I’d moored up beside the weir.
It was my first day alone with the boat. My uncle and his friend had brought it on the first stretch — I’d joined them just south of Leicester and taken over to get it home to London.
The weather had been mixed, and the two weeks had been a steep learning curve. Getting to know her and her quirks, navigating the shallow spots, becoming increasingly confident with locks. Reversing, crosswinds, the importance of tick-over speed when passing moored boats.
It was an intense two-week crash course — one I really needed.
By the end of it we’d reached Uxbridge, and it was time to go solo. Ernie had driven down to meet my uncle. It was time to say goodbye and man up to what I’d just done.
By now I could taste doubt in my throat. It had started as a quick “do now, think later.” The landlord wanted me out because I had dogs. The places I looked at were either too small, too expensive — usually both.
So: buy a boat. It fixes my problem.
I’d begged and borrowed the money to buy her. I had a plan.
And now, as my uncle drove off with Ernie, I stood on the towpath holding the mooring line, and the only word I could think of was:
“fuck.”
Owning a boat, after year two, is a breeze. But in the first few weeks it’s nerve-racking. I’d sunk everything I had into a slowly rusting steel tube for me and the dogs to live in.
And now, here on my own, the thoughts started to creep in.
-
- Can dogs live on a boat?
- How will they get on and off
- Is there enough room?
Too late.
In an hour I was meeting friends to load everything I owned — boxes and black bags — onto the boat. It would be time for Macy and Mutley to join me.
From here, the next stage was locked in. I’d have to make it work. I’d have to remember. I’d have to get it right.
The first page of my new life had been written