going with the flow

GOING WITH THE FLOW
For two evenings a week my friends and my time was taken up with the youth club. Several enthusiastic young teachers organized and ran the club; slowly we were all getting to know them. One youth leader was Eric Wood he was affectionately known to some of the lads as Timber Wood. He bounced into the classroom where our gang were arguing over the rules of a new card game we were trying to learn.
“Right lads,” he announced in a commanding manner “ Get your names down for a weekend of canoeing and sailing, we are going in a fortnights time; I’ve got the use of some canoes, a mirror dinghy and a national. I’ve got a fifteen man bell tent for you all to kip in, we’re camping in the orchard behind the Fisherman’s Rest pub at Trent Lock.”
He was out of the door before we had time to ask any questions.
“What’s a bloody national?” somebody remarked over the top of his cards, we guessed it was a small yacht.
There were ten of us in our peer group; all agreed to go, I was building a canoe and had the two weeks to finish it off. This double canoe was made out of thin plywood fastened to a pine framework. To finish it, it only required the top putting on and a lick of paint; it was to be ready well in time.
My good friend, Alan, who was nearly two years older was the eldest in his year group and I was the youngest in mine, we decided to paired up for the weekend. Alan was a strong individual who had different opinions and viewpoints on most subjects, he would swear constantly. He was thickset with a curly mop of hair with long sideburns that framed his broken-tooth smile. He broke his tooth one night after we had been scrumping, all of us were running out of someone’s backyard and he ran straight into an unexpectedly parked lorry in the avenue. After this accident he started mimicking Terry Thomas a brilliant comedy actor of our time who had a gap in his front teeth, he was often filmed smoking with a cigarette holder and his catch phrase was ‘You’re an absolute shower.’ Alan could not resist buying himself a cigarette holder. If you want to know how good an actor Terry Thomas was look out for the old take of Tom Thumb in which he paired up with Peter Sellers. While most of our group were doing up racing bikes with plastic mini mudguards, very narrow saddles, drop handle bars and concentrating on lightness, Alan had a classical sit up and beg green Raleigh bike that supported a three coil spring leather seat, a rod braking system, a hub gear change, metal mud and chain guards with a wire basket carrier front and back. He was a powerful lad; he had to be to get his heavy old-fashioned bike moving. Alan and I arrived at the youth club the following week, it was suggested to us we should paddle down the River Trent to Trent Lock on the Friday night setting off from Weston-on-Trent as there was some problem with transporting everyone and the equipment to the campsite. Alan and I agreed. This area was familiar to us, the River Trent was once an artery of the country, it was a magnet for young boys. Our bikes had given us the freedom and opportunity to explore a considerable length of the riverbanks and discover old world names and the history of yesteryear. At Weston close to the river was Black Pool a good fishing pond where we learnt how to fish; further downstream on the far bank was the site of an old monastery at Castle Donnington. At the weir at Kings Mills they had dammed the river to power the water wheel at the birth of the industrial revolution, I expect there was at one time a lock and probably before that a flash lock to allow the larger sailing barges to travel further up the river to Burton-on-Trent. Just a little further down the river was the site of a last drop where a scaffold on which a person in metal cage was hung to rot to remind us all to keep on the straight and narrow path of life, here it is said that the ghostly figure of The Lady in Grey is seen. Further on up near Swarkestone we played in the Bull Ring and swam on the rapids under the bridge, here we usually got covered in leeches, beyond the bridge it is said seven sisters built the crooked causeway over the flood plain so their loved one’s would not be drowned as others had been when they returned home from a crusade. On this longest stone bridge in Britain Bonnie Prince Charlie received the news that an army had set off from London to engage in battle with him, so he turned here to head back to the highlands. A short distance from this point was another play area; the hermit’s caves with its multi-rooms carved out of the rocks on the riverbank, at one time travellers enjoyed a rest here. A little higher up river was the Twyford ferry where we boarded the chained ferry to cross the river for thr’pence per person per trip; this took us over to have an adventure in Ticknall woods beyond. There we would collect the fruits of autumn wood. Still further up nearer to Burton was another favourite swimming spot in the River Dove where it joins the Trent at Monks Bridge; the monks were the first to find the waters in the area most suitable for brewing fine ale. As the river meanders through the country each bend had its own fascinating story to tell.
