It starts with the pain — my shins scraped raw and the crack of my jaw on flagstone.
Then shock, as cold water steals my breath, followed by confusion.
My eyes open. I turn. The propeller.
All of this happens in seconds.
I’ve been here before.
I need to get out before I drown.
I’d fallen in — again — stepping from the back of the boat to the towpath. One leg in mid-air, the wind pushed the boat away.
Only the tip of my toe caught the edge and I dropped straight down like a fishing weight.
The embarrassment comes later. First, it’s panic.
Things change fast. The boat has drifted away from the towpath, but the ropes have already reached their limit and snap it back.
I’m underwater. Sixteen tons of steel is coming back to pin me against the wall.
It should be stressful.
Underwater is strange.
The urge to gasp is there, but I noticep other things instead.
The light — golden green as it diffuses through the canal.
The bed — empty beer cans and bottles scattered like gravel.
The depth — deeper than it looks from above, carved out where the canal narrows and boats keep passing through.
I just clock it.
As the boat comes back towards me, right traps me. Left is blocked by the bow of another boat.
So I go under the back and out the other side.
Then up for air.
The immediate drama is over.
Getting out is something else. The water is low, the wall is slick, and there’s no one around to help.
Balls.
I knock on the hull to get attention — or at least set the dogs off.
Eventually it works. I’m dragged out onto the well deck, covered in duckweed and canal filth.
They’d been inside with headphones on, completely oblivious. It could have gone differently. But I’m out. Safe.
Drenched, filthy, and a bit crestfallen.
That was the last time I fell in.
Since then, I always kick down on the mooring ropes before stepping on or off. It keeps the boat moving toward the bank, not away. It would have saved me a sore chin and a bruised ego.
My uncle had told me to always switch the engine off when moored.
I’m glad I listened.