An important part of my book ‘Not Heavy Enough To Win A Prize?’ covers my ‘four great sea voyages’ (tongue in cheek here) and the episode that follows appears early in the account of the third trip when we were taking our recently purchased boat ‘Lorcha’ from Poole Harbour, across the English Channel and, having unaccountably missed Le Havre (which is quite a big place) entering France via Deauville which had then only recently opened its spanking new marina. In reading the above you may well have missed the rather remarkable fact that the Diggle family had just sailed the English Channel – and not via the shortest route by any means. Definitely not the shortest route.
I must now relate the marine toilet anecdote. Everyone who sails has a marine toilet anecdote but mine, I believe, outranks them all. On our second day in Deauville Heather said that she thought there was something wrong with our ‘Lavac’ marine toilet which seemed not to be evacuating its contents. This type of toilet requires the lid to be closed after use and then a handle of about one foot in length to be pumped to-and-fro rather like the handle of the old fashioned beer engine. This action builds builds up pressure and at a certain point the contents are expelled from an outlet located beneath the waterline. The unfortunate result of this whole approach to sewage disposal is that one did not ;ightly enter the waters of a typical marina.
I determined that there must be a blockage. It was a very hot day and so I was wearing only my slip de bain when I entered the marine toilet compartment carrying my toolbox. I knelt beside the basin and studied the bulge behind it that obviously contained the pumping apparatus; there were various rubber pipes going here and there attached to the device by means of jubilee clips. I tried the handle a few times and although it could be moved there was considerable resistance. I took my screwdriver and, picking a likely looking jubilee clip, started to undo it.
There was a bang, a very loud bang. There was more than a bang. Our marine toilet had been converted into an explosive device that propelled outwards, in an instant, everything that it had been keeping to itself for the past couple of days. Most of it hit me for I was in the direct line of fire.
Heather, who had been sitting in the cockpit taking the sun and keeping an eye on the boys, saw me emerge from the toilet compartment and make my way up the companionway. She says I was speechless (I dared not open my mouth) and looked like some creature from a horror movie. I edged my way past them and walked onto the pontoon. I considered the waters below and realising that there could be nothing beneath me that could compare in awfulness with the thing that I then was, I plunged in. After much splashing about I was deemed by Heather to be fit to visit the marina’s splendid new showers and so, with towel in hand, I went off to make myself fit to take my place in human society once more.
There is a rule about the use of the marine toilet that says one should only put into it what one has first eaten; I have seen notices on sale in chandlers’ shops offering this maxim to the intending user that one may affix to the wall of the toilet compartment. When I returned smelling of soap I told Heather about this notice that I should have bought and said how much I regretted not having attached one to the wall of our toilet compartment.
Before you leave Out of Mind take a few seconds and click on to ‘Memoirs’ at the top of the page. Here you can read a review of the book and learn how you may obtain a copy and simultaneously make a donation of £10 to Cancer Research UK - while I pay for the postage of the book to you. (UK readers only, I’m afraid).
KWD
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