Eric arrived at my house on the said evening to collect the pair of us; after loading the heavy flat-bottomed canoe on top of his old Morris Minor shooting brake we headed off. The Trent and Mersey Canal runs through Weston Cliff, we struggled to carry the canoe over a little footbridge that crossed it to gain access to the river beyond. Why we did not float it across, I can’t imagine. After carrying it across a large open field, we managed with difficulty to drop the canoe down the steep banking and scrambled aboard. The pair of us settled in for it’s maiden voyage and the bonus was it was watertight. Eric shouted from the high banking,
“It’s now six o’clock you should be there in an hour, you may get there before the rest of us.”
Then he was gone; Alan and I were just about ready to set off when Eric reappeared.
“Do you know about the weir at Kings Mills?”
We shouted back that we did, he disappeared again, we got to paddle a few strokes when he reappeared yet again.
“You will know when you get to Trent Lock as there is a bit of white water just before you get there, it will be fun, it will be an experience for you.”
“Piss off Eric.” Alan said under his breath.
We waved him goodbye, he was finally gone, we tried to get into some sort of rhythm with paddling, but the canoe had a mind of its own. We stopped paddling to see what was happening, the canoe veered off to the right hand side.
“You’ve built a bloody banana boat,” Alan cried out as we struggled to straighten the craft.
I guessed the plank former it had been built on had warped. We agreed to paddle twice on the right then once on the left and were soon above the weir heading towards the middle of it, we paddled hard just on the right side only bringing the canoe around bumping it into a familiar little island above the weir. Throughout the previous summer the gang used to come swimming here on one evening a week. All of us had bet each other that we would be the last one to swim in the river as the winter months approached. In late November nine of us stood on the bank of the island in our swimming trunks with towels round our necks shivering away not daring to go in. We watched John Smith a hard headed lad step forward, he lowered himself in, he lost his breath, he was gasping, he changed colour to deep blotchy red, he started to shiver uncontrollably, when he turned blue he was unanimously declared the winner and the rest of us ran for our clothes. The canoe was dragged out and carried to the bottom of the weir, where Alan came up with the idea of strapping a piece of driftwood to stern as a makeshift rudder to correct the swim of the canoe. The current pushed us off again at speed and to some degree the rudder was working. We paddled for two more hours, the sun was starting to fall, at times we seemed to be going way out of direction as the river meandered back and forth in great loops.
“This is why they built the bloody canal,” Alan moaned.
Another hour went by and the talking had stopped, the sun had disappeared over the horizon, the darkness of the night had crept over us. Not a soul had been seen since we set off, the only company was herd of cows that had made their way to the bank and had waded in the river to have a drink, they all stopped drinking to stare as we flouted past. Our eyes were straining to catch light of civilization; our ears strained for the sound of white water going over a rapid. In front of us mist was rising from the river, soon we were in the thick of it. The dark outline of the high banks disappeared from view. Everything seemed to go deathly silent; the only sound was from the ripples of the river hitting the sides of the canoe and the gentle sound of our paddles as we dipped them in and out. Our vision was now limited to a few feet in every direction, this eerie steamy scary fog had engulfed us, our senses seemed heightened, the smell of the river more pungent. Suddenly a swan came gliding out of the mist giving the three of us a fearsome scare, we jumped at being startled which nearly tipped us out of the canoe.
“Fuck this,” cried Alan breaking the silence, “let’s get the fuck out of this.”
A frantic paddle was made to where we thought the bank maybe, we hit a hard dirty grey concrete side of a power station that loomed high above us. Here the thick bars of the water intake grid were covered in the disgorged crap of mankind and it looked like a huge gateway to hell and it was there to stop those who deserve to be in there from coming back out. You could make out the outline of the cooling towers standing out against the darkened sky like the devils giant eggcups.
