As he did with most fads, my friend Steve jumped on the windsurfing craze pretty early. The sport was largely unknown and the technology very much in its infancy when he dropped a bundle of cash on an enormous polyurethane plank-like boat and an item of apparel known euphemistically as a "dry suit". This was a somewhat kinky looking rubber outfit rendered completely waterproof by seals at the cuffs and neck, allowing the sportsman to stay warm by wearing street clothes underneath. "Come on" he told me, "you've got to try this!" Always on the lookout for something new and different, and assuming (wrongly as it turned out) that this wouldn't take long and we'd soon be snug in a pub somewhere, I cheerfully tagged along. For reasons that escape me now, we decided to make our debut not in some secluded cove, where we could make idiots of ourselves in private, but in Bowness Bay. This is a scenic, but overcrowded stretch of English lakefront which, on this warm summer evening, was swarming with tourists.
In the years to come, Steve became something of an expert in the sport of windsurfing; competing on a national level and even receiving small but welcome gifts of sponsorship. However as I said, this was in the early days and he really didn't have much of a clue. Once the initial requirements of sailboard, clothing and roof rack have been met, windsurfing is a comparatively accessory free sport. However, there is one prerequisite without which it's almost impossible to enjoy the game to it's fullest. That is of course, wind. And it was conspicuously absent on our first night.
Or at least it was by the time my turn came around. Steve had drifted gently out into the center of the lake, before turning ponderously and making his way back. I did OK on the outward journey, but around the time I tried to return to port, the breeze, never exactly gale force to begin with, dropped completely and found myself becalmed some two hundred yards from shore. It was a mild night and clad as I was in the above mentioned dry-suit, I opted to swim for shore, towing the extremely cumbersome sailboard behind me. That was a whole lot harder than it sounds and while I made it back eventually, it ate into our valuable drinking time. Lesson learned there.
Next time out, we planned ahead. "I've bought four lengths of clothesline" Steve told me. "We'll tie it to the front of the board and if one of us gets stuck, the other can simply tow him back in". Capital idea that, so after securely fastening the rope to the bow (see, I've got these nautical expressions down), I confidently sailed off into the wild blue yonder. The plan worked splendidly for oh, a good three or four minutes before my progress was suddenly halted by a violent jerk from behind. Naturally I went straight in the water and on surfacing saw that I hadn't, as I had first thought, been attacked by some kind of lake dwelling shark, but something far worse. A large and very powerful swan was thrashing violently having become entangled in the clothesline. And he looked pretty pissed about it.
There are a number of reasons why one should be wary around swans. To begin with, there's the technicality than in Britain at least; every one of them is the property of Her Majesty the Queen. I doubt she herself knows exactly how many she owns and would be unlikely to miss one, but even so, causing harm to the Queen's property isn't a good way to ascend the social ladder.
A far more important piece of trivia is that a full-grown swan can flap its wings with enough strength to break a human arm. And boy, was this one flapping its wings. I'm guessing it wasn't the brightest swan in the pond because it seemed to be missing the fairly obvious point that the more it fought, the further entangled it became. The clothesline was now wound around the poor beast in a manner that suggested someone had done a poor job of wrapping it before dropping it in the mail. Although the water was shallow enough to allow me to stand, my cautious attempts to approach the bird only caused it to begin thrashing once more, making the position ever worse. The problem was indeed a thorny one.
A fairly large crowd had gathered on the shore by this time; enjoying my discomfiture tremendously, while at the same time, pretending to care about the poor swan I was currently abusing. Many people took the time to remind me of the severe penalties for harming a swan, despite the fact that nobody knows what those actually are. A number of them seemed to think I was in this situation through choice. I could hear one imbecile yelling, "Fetch the police!" but either everyone ignored him, or Bowness' finest wisely declined to get involved because they never appeared. Gradually, inch by inch, I made my way towards the bird and with trembling hands, began the tortuous process of untangling it from the snare.
As gently as I could, I lifted its wings and lifted its feet, slowly uncoiling the rope. It would stand calmly for some time but then, just when I was beginning to see progress, its patience would snap and it would fly into paroxysms of rage, flapping and straining in an attempt to escape. I would cower to one side, hoping its enormous wings would avoid making contact and, when it had exhausted itself, would once more begin my laborious task. Steve, shore bound and helpless began polling the bystanders.
"Does anyone have a pocket knife?" I heard him ask.
"I have a lighter" responded one helpful soul.
"I'm trying to free it, not cook it" I muttered, trying to keep my tone soothing.
