FIREWATER BOOK TWO

On this stretch the locks are in a poor state of repair. At Champfleury we had to scrape our way through a narrow passage between the crumbling walls of a ruined lock, from which we emerged to head for the centre of a three-span bridge. That structure crosses the Yonne obliquely one kilometre further upstream at a town with the imaginative name Pont-sur-Yonne, which means, of course, Yonne Bridge. Two kilometres further, along a straight stretch, we passed beneath an aqueduct; two kilometres more and we are obliged to loiter again, while we wait for the lock master at Villeperrot to open his gates. At Villeperrot, the lock is to the left of the river, when facing upstream, and is separated by a pier from the boiling race of a rapid, the reason for the lock, cascading downstream to its right. In what has developed into a routine, I set Liam ashore first to scout out the situation, assist with the lock doors if needed, and be ready to take Firewater’s lines when I enter. He returns a few moments later with the news that the lock is full of péniches and we must wait for them to clear. I back away from the bank and take Firewater to a position to the right of the lock entrance, a short distance below the rapids. Liam goes below to resume his reading, while I remain at the wheel. I wait, impatiently, with Firewater’s engine just ticking over initially, but I am soon obliged to increase the throttle to maintain position, and then to increase it further, and then again until Kamikaze is throbbing smoothly at half power, which would normally give us close to five knots indicated speed, to avoid being swept downstream by the current. I remain thus, jockeying back and forth in the eddying flow for a full half an hour with no sign of activity from the shore. What can be going on? I scan the vicinity with binoculars, but no one is in sight. I have just about determined to set the anchor, when a figure appears at the end of the lock and the gates crank open. Another lengthy delay ensues, then the dark snout of a péniche pokes from the lock. It slams violently into the dividing pier before rebounding toward the centre of the channel as the barge proceeds downstream. Moments later another péniche exits, and then a third. Although I can see that at least one more péniche remains within the lock chamber, the éclusier now proceeds to re-close the lock gate on the shore side, leaving the other door open. I should have known better. In my Power Squadron course, years earlier, it had been stressed that one should never to approach a lock with one gate open or even slightly ajar, but I was frustrated by the apparently senseless delay. “Let’s find out what’s going on, Liam,” I shout, with the intention of putting him ashore on the bank again. As we approach it, however, Liam signals insistently toward the lock pier in the belief that it will be easier for him to get off there than to climb the steeply sloping bank. I sense that is not right, but there is no point in trying to argue above the noise of the engine, with a man poised on the bow twenty feet away who would not have listened in any case. I bring Firewater’s head toward the pier in a cautious advance. At the same time I keep a watchful eye on Liam, who has a tendency to leap ashore sooner than prudence would dictate. Suddenly, Firewater lurches to the right and slams her starboard hull into the pier. Liam steps ashore. I try to back away. First with a short burst, then with full reverse power. Pinned by the current, Firewater will not budge. I set the throttle to idle and shout, “Help, Liam, I’m stuck.” His attention is focused on the lockmaster, who is now striding furiously toward him, so I have to shout again to get Liam’s attention. “ I need a push, Liam,” I yell at him. “I can’t get clear.” “Ôtez-vous. Get out of there. Move your boat,” The lock master orders, angrily. Liam attempts to shove off, while I rock Firewater with shots of forward and reverse throttle. But with each surge of power Firewater moves only a foot or two before slamming back with great force into the side of the pier. I jam the throttle from full ahead to full reverse and back without pausing to declutch. We seesaw like this ineffectually for two or three minutes. At each shot of power, a puff of black smoke spouts in an angry plume from Kamikaze’s exhaust. Amid the din of protest from the bashed hull, and the screech of rubber and fibreglass scraping on rough timbers bristling with nails, most of the shouted advice I am receiving from Liam and the lockmaster is unintelligible. Firewater is as helpless as an intruding dachshund in the jaws of a junkyard Rottweiler. “We’re caught,” I hear Liam shout between roars from the overtaxed engine. I was already aware of that; however, I look in the direction of his point and see one of our fenders jammed between two uprights of the pier like a hotdog sausage in a bun. We can move only as far as its tether will permit. Try as we may, with Liam pushing from the pier and me shoving from the cockpit, Firewater cannot be unleashed. Liam jumps back aboard and sits on deck in a desperate attempt to kick us clear with his feet. When his efforts are unsuccessful, I join him. Finally, under the impulse of our legs pushing against the pier, and thrust from Firewater’s prop, which is thrashing the water into foam at full reverse power, augmented by hostile shoves from the lockmaster’s repelling arms, Firewater edges backward, rasping noisily against the timbers. At least two of our fender tires remain somewhere behind, torn off in the struggle. Chastened by the experience, I moved Firewater back into a position away from the lock. In moments, the closed gate cranked wide open and another péniche poked forth its black beak. A churn of yeasty froth, which appeared as its stern swung broadside to the channel fifty yards below the lock, showed that it had run aground. While its after end continued its veer toward the bank, a second barge came out of the lock and nudged the first with its bow, setting free the stranded craft. The two vessels continued downstream in close company, nuzzling each other like courting whales. Every few yards, one or the other touched bottom and, as if mortally stricken by an unseen harpoon, spouted tarry vapour from its engine’s exhaust in its attempt to break clear. Just before they disappeared around a bend in the river, still grappled together, the stern of one péniche came into contact with the bank and I saw the bright whirling blade of its enormous steel propeller chew into the shrubbery, spraying a geyser of mud and minced roots high into the air. With the lock chamber now empty, I brought Firewater inside contritely, like a penitent entering a confessional. Alas, absolution was not forthcoming. Although he had apparently been satisfied by my apology, the lockmaster, nevertheless, kept urging me in atrocious French to move Firewater ahead in the lock. I moved up to the centre. “Non. Avancez!” he commanded sternly – at least that is how I interpreted his guttural vociferation. “You mast move fur’der. Ve ‘ave a large baht coming!” I advanced another ten feet. “No. You mast go more a’ead!” he demanded. In spite of my protest that it would be dangerous for me to secure my boat closer to the floodgate, the man was adamant. “You mast make place. Ve ‘ave more bahts coming.” Reluctantly, after extracting his promise to fill the lock slowly, I moved Firewater to a point less than an sixteenth of the lock’s length from the upstream gate. I was not entirely reassured by the lockmaster’s pledge; there was that in his manner which boded ill. I brought out another line which I strung from our bow to a bollard to supplement our dock-line, and warned Liam to prepare for a more turbulent passage than usual.