“It’s the fucking hot water from the cooling towers that’s making this fog,” Alan said as he dipped his hand in the water. “They’re trying to boil the fucking river.”
Soon we were out of the mist, the river seemed to narrow and quicken its pace. Eventually lights could be seen near stone pillars sticking out of the river, beyond this we could see the outline of a Bailey bridge with the lights of the traffic crossing it. We were at Shardlow, as we knew the old Cavendish Bridge that stood there had been washed away in a flood, they had put a bailey bridge up to replace it. The river seemed to be flowing faster still as we shot under this temporary bridge.
“What time is it?” I enquired.
Alan strained to read his watch, “ Its bloody well gone half past ten,” he curst away, “I’ll give Eric a bloody hour when I see him.”
The darkness of the night and fatigue was getting to us; we were running on nervous energy and heading to yet another bridge, discovering later it was known as long rope bridge to the old bargees who had horse drawn boats, at one time of day they were to shorten their long tow ropes used on the river to the shorter length required for the canal. We paddled under then met odd currents, the Trent and Mersey canal joined the river and came in on our left, on the opposite bank the mouth of the River Derwent joined the Trent bringing us turbulent currents to ride. With the power of two adjoining river we now started travelling at a fair pace on the current, we were tired and thankful and hoped we would soon be there.
“What the fuck is that?” Alan shouted. Both of us stopped paddling, the roar of water could be heard in front of us.
“Get to the fucking bank, fucking quick,” Alan shouted in panic.
Both of us paddled for all we were worth, the current had got hold of us and started pulling us sideways to the white water which lit up the darkness, you could now see the great turbulences below the weir bubbling up stretching the full width of the river.
“Fucking hell we are going to go over,” I screamed.
Both of us dug in harder with our paddles trying desperately to make it to the banking. We were nearly there with just a few yards to go when the current lifted us pushing sideways the canoe lurched with a bang on its side we both plunged our arms and paddles into the river pushing hard against the capping of the weir to stop us flipping over into the rushing water. We were pinned there.
“I’m fucking well out of here.” Alan shouted.
I screamed, “Bloody well hang on, we’ll do it together, you’re not bloody well getting out without me.”
Alan prodded the bottom with his paddle, “We can stand here.”
“Lets get out together very slowly.” I pleaded; I was petrified. As Alan eased himself out and as his weight came out of the canoe, I thought I would end up going over the weir on my own.
Both of us slipped into the river up to our waists; while grabbing at the cockpit of the canoe, we very slowly waded making our way across the top of the weir across to the banking all the time fighting the pressure of water flowing against us. An age passed as we heaved at the canoe that wanted to float over the weir. Somehow we made to the banking, with great effort we lifted the canoe above our heads and pushed it on to dry ground, grabbing out at tuffs of grass above a concrete edging, we scrambled out of the river, safe. Both of us stood there shaking from head to toe as the adrenaline took complete control over our limbs. The river was pounded over the weir, its raging power created great waves below; the noise seemed to deafen us. I sat down and got my cigarettes from my shirt pocket, luckily they were dry, I tried lighting up, this proved to be difficult as the matchbox came to pieces as I fumbled to get a match out, then after having managed to strike a light with shaking hands, I couldn’t keep the end of my cigarette still in my quivering lips. Eventually I calmed down and took stock.
“Bloody Eric,” Alan exclaimed, “He wants fucking stuffing.”
I couldn’t have agreed more with him.
“Where does this go to?” I pointed to a wide stretch of water going down to the left of us above the weir.
“Fuck knows,” Alan, snapped, “ Let’s go and fucking look.”
We walked down the banking stumbling in the darkness until a pair of lock gates came into view.
“The river feeds a fucking canal,” Alan said,“ But I don’t know where the bloody canal goes to, so we’d better put the fucking canoe in at the bottom of the fucking weir, let get fucking going it can’t be bloody far now.”
