I dragged myself into The Rocket by Putney Bridge with a very heavy head and sat down opposite three ridiculously large full English breakfasts. Nick (‘Frenchman’), Mark and David (‘Irish’) all tucked in. I took one look at the sausages and knew exactly how that would end for me, so I stuck to an unhealthy amount of coffee. From there we headed to Hurlingham Yacht Club (HYC), where we keep the club boat. She was in great nick and, well within the hour, we had the big orange RHIB fully kitted out and hitched to Mark’s 4×4. We changed into more appropriate clothing. In my case, that meant a Musto sailing jacket and trousers Frenchman had brought along. In their case, it meant three middle-aged men consciously choosing to squeeze themselves into drysuits for a day on a boat. So I suppose ‘appropriate’ is subjective.
Link to the instagram video
We crossed Putney Bridge and took the boat past those gorgeous old rowing clubs, negotiating traffic, rowers and people who were somehow well enough to go for a run. Clearly none of them had been to Oktoberfest the night before. I was still fairly new to the club and this was the first time I’d properly met Frenchman. Funnily enough, I think it’s the launch that brings you together quickest. Reversing a great orange boat into a tidal river takes a bit of trust. You find out pretty quickly who’s good at what and how to work together. Irish took the bow line and promptly got tangled up in the debris coming in with the tide, while Mark sat in the 4×4 with his head going purple like a boiled zit as his drysuit seal slowly choked him. After some questionable trailer reversing, we all got aboard. The outboard had been a little unpredictable lately, so there was a nervous pause before it gurgled into life. Then off we went, and I suspect nobody was more grateful for the fresh air than Mark.
We went through the safety kit and the main bits of the boat, then took turns at the helm. There was plenty to keep an eye on between the depth, the speed limit and how much wake we were sending towards the rowers. And, of course, the paddle boarders. If you’re paddle boarding on the Thames, God help you. The sky was grey without being properly miserable yet, the water was green and stank, and I was having the time of my life. From low down in the RHIB you could see the old brickwork beneath the bridges, the damp steps disappearing into the river and the last of the autumn leaves hanging over the water. Around the bends, stretches of towpath and trees gave way to little rows of houses with gardens running right down to the bank. It’s a stretch of river I know so well from the bank, yet it’s always felt oddly inaccessible. Suddenly I was driving a boat up it. It struck me how unusual it is for a dive club to have its own boat these days, and how lucky we are at Putney to be able to take ours out on a weekend, learn to handle it and go somewhere – even if that “somewhere” is the pub… Somewhere around Chiswick, I realised my hangover had cleared. The others’ breakfasts were presumably being held in place by the drysuits.
As we came towards Richmond, there were yachts at their moorings, other boaters waving us past and the odd boat that looked halfway to the bottom. Best of all were the little riverside pubs, with crooked old window frames, weathered signs and tables right down by the water. A few looked as though you could lean over from your chair and untie a boat. We spotted a particularly lovely one tucked behind an island just past Richmond and decided it was time for lunch. The drysuit brigade carried me ashore to keep the borrowed Musto dry, and we set about mooring as if we were leaving the boat there for winter. Down went the anchor, out came the muddy ropes to the bollards, and there was a lengthy discussion about exactly what the tide was going to do. Then we tried the door. Closed for refurbishment. Shit. Up came the anchor, in came the ropes, and I was carried back aboard. We doubled back past the Richmond pubs and did the whole thing again. This time we got a pint and fish and chips. We looked like we’d just come off an oil rig, but a group of girls about my age got chatting to us anyway. I’d like to think it was our charm. It may have been the fit of the drysuits.
By then the rain was properly coming down and the tide was turning, so we jumped back aboard. I say we jumped. I jumped. The other three creaked, groaned and more or less fell into the RHIB. It was already getting dark as we pulled away from Richmond. The trees on the banks were turning to silhouettes, and the windows of those rickety old pubs glowed amber, their reflections breaking up on the water as we passed. On the run back to Putney, the bow lifted and the boat skimmed across the water, the rain stung our faces and my hands were freezing. It was bloody fantastic. I remember seeing Putney Bridge come back into view and being genuinely gutted that we were nearly done. We got the boat out of the water quicker than we’d got her in, had her back at HYC before five and, with a few helping hands, got three men back out of their drysuits.