Finally the brute remained calm long enough for me to complete the job of rescuing it and I almost cried with relief as I uncoiled the last of the rope. Without so much as a "thank you" the swan splashed around for a few moments, then took off into the sky. The whole process had taken every ounce of courage I possessed but when I turned around, it was to a horror of which I'd been blissfully unaware. Sitting in a semi-circle just a few feet behind me and watching every move I made, were six more swans. They weren't exactly swinging baseball bats or flashing knives, but their intent was the same.
"One false step from you matey and you're swan food!"
We never windsurfed in Bowness Bay again.
In the years to come, Steve became something of an expert in the sport of windsurfing; competing on a national level and even receiving small but welcome gifts of sponsorship. However as I said, this was in the early days and he really didn't have much of a clue. Once the initial requirements of sailboard, clothing and roof rack have been met, windsurfing is a comparatively accessory free sport. However, there is one prerequisite without which it's almost impossible to enjoy the game to it's fullest. That is of course, wind. And it was conspicuously absent on our first night.
Or at least it was by the time my turn came around. Steve had drifted gently out into the center of the lake, before turning ponderously and making his way back. I did OK on the outward journey, but around the time I tried to return to port, the breeze, never exactly gale force to begin with, dropped completely and found myself becalmed some two hundred yards from shore. It was a mild night and clad as I was in the above mentioned dry-suit, I opted to swim for shore, towing the extremely cumbersome sailboard behind me. That was a whole lot harder than it sounds and while I made it back eventually, it ate into our valuable drinking time. Lesson learned there.
Next time out, we planned ahead. "I've bought four lengths of clothesline" Steve told me. "We'll tie it to the front of the board and if one of us gets stuck, the other can simply tow him back in". Capital idea that, so after securely fastening the rope to the bow (see, I've got these nautical expressions down), I confidently sailed off into the wild blue yonder. The plan worked splendidly for oh, a good three or four minutes before my progress was suddenly halted by a violent jerk from behind. Naturally I went straight in the water and on surfacing saw that I hadn't, as I had first thought, been attacked by some kind of lake dwelling shark, but something far worse. A large and very powerful swan was thrashing violently having become entangled in the clothesline. And he looked pretty pissed about it.
There are a number of reasons why one should be wary around swans. To begin with, there's the technicality than in Britain at least; every one of them is the property of Her Majesty the Queen. I doubt she herself knows exactly how many she owns and would be unlikely to miss one, but even so, causing harm to the Queen's property isn't a good way to ascend the social ladder.
A far more important piece of trivia is that a full-grown swan can flap its wings with enough strength to break a human arm. And boy, was this one flapping its wings. I'm guessing it wasn't the brightest swan in the pond because it seemed to be missing the fairly obvious point that the more it fought, the further entangled it became. The clothesline was now wound around the poor beast in a manner that suggested someone had done a poor job of wrapping it before dropping it in the mail. Although the water was shallow enough to allow me to stand, my cautious attempts to approach the bird only caused it to begin thrashing once more, making the position ever worse. The problem was indeed a thorny one.
A fairly large crowd had gathered on the shore by this time; enjoying my discomfiture tremendously, while at the same time, pretending to care about the poor swan I was currently abusing. Many people took the time to remind me of the severe penalties for harming a swan, despite the fact that nobody knows what those actually are. A number of them seemed to think I was in this situation through choice. I could hear one imbecile yelling, "Fetch the police!" but either everyone ignored him, or Bowness' finest wisely declined to get involved because they never appeared. Gradually, inch by inch, I made my way towards the bird and with trembling hands, began the tortuous process of untangling it from the snare.
As gently as I could, I lifted its wings and lifted its feet, slowly uncoiling the rope. It would stand calmly for some time but then, just when I was beginning to see progress, its patience would snap and it would fly into paroxysms of rage, flapping and straining in an attempt to escape. I would cower to one side, hoping its enormous wings would avoid making contact and, when it had exhausted itself, would once more begin my laborious task. Steve, shore bound and helpless began polling the bystanders.
"Does anyone have a pocket knife?" I heard him ask.
"I have a lighter" responded one helpful soul.
"I'm trying to free it, not cook it" I muttered, trying to keep my tone soothing.
Finally the brute remained calm long enough for me to complete the job of rescuing it and I almost cried with relief as I uncoiled the last of the rope. Without so much as a "thank you" the swan splashed around for a few moments, then took off into the sky. The whole process had taken every ounce of courage I possessed but when I turned around, it was to a horror of which I'd been blissfully unaware. Sitting in a semi-circle just a few feet behind me and watching every move I made, were six more swans. They weren't exactly swinging baseball bats or flashing knives, but their intent was the same.
"One false step from you matey and you're swan food!"
We never windsurfed in Bowness Bay again.
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