One night, a Wednesday I remember, I'd done my bit and was invited back to a yacht for a carry on session after last orders. I packed up my old Yamaha in her box all safe like but found the dinghy less than abundant with room. My host suggested we'd wade out to the channel anyway, dragging the punt and row us in shifts across the black tide. If you know Devoran creek, or the Kennel river, you'll know the sand banks stretch wide and flat and are quite hard underfoot. Most boats are shallow draft and sit like ducks; our destination was an old quay punt drawing six feet odd and some way out. Still, we thought, we're going to get wet feet but give it a go. I balanced my box on my head while other adventurers joining in, clinked with fresh bottles.
The tide was low, so easy going, hardly knee deep even a cable off shore. The Pandora's twinkling lights illuminating the river and no cloud either. Piece of cake. the first funny thing was stopping for a breather halfway out. My arms were cramping up so I heaved my guitar into the cockpit of a nearby boat and leaned on the deck. To my surprise, there were at least two residents on board who must have been half asleep and stirring at some noise, caught a fleeting glimpse of a ghostly face peering in the porthole. The nightmare apparition vanished from their sight as quickly as it appeared and by the time the skipper was through the hatch and onto the cockpit sole, I'd long gone. I heard a lady's voice saying "It's dream, it's a dream. I told you about eating scallops so late..."
I had by now slung my box in the punt with the bottles as we all dragged her on like Shackleton, across the shoaling creek. The yacht was well in sight and I was pushing the dinghy transom for all I was worth. With a surge, the keel found the edge of the channel and she slid happily forward into her element. Others let go. I did not and plunged, still locked on, into the cold salty water of the creek. Reaction kicked in and got the better of me and I hauled myself, spluttering, into the dinghy bottom to much accompanying laughter and clapping of hands.
Sometime later, dried off by a paraffin cabin heater and a tot or two, we did indeed exchange a few songs and tall tales with our host and his wife - not least the one about the shifting mud banks off the Pandora Inn.
