All aboard.
Every thing is ship shape, if not quite Bristol fashion inboard the ferry; we have a special charter today. We are requested and required to deliver a VIP crew to a very special party. This is a regular, though not well publicised event, sponsored by the ‘Sitting on Hands Inveterate Triumvirate’. Our charter is to deliver a group from the ‘Good Ideas Party’ with a solution to a vexing problem to meet the sponsors.
GD hates doing this job; but, needs must when the Devil drives and even though he needs a day to recover any semblance of sang froid, the tedious journey to Donuttin Island has become a regular run for us. Technically, it is a challenging journey which starts off in the calm, deep waters of the Logic Lagoon where many a great idea has been generated, nurtured, debated and tested to the point where the unassailable logic is so undeniable that there is an attempt to get some ‘official’ action and enshrine that logic, in law. Such is the charm of Logic Lagoon, that those who drink its water are made happy by and to believe in their first class proposal.
The exit from Logic Lagoon is narrow and weed clogged; nothing serious, but annoyingly slow due to the rotting branches of past good ideas which lay hidden under a thick layer of a clammy, sticky weed which flourishes in the narrow channels. There are also the ‘law’ logjams which, if one is not careful, will sink the boat. But with guile, patience and care one may navigate clear of the cloying channel and into Hope rapids.
For the inexperienced, the first running of Hope rapids is an exhilarating experience; the nerve wracking rushes through the rock claws, just below the surface, the whoops of delight with each obstacle passed and the thrill of anticipation of the next chute. Aye, I dare say its fun and a thrill for the first timers. But, GD and the crew know this stretch of the journey and can see where many a great notion has been wrecked by the treacherous thrills and spills of false hope.
There is barely time to catch breath before we must negotiate the Sleepy Hollow swamp. It is always wise to send the hopefuls below decks for this part of the journey. This is a dark, dangerous place where some of the foulest creations known to mankind lurk in shadow, waiting to pounce on the unwary; always hoping, in a cowardly manner, to snatch a good idea from an innocent, to either devour or enslave. GD takes the tiller and I check the Purdy then we run as silently as possible though this treacherous wasteland.
Free of the swamp I put the shotgun aside, GD toddles off for a well earned ‘cuppa’ as the ferry eases her way into the broad, tranquil though shallow waters which lead to ‘Donuttin Island’. The river banks on the approach are immaculately groomed and manicured. Clearly, no expense has been spared here to impress the visitor. The ubiquitous, obsequious minion is waiting to meet and greet our passengers, who, still under the spell of the impressive approach, shake hands and check their paperwork one last time before being whisked away to the rarefied, exotic atmosphere of ‘the meeting room’ to meet their hosts.
With P2 monitoring radio traffic; nothing for GD and I to do now, ‘cept wait. Deck chairs, coffee and silence. We have, on occasion, waited quite a long wait for our hopefuls to return. Eventually, they do, but its always the same story which comes back to the ferry. Confused, they return; torn between hope and despair. Always the same discussion – “when he said XYZ, I thought we’d got there”. “But, that was before the other said ABC”. The return journey is always a gabfest, while the ‘meeting’ is dissected and the hopefuls attempt to wrest some meaning from the meandering dialogue attending their visit.
Eventually we tie up at the houseboat dock; the hopefuls mumble their thanks and quickly head back to the rented mini bus, exhausted.
“Buggered” says GD; we have seen it all before and there really is nothing else to say. Just another bunch of hopefuls who have made the long, difficult, dangerous journey to Donuttin Island, had the treatment and been sent home to await the response from the ‘Sitting on Hands Inveterate Triumvirate’.
We tidy up, find a deck chair apiece, P2 brings the ales up from below decks; we all just sit quietly, watching the river, all wondering how many more times we shall be obliged to make the journey and watch hopes, dreams and good ideas destroyed.
Toot – Sunday - toot.
Every thing is ship shape, if not quite Bristol fashion inboard the ferry; we have a special charter today. We are requested and required to deliver a VIP crew to a very special party. This is a regular, though not well publicised event, sponsored by the ‘Sitting on Hands Inveterate Triumvirate’. Our charter is to deliver a group from the ‘Good Ideas Party’ with a solution to a vexing problem to meet the sponsors.
GD hates doing this job; but, needs must when the Devil drives and even though he needs a day to recover any semblance of sang froid, the tedious journey to Donuttin Island has become a regular run for us. Technically, it is a challenging journey which starts off in the calm, deep waters of the Logic Lagoon where many a great idea has been generated, nurtured, debated and tested to the point where the unassailable logic is so undeniable that there is an attempt to get some ‘official’ action and enshrine that logic, in law. Such is the charm of Logic Lagoon, that those who drink its water are made happy by and to believe in their first class proposal.
The exit from Logic Lagoon is narrow and weed clogged; nothing serious, but annoyingly slow due to the rotting branches of past good ideas which lay hidden under a thick layer of a clammy, sticky weed which flourishes in the narrow channels. There are also the ‘law’ logjams which, if one is not careful, will sink the boat. But with guile, patience and care one may navigate clear of the cloying channel and into Hope rapids.
For the inexperienced, the first running of Hope rapids is an exhilarating experience; the nerve wracking rushes through the rock claws, just below the surface, the whoops of delight with each obstacle passed and the thrill of anticipation of the next chute. Aye, I dare say its fun and a thrill for the first timers. But, GD and the crew know this stretch of the journey and can see where many a great notion has been wrecked by the treacherous thrills and spills of false hope.
There is barely time to catch breath before we must negotiate the Sleepy Hollow swamp. It is always wise to send the hopefuls below decks for this part of the journey. This is a dark, dangerous place where some of the foulest creations known to mankind lurk in shadow, waiting to pounce on the unwary; always hoping, in a cowardly manner, to snatch a good idea from an innocent, to either devour or enslave. GD takes the tiller and I check the Purdy then we run as silently as possible though this treacherous wasteland.
Free of the swamp I put the shotgun aside, GD toddles off for a well earned ‘cuppa’ as the ferry eases her way into the broad, tranquil though shallow waters which lead to ‘Donuttin Island’. The river banks on the approach are immaculately groomed and manicured. Clearly, no expense has been spared here to impress the visitor. The ubiquitous, obsequious minion is waiting to meet and greet our passengers, who, still under the spell of the impressive approach, shake hands and check their paperwork one last time before being whisked away to the rarefied, exotic atmosphere of ‘the meeting room’ to meet their hosts.
With P2 monitoring radio traffic; nothing for GD and I to do now, ‘cept wait. Deck chairs, coffee and silence. We have, on occasion, waited quite a long wait for our hopefuls to return. Eventually, they do, but its always the same story which comes back to the ferry. Confused, they return; torn between hope and despair. Always the same discussion – “when he said XYZ, I thought we’d got there”. “But, that was before the other said ABC”. The return journey is always a gabfest, while the ‘meeting’ is dissected and the hopefuls attempt to wrest some meaning from the meandering dialogue attending their visit.
Eventually we tie up at the houseboat dock; the hopefuls mumble their thanks and quickly head back to the rented mini bus, exhausted.
“Buggered” says GD; we have seen it all before and there really is nothing else to say. Just another bunch of hopefuls who have made the long, difficult, dangerous journey to Donuttin Island, had the treatment and been sent home to await the response from the ‘Sitting on Hands Inveterate Triumvirate’.
We tidy up, find a deck chair apiece, P2 brings the ales up from below decks; we all just sit quietly, watching the river, all wondering how many more times we shall be obliged to make the journey and watch hopes, dreams and good ideas destroyed.
Toot – Sunday - toot.