A boat from Ukraine to Shetland
A matter of inflation…
Four in the morning, and boat anxiety strikes. The wind has risen after a day calm enough for me to unpack and inflate my Ukrainian dinghy, henceforth known as The City of Dnipropetrovsk. Dnipro for short. She - let’s be traditionally distaff - was made in a factory there, presumably within the sound of Russian artillery.
A company called Bark. As in barque, not dog. Very good value, and they give a discount to cover import duties. Quick delivery, well packed. “German materials,” they say. As in “not Russian.” I’m happy to do a tiny amount for a beleaguered economy.
An inflatable dinghy being entirely composed of rubberized wind, the possibility of