I personally was beginning to think we had come down the wrong river or that we had passed our party way back, perhaps in the mist, I had no idea where Trent Lock was. We pushed and shoved the canoe down and along the banking trying to find a safe place to get in, we struggled up and down through deep undergrowth until eventually we came across a little quieter backwater in the banking with no fast current. Alan was in full flow, eff-ing and blinding as I asked the time.
“It was half past fucking eleven last time I looked, but now my frigging watch has packed in, I’ve drowned the bastard thing and I’m scratched to fucking bits.” He went on to curse Eric some more.
After passing under another main road bridge, a footbridge could be seen with folk walking across we could hear shouting.
“Alan, Roger, Alan, Roger.”
“They’ve sent out a bloody search party for us,” Alan whispered, “Don’t let the fuckers see us, lets paddle into the bushes.
We shot into the overhanging undergrowth, the makeshift rudder was lost way back so the bend in the canoe helped us in this manoeuvre, we hid until their shouting could not be heard. Slowly we pulled ourselves out of the bushes then quietly paddled on down the river keeping close into the bank. The boathouse and the pub could be seen, we had arrived and let everyone else know, both of us became nearly hysterical, shouting and yelling at the top of our voices, waking up all the pleasure boaters who were moored along the riverside, they had been long in their berths. Heads popped out from all manner of craft, the owners waved their fists as they threw abuse calling us typical foul mouth yobbos who had no consideration for others, these remarks were returned with kafuffles of laughter and Alan shouted out as we paddled past them,
“You’re an absolute fucking shower.’”
The search party heard the commotions; they soon returned to help us get the canoe out and were to show us the way to the campsite. After changing out of our wet clothing and having a hot drink we were so tired all we need were our sleeping bags. I was soon fast asleep but the night was unkind to me as I half woke in the early hours with a cold sweat, screaming and shouting while trashing around trying to get my arms out of my sleeping bag as I relived the nightmare. Years later I was to read about eight soldiers going over a weir on the river Trent in their canoes, it cost all of them their lives.
The following day the sun shone bright, the group were introduced to the art of sailing. After a few lessons all the lads were in to it, everyone started enjoying the experience. Alan and I were now to take out the mirror dinghy on our own. A mirror dinghy is a little pram shaped sailing boat, there is just about enough room in them for two people. A push off the embankment we were off on our own once more. Sails up and away, the wind was brisk, we skipped along quite merrily listening to the river lap around he edges of our little tub while tacking up steam against the wind and were very happy with our progress. Alan was enjoying being the skipper, I enjoyed crewing, changing the foresail from one side to the other. Alan had been watching the many skilled crews of all manner of yachts that sailed in all directions around us, they were leaving tacking to the very last moment to come about, these folk almost went ashore before they changed course. He said this would be our last tack before turning and heading down stream. He headed into the bank, the centreboard started grinding against the riverbed, we were in the shallows. The centreboard passes through the hull and is the resistance against the wind; it lives in its own holder in the centre of the boat, it is held in place by two large rubber straps.
“Lift the fucking centre board.”
“Oui, môn Capitaine.”
I flipped the rubber straps off and pulled the centreboard up, Alan brought the head of the dingy around, the boom moved over, the wind filled the mainsail.
“Get the fucking foresail across.”
The wind took hold, we shot away from the bank at what seemed a great speed, the foresail was over and the line jammed into its cleat. Alan was fighting the mainsail, while I was fighting with the rubber straps that had got jammed into the slot of the housing of the centreboard, the rubber wouldn’t allow me to push the board fully home. I shouted at Alan as I let loose the foresail.
“Let the sail out, let the bloody sail out.”
“This is fucking great,” he shouted with excitement.
He pulled the sail in more as he leaned further and further out of the tub. The exhilaration was indeed great but with no centreboard our resistance in body weight to the wind was no match, so over we went, we were catapulted into the river on top of the sunken sail.
As we surfaced, Alan spluttered, “You’re a bloody jinx Roger.”
At that moment the centreboard slipped out of its holder and hit him on the back of his head, it was never seen again.
The afternoon came; the dinghy was out of action so I dragged my canoe down to the waters edge. We could launch our canoes with ease in the entrance of the Erewash Canal where it joins the river close to the Fisherman’s Rest pub where Alan had planned to spend his afternoon behind a pint of beer or two. As I dropped the canoe in from the concrete stepping I noticed on the footbridge over the canal a few of the other lads chatting to a couple of girls who were on their bicycles.
I shouted up, “Would one of you girls like to go for a paddle down the river?”
My luck was in; the good-looking one said she would love to. She left her bike with her friend and bounced down the steps and introduced herself.
“Hello I’m Sandra.” She smiled.
“Hi I’m Roger,” I replied as I took hold of her hand, “Be careful how you get in.”
Sandra was a very attractive girl, she had fairly long dark hair that flowed around her shoulders, she wore a white sleeveless vest type t-shirt that showed a small amount of cleavage, she had incredibly short shorts, white socks and bumper boots, the forerunner to modern day trainers. Girls who wore bumper boots or baseball boots were usually tomboy in nature. She had a pretty face with one or two freckles around her nose, but you would have to look awfully close to spot them. Why do attractive girls seem to mate up with a less attractive girl? I wondered if girls looked at boys in the same manner. Whatever, I was glad Alan was not around as this opportunity may not have happened. Soon I learnt her friends name was Maggie, Maggie was a much stronger built girl with a large bosom, I suppose if I was attracted to her I would have called them breasts, although dressed similar to Sandra her top clung to her body showing creases round her middle, her heavy bra strap was on show around her shoulders and her strong legs would not have looked out of place on a rugby field. As I looked up as we paddled under the bridge the lads looked disgruntled, not to worry; I was off downstream to navigate the entrance of the mouth of the River Soar with a beautiful kidnapped prize. Quickly we got to know a little bit about each other, she was sixteen and worked in her friend’s father’s chemist shop. Being only fourteen, I lied and told her I was also sixteen but I was having time out before starting a job in September. This seemed to impress her, as she said not many young people could afford to do that. So I had to lie again to balance the first lie but then had to continue with them to try and impress her further. We paddled away from the Erewash Canal across and down the River Trent until we met the River Soar. The mouth of the river is a pretty place where there are little huts and cabins built along on of its banks against an embankment. One could imagine the well to do would spend their leisure time here as most had boats tied up against little jetties at the bottom of their pretty gardens. Sandra and I spent time talking about how nice it would be to own such a cabin with a boat and other trivial topics. We shipped our paddles to let the river take us where it would, the canoe took us a sharp right, we drifted straight into a tall reed bed where it glided to a halt. I blessed the shape of my canoe when Sandra suggested staying there for a little while to enjoy the sun. With her backrest removed as suggested Sandra moved back a little to lay the back of her head on my chest; my arms were quickly round her, I was a delighted boy who could not believe his luck. Time passed as we talked much about nothing just enjoying the sun, our surroundings, enjoying a mother moorhen scuttling in and out of the reeds with her new family. The smell of Sandra’s hair was wonderful, the feel of her warm skin was pleasant, looking down her top was enjoyable. The pleasures were broken when Sandra said she must go and find her friend. We extracted ourselves out of the reed bed and headed back; as I paddled hard upstream a pain develop in my groin, not an unpleasant pain but a pain never the less. When we arrived back at the steps and lifted the canoe out, there was nobody around, I told Sandra the lads had made arrangements to go up to the café for their tea, and suspected they will have taken Maggie with them. After pointing her in the right direction for the café that was a broken down wooden shack on the river banking, I said I would join her shortly as I needed to brush up a bit. What I really meant was I was bursting for a pee, which I hoped, would relieve the pain I was in. After calling in the pub’s loo I headed back to the campsite, I notice the girls bikes leaning against the picket fencing, as I got to the gate laughing and jeering could be heard coming from the large bell tent. As I reached the tent Alan was coming out through the flap, he grabbed my arm and said with a solemn face,
“You don’t want to go in there Roger,”
“I need to change”
In a truly sombre manner he repeated, “No, Roger, you don’t want to go in there.”
