggle not knowing if the Admiral was making a joke or not. I got it right. He was serious.

  The indignant thunder continued, ‘This is rotten behaviour; he was playing a cruel trick on you. The animal is probably now laughing about it down the mess with his other officers. Your mistake was to try and speak French at him in the first place.’

  I put down the phone to the Admiral irritated with the cunning officer of the French. However, I decided in the spirit of what I was trying to achieve that I’d play his game for as long as I could. I needed to find someone who spoke French like a native.

  I was in London that weekend and left my flat to wander round the corner to grab some milk. On the way back a lady sashayed down the road towards me, looking not unlike Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She came closer and smiled. I smiled back.

  ‘Liza!’

  It was a staggering coincidence – in its defence, all I can say is that London is a very small place sometimes.

  ‘Hello Tim, how are you? Do you fancy a cup of tea? I only live down the road.’

  ‘Lovely idea, I’ve even got milk, if that helps …’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve probably got some, too, but that’s very sweet of you.’

  It had been ages and ages since I’d seen Liza. In fact, the last time I’d seen her, she’d been one of history’s most radiant and happy brides.

  ‘How is Ed?’ I asked of her implausibly tall, stunningly nice husband.

  ‘He’s great, although he’s out today – he’ll be so sad to miss you. Fun bumping into you, I’ve got loads of news. This way.’

  The list of people who are genuinely sad to miss me can normally be limited to the parents of girls I’ve fallen foul of, staring down the barrels of shotguns and cursing their aim. However, Ed is one of the rare exceptions and I couldn’t believe of all the days to bump into Liza I’d managed one when Ed was away. Nevertheless, it is always a blissful joy to see Liza and plus I have a golden rule in life: never turn down the offer of a cup of tea.

  Inside, we drank tea, laughed and nattered. There really was loads to catch up on, especially the news that Liza was pregnant. I had missed so much by being away in paper boats. During our second cup, a dark force began to muster on the dull edges of my brain. This dark force grew, developing into an army of thought before bursting out of my mouth, ‘Liza … you speak French don’t you?’

  ‘I should, I grew up there.’

  That was what I’d been trying to tell myself to remember.

  ‘I even went to school there and everything.’

  My mind flashed to Liza’s 21st birthday party years before. I knew it! It was in France.

  ‘You couldn’t do me a favour could you?’

  She laughed. ‘As long as it’s not running the marathon as I’m not sure that’s good for the baby.’

  I explained my chronic lack of French and what I was trying to achieve.

  ‘I mean I think it would be semi-OK. I probably could just about be understood if I practised really hard at it but I just want someone who can speak it like a native as we’ve got to be absolutely clear with them so they can make a judgement on it.’

  ‘I’d love to give them a call.’

  This had been a blinding flash of inspiration as although Liza can quite justifiably be compared to Audrey Hepburn in appearance, her voice is even prettier than that. She could put honey into early retirement. If there were a weapon that was guaranteed to charm the hearts of French Naval Command, I’d just found it. She did have a warning though.

  ‘I think it might be tough as they’re not really on the same wavelength as us on this sort of thing.’

  A day later my phone rang. It was Liza. ‘They’re not convinced at all. He says he’d like to see some plans.’

  Douglas might have been drinking with me the night it was conceived but, as it turned out when the plans arrived, he was justifiably a multi-award winner. The plans were brilliant: totally meticulous down to the last degree. As finely expressed as the sayings and equations of Wittgenstein. He had taken beer-mat design mark 12E, thought through the problems, solved them and made the craft that now appeared on the paper seem more indomitable and seaworthy than the Ark Royal.

  Pleased at being able to sort this one fast I said, ‘Sure, what’s the fax number?’

  The next day Liza called to tell me the news.

  ‘Right. It’s taken quite a bit of talking but he says his advice is clear and it’s the advice of his government: they’re not happy about you rowing the Channel but that goes for anyone. He said the French government don’t like anyone swimming or rowing the Channel at all and their official position is that no one should do it. They can’t understand the English fascination with it. However, people ignore that every time they swim or row the Channel. So he says, bearing that in mind, if you’re willing to take the risk and promise to have a safety boat near you, there’s nothing he will do to stop you.’

  ‘Thank you Liza, that’s really good of you. Can you phone him and say I’d like to call to thank him personally.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Fifteen minutes later I heard the now familiar foreign dialling tone, then a click.

  ‘Hello. This is Tim FitzHigham just phoning to say thank you for your help.’

  ‘No problem. Sorry I couldn’t
understand you before, I thought you were Dutch.’

  What I wanted to say at that point was not what came out of my mouth: ‘Thank you for being so understanding and I promise to undertake this safely.’

  ‘It will be hard but we hope it goes well for you. I’ll put some documents on the fax for you.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.’

  His English was not great but at least he was now using it. This all seemed like a huge step in the right direction.

  I put down the phone and called Liza back.

  ‘Thank you so much. They even spoke English this time.’

  ‘They like it when you make an effort.’

  ‘They seem fine with everything.’

  ‘I think he was impressed with the plans. That seemed to swing it. However, I feel it’s only fair to warn you that although they are fine with it today, the French have been known to change their minds.’

  The bath plan was coming together and the spirit of the Entente Cordiale was very much alive and kicking in the 21st century. Hurrah for the French.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Row, Row, Row Your Bath, Gently to the Sea …

  ‘Give me a camel and I can get anywhere.’

  Gordon of Khartoum

  From an early age, I’d spent years trying to learn to row. I’m qualified to be a rower: I went to university. That should count. My college was famous for its rowers. While there, I spent weeks during both the Michaelmas and Epiphany terms under the river, obsessed with trying to master rowing. I remember my coach on the riverbank screaming encouragement, as only the truly deluded can, while I heroically turned the boat over and sank it in a variety of impressive ways. I transformed capsizing into an art form: the slow-motion capsize; the one where I’d fake that I was going to capsize on the left before righting myself just long enough to hear him shout enthusiastically ‘well done’, then flipping it over effortlessly on the right; and my favourite: capsizing while doing up my shoes. To be that bad takes talent.

  Rowing should be a simple and beautiful thing. In an ideal world start with legs fully extended so your bottom is furthest from your feet, push your hands down to lift the blade from off the water (this is known as the release). Then you turn the blade (known as feathering) so that the face of the blade runs parallel to the surface of the water as you move up the stroke to the top of the slide. This is sometimes called the recovery. At the top of the stroke, your sliding seat can’t go any further towards your heels. Your buttocks are nearest your feet and your arms outstretched in front of you. In this position square the blades so that they’re now at right angles to the water. Then pop the blades down into the water in the glorious moment known as the catch. Pushing your bottom away from your feet you glide down the slide with as much power as possible to the moment known as the finish where your legs will be fully extended again. Push your hands downwards, raise the oar up out of the water and you’re back at the release. Simply repeat the process until you’ve either won the race or crashed into the bank. It involves balance, speed, strength and mental toughness. Rowing is justifiably called the sport of kings.