Napo 9 - 2022
Rope Break at Town Quay
It was at least a two inch rope,
maybe a little thicker,
countless threads,
woven from manilla yarn.
No lurid nylon ropes back then,
They were usually a dark brown,
sometimes almost black
from weather and salt,
with constant dipping and drying.
But this day it was almost gold,
fresh from the Chandler's store,
the protective whipping around the splice
still a bright crimson,
Being a sunny day the passengers,
self and Mum included,
were on the ferry's deck,
waiting as it pulled into the quay.
They always came in bows first,
at both ends of the crossing.
The skipper, perched up in his wheelhouse,
would read his newspaper,
spread out over the spoked wooden wheel,
during the journey.
It was a fifteen minute trip,
except when a big ship was there,
slowly easing into the docks.
In this case the ferry would idle,
loitering until it passed,
then butt its stubby bow
impatiently against the waves.
Swinging into the narrow berth,
opposite where the flying boats once moored,
a signal bell would ding below decks
and the engine cut to a low rumble.
Momentum took it the last hundred feet or so.
A crewman casually dropped a big eye-splice
over the first sturdy Greenheart piling,
the rope figure-eighting around two steel bollards,
slipping and then tightening,
feeding from the coil by his feet,
controlled by calloused palms
and stringy work-hardened muscles.
A man at the bow stood ready,
another rope coiled,
waiting to slip the second eye
and snug it in tight,
secure against the woven fenders.
Crack!
Like a gunshot,
echoing from the approaching harbour wall.
The rope exploded in an instant,
a cloud of golden fibres catching the sun,
seeming to hang in the air
as both ends recoiled.
One harmlessly into the water,
the other lashing back onto the deck.
No-one was hit, but nobody moved,
until the bells clamoured below deck
with a hideous discord,
and the engines bellowed full astern.
People stumbled then,
grabbing each other,
and at the railing.
White froth billowed at the stern,
then turned black as dock-bed sediment
was churned free from its slumber.
A locker slammed open,
a different rope appeared,
the crewman, previously silent,
ordered everyone to stand clear,
and poised ready as they approached again.
The skipper, head out of the side window,
laid it alongside with barely a bump.
Both ropes tightened, the bell rang again,
and he swung down his ladder.
"Sorry 'bout that. Everyone okay?"
The adults all said they were.
The two rough men with bicycles,
slung across one shoulder,
were a bit more vocal.
What Dad called 'colourful language'.
We filed up across the gangplank,
carefully climbed the seaweed-slippery steps,
because the tide was low,
and went up into town.
I couldn't wait to tell Dad,
knowing an ex-sailor would be interested.
But Mum was quiet and thoughtful.
When I told Dad he went white,
and hugged us both, really hard.
"Bloody hell." He said quietly.
"That backlash could have killed someone."
Gyppo