I pushed his arm aside to enter the tent, five lads were holding Maggie down her t-shirt and bra were round her neck, some were fondling her large breasts, and others were attempting to get her shorts off. Maggie looked up at me with big wide –open eyes that showed more white than iris, she had a forced frightened half smile on her face.
I was stunned speechless, Alan followed me in and grabbed hold of me hard and said,
“Don’t be a party to rape.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I shouted angrily and grabbed at of one of the lads pulling him off Maggie.
Alan joined in, “You lot could be fucking locked up for rape.”
We had joined forces; our words and action must have gone home in the lads’ heads. They all let her go and backed away from her; Maggie got up and pulled herself together. I helped her up and Alan and I escorted her to her bike under a barrage of verbal abuse and chicken calls. We both apologized for their behaviour and said we were sorry for what had happened. We asked if she was all right, she got on her bike without saying a word and she was gone. I picked up Sandra’s bike and started walking with Alan to the café; we walked in silence. How could I tell Sandra my so-called mates have just attempted to rape her friend, I couldn’t do it. I broke the silence and told Alan about Sandra saying she was gorgeous and where we had been, the told him that I had got a worrying problem.
“I've this terrible pain in my groin, it ‘s getting worse and it aches the more I walk.”
Alan laughed out loud, “You’ve got courtiers balls, go and have a bloody whank that will get rid of it.”
He explained, “If you have an erection and you have it for a fucking long period of time and if you don’t get rid of the hundreds of sperms that have built themselves up ready to go walk about and they don’t get the chance, the little fuckers try to blow your bloody balls off.”
He chuckled to himself until we got inside the café. Our sex education was limited as most was passed down from older friends not from parents or teachers as they saw this subject as a taboo topic to talk about, this I found hard to understand as they could talk about your nose, your ears and everything else but never your genitals. Eric was sitting with Sandra they seemed to be in deep discussion. A couple of the other lads were sitting elsewhere, one shouted in a stupid manner.
“How far did ya get Roger?"
He giggled while prating about, then the other lad shouted out.
“Don’t you mean how far did he go?”
I was not amused at all, my so-called mates embarrassed me. Alan brought over our drinks to join Eric, Sandra and I, he soon got talking to Sandra he told her, her friend had gone home. Eric was his usual self and quickly took over the conversation hogging Sandra’s attention, he half listened when Sandra spoke, she was privileged. I couldn’t get a word in edge ways; I felt with these older guys I was a little inferior or inadequate. Sandra bounced up after finishing her drink and said she would have to go. I escorted her out trying to ignore the stupid remarks shouted out from the two lads.
“Going for a ride?”
“How far do you think you will get?”
I was glad to be outside, I struggled to explain.
“I’m not like them Sandra. ”
She jumped on her bike then leaned over the handlebars and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“It’s okay Roger,” she softly said, “I do like Alan and Eric.”
“Will you come back tomorrow I’d love to see you again? ”
She held my chin in her hands as if I were a little boy and said, “I’ll see.”
She then kissed me on the lips, she was the first girl I had fallen for her so hoped and prayed she would return the next day. The following morning I woke up with an excruciating pain in my groin, I dressed slowly and staggered out of the tent; Eric was sitting in front of his tent leaning over his primus stove cooking his breakfast.
“You’ve just missed Sandra, she called to say she could not make it today, she’s going out with her boyfriend. She said I am to say thank you for everything you did yesterday.”
At that moment I developed even a greater saddening pain high up in my stomach and chest, she had bothered to come back with this message and I had missed her and I knew I would never see her again. My emotions were running high, I wanted out of the place and away from the company. I wished to be elsewhere.
Over that weekend I had learnt a little more about life and a little more about respect.
Respect for the great power of nature, the water, the wind but more importantly I had gained more respect for my friend Alan, I found regard for Sandra, respect for Maggie and wished things had been different. I lost regard and respect for some of my friends and I knew in time we probably would drift apart.


The very first canoe I built.