“Is
that it ?” Frank kind of put into words the disappointment we
were all feeling.
“It’s a boat isn’t it ?” Tim defended.
“Just about but sod me it aint the cabin cruiser you said it was.”
No it wasn’t. Tim had arranged to borrow his uncle’s boat for
the week-end so we four lads could booze cruise up and down the canal.
To be fair he hadn’t promised a millionaire’s yacht out of Monte
Carlo Harbor but we had been expecting a little bit more than this.
We stood there on the tow path, each with an over night bag slung over
our shoulders, a Tesco carrier bag of food in one hand and a case of
beer under the arm of the other. We looked at that boat and I
couldn’t help but laugh. It had been yellow once but its fading
and flaked paintwork now displayed a rainbow of shades which told of a
long history.
“We’ll never all fit in there,” Ricky added, “besides their aint
room to swing a cat.”
“And it looks as if it’ll sink.” Frank scoffed. “We’ll
all drown.”
“In four feet of water ?” Tim said. I was beginning to
feel sorry for him.
“I vote we all go home !”
“NO !” I said quickly. “It isn’t that bad, it’ll
be a laugh.”
The argument needed to run its course before we climbed aboard and
stowed our belongings and valuable alcohol in the small cabin.
This cabin opened onto an even smaller deck at the rear from where one
drove the boat. Drove –
is that the right word ? Drove ? Steered ? I
don’t know, anyway there was a wheel there together with a throttle
and a key to start the engine.
Tim turned the key and after a few false starts, a lot of coughing and a
cloud of smoke from the exhaust the engine chugged into life. And
so Frank, Tim, Ricky and I set off on our epic voyage of discovery along
the Grand Union Canal northwards from the small Hertfordshire town of
Tring. Ahead lay the wastes of Bedfordshire and beyond that the
darkest wilderness of Buckinghamshire.
We had gone but a few yards before the first beers were cracked open and
passed round. That did a lot to mend our friendship with Tim who
was soon forgiven for the state of our accommodation and transport.
It was a warm sunny Saturday morning and there were quite a few others
making their way up and down the narrow strip of water. There were
other cabin craft, none quite so old or decrepit as ours, canoes, barges
and even on one stretch a rowing eight just like they have in The Boat
Race. Our progress up the waterway passed many a fisherman, we
tried to steer as close as we could to their lines then laugh at their
rage and anger.
We actually managed to overtake one boat only to have a haughty woman on
board call out a lecture on waterway etiquette and the speed limit.
“Three miles an hour you know !”
Silly old bag !
By the time we reached the fist lock gate each one of had consumed three
cans and were well into number four. As the water poured through
the open sluice gate to raise the boat in the lock three of us helped
its flow by peeing over the gate and into the void below.
“Hey watch me !” Tim shouted up from the deck.
We laughed and waved our dicks to make the flow come dangerously close
to our friend.
Tim, Ricky and Frank had all gone to the local grammar school but I,
having failed my 11+, was consigned to a secondary modern. But as
we lived in a posh area so it was known as a High School.
Anyway the point is that although we had been great mates in primary
school and the split at the age of eleven did not change our friendship.
Now in late adolescence and on the verge of full adult manhood we were
still a force to be reckoned with. We had all kinds of adventures
planned, those two days on Tim’s uncle’s boat being one of them.
Back on the water with the lock behind us we began to decide just how
far up the canal we could go before we would need to turn round and head
for home.
“There’s a good pub at The Three Locks,” Frank said.
“But that’s only a few miles away, we’ll get there in no time.
How about The Navigation by the Wolverton Aqueduct ?” I
suggested.
Ricky had an Ordnance Survey map and proposed that we try to make the
Blisworth Tunnel. “It’s the longest tunnel on the British
Waterway System,” he told us. “I remember that from
geography at school.”
“Bully for you, we’ll never get all that way it’s miles.”
“We could if we kept going all night,” Tim added.
“It’s a good place to make for.”
“But are you allowed to drive on the water after dark ?” I
asked.
“Dunnow. Who’d know ?”
“Are there water police or anything like that ?”
It was decided that there weren’t and that the Blisworth Tunnel would
be our goal and turning point. With that fixed we made steady
progress all day before mooring up and walking to a near by pub for the
evening. I guess if we weren’t exactly pissed on the cans we’d
been knocking back all day we should have been so when we rolled back to
the boat in order to begin our night time navigation we were in less
than full possession of our faculties.
I guess it was this state of our collective minds which caused the
mishap.
The engine let out a groan of complaint then stalled. We drifted
forwards for a while before hitting the bank. Tim was flapping
about with a torch trying to locate the problem.
“The rope’s caught round the propeller. Which dick-head let the
mooring rope fall over the side ?”
It could have been any one of four dick-heads, Tim himself included.
We tried in vain to reach over the side and free the rope but without
any success.
“Somebody’s going to have to get in the water and do it.”
“I will,” I volunteered. God I must have been well
pissed.
So it was I stripped down to my boxers and slid over the side into the
dark and freezing water. I sobered up immediately and wondered
what the hell I was doing. Urged on by the cold and fear of what
may be lurking in those sinister waters I managed to quickly free the
rope.
Clambering back on board and grabbing for a towel Tim was the one who
noticed how the water was making by underclothing cling so closely to my
body. “Nice dick you’ve got there !”
“What ?”
“Your dick, it’s a bit clear through your shorts.”
“Oh !” I was a little embarrassed.
“Good job it wasn’t Ricky who went in the water, have you seen the
size of his dick ?”
No, I hadn’t.
Ricky smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, “It’s a bit
of a monster !”
I was busy drying myself off and looking about for some dry clothes.
“Ricky can wank it with both hands holding on at the same time,”
Tim added.
“I sure can.”
I was now ready to drop my wet boxers and get dressed but with my three
friends standing about I wasn’t sure I was going to give them a floor
show.
“Want me to show you ?”
“What ?”
“Well I haven’t had a wank today yet, have you ?”
Hang on, hang on, hang on ! What was happening ? Just
because I had sobered up a little by taking the dip in the water did not
mean my three friends were any the less victims to the drunken stupor
which pervaded all ever since we had downed our first few cans of beer.
Ricky was quickly void of all clothing and man what Tim had said earlier
about its dimensions were true and more so. He followed Ricky’s
example and dropped his jeans to the deck.
“Come along Frank, you up for this ?”
Frank was.
That left just yours truly who was still clad in my wet boxers now
feeling cold against my skin. Only one thing to do – take them
off.
Four nude nineteen year olds on a cabin cruiser which had seen better
days wanked themselves silly that night. Testosterone loaded jizz
flew everywhere, gallons of it.
