Boating Injury

Seven months on and I’m still sporting a “BI” bruise. That’s “Boating Injury” to you. It’s along the lines of “UBI” and “UWI” – “unexplained beer injury” and “unexplained wine injury” respectively. (These are the injuries/bruises you discover when your friends/loved ones have had a negative influence on you). Only, this isn’t unexplained – I remember it VERY clearly.

Last August, J took me to the river for the day. All part of our “lifestyle change” when we moved to the country. Only, it isn’t very often that we “allow” ourselves the time off to just enjoy being here. Anyway, I’m shooting off at a tangent again. We don’t live far from the Wye and there’s a great pub along the bank at Symond’s Yat for refreshments after a hard afternoon kayaking. We decided to share a boat (I don’t “do” boats on my own) after much pathetic pleading from yours truly. We were rigged out (no pun intended) with all the protective gear (Michelin Man style) and proceeded down to the water’s edge. The sky was blue, not a cloud in the sky and the birds were singing. Perfect boating day. Mr Boat-man held the rope to control the boat while we got in.

I don’t know what it is, but whenever I get near water, I turn into the proverbial dumb blonde, even though I’m officially a brunette (with red bits!). At the best of times, I have zero co-ordination (I was sacked from the rounders team and am appalling at tennis). Any common sense I possess disappeared that very second. I started to put my leg out to step down into the boat, only to be hauled back by the scruff of my protective floatable jacket thing. “Nooooo!” yelled J. God, he DOES know how to show me up! Tactful he ain’t.

It’s like when you’re out in a group, (I’m usually driving on these occasions, don’t know why!), copious quantities of alcohol have flowed (I’m on sparkling water) and the men start getting, well, what can only be described as rugby playerish. (Admittedly, this mainly happens when the ex-rugby team gets together). You know, how they start to tell “those” jokes and laugh raucously. J is particularly good at telling jokes, and likes to “hold court”. On these occasions, there is usually a time when wifey decides that hubby is getting a bit close to the mark. Tactfully (as wifey does), I try to give him “the look”. The one that most wives reserve for moments when husband is about to make a huge gaff, and that mothers reserve for children who are rapidly running out of rope. Now, a woman would get the message if hubby looked at her like that, and realize he was (that bloomin’ spelling thing’s done it again. I want an “s” not a “z”!!) trying to save her embarrassment. A woman would then be a bit more self aware, and turn the notch down a bit. No, I’m afraid that J has a very thick skin. Not only does he not mind being embarrassed in the slightest, but he will then say (very loudly, because being drunk means you need to shout as your hearing goes): “What’s the matter, love? You’ve given me the look! Am I getting loud and embarrassing? Sorry, hun, I’ll be quiet now. (For clarity – hun is short for honey, NOT Attila. Just wanted to clear that one up.) Actually, I don’t feel great – can we go now?” Don’t you just HATE it when that happens?

So, having been hauled unceremoniously backwards, by tactless husband, I am left flushing with shame that I didn’t wait for Mr Boat-man to actually hold the boat tight into the side before I attempted to get in. First minor accident prevented.

Finally, we got under way and, once J stopped behaving like a 13 year old and wobbling the boat from side to side just to make me squeal, we had an extremely pleasant afternoon. We saw a kingfisher, swans and the usual riverside activities. We didn’t see the peregrines that day, though. I love looking at all the gorgeous houses with their own private moorings (confession: I’m one of those women who love looking in people’s windows after dark, when the lights are on. Total house-addict: I’m surprised we haven’t moved 20 times).

Our time was nearly up, so we headed back up-river. Mmm. No Mr Boat-man. Oh, well, in his absence, J decided to “leap” ashore and then help me out. Picture the scene: J is your typical chunky rugby player build with broad shoulders, not too tall, nor very delicate. One should only leap from a boat if one IS delicate. The boat rocked, and rocked some more, and I was nearly tipped into the water. I clung on for dear life, but then J realized he hadn’t got the rope in his hand so I was drifting. Oh God. I’m going to fall off a weir or something. He managed to lie on the bank and stretch outwards, catching the rope with several guardian angels helping. I was shrieking, I’m ashamed to say. I hate hysterical women. Eventually we got the boat level with the mooring and I had calmed down to a whimper. Second minor accident (minor!! Humph) prevented.

Blonde moment descended. Wifey couldn’t wait to get out. Didn’t wait, actually. Wifey stood up and stretched right leg to bank. Bingo! Dry land. Uh, oh. Boat still only being held by rope. Boat drifts backwards. Now, I don’t know about you, but it is rather a long time ago since I was able to do the splits. Panic set in. Much shrieking. Remember the bit in the film Cliff Hanger, when the woman falls in the opening scenes, arms outstretched? Wifey clasping wildly at hubby’s hand. Oh bloody hell. Mr Boat-man turns up. Hasn’t that mad woman learnt to stay still until the boat is being held tightly? We haven’t been back. We might go a bit later in the summer – the boat-men tend to change a lot as they are students doing summer jobs. Surely he’s left by now? HUGE boating injury bruise still shows on left shin…………. Hope it fades by the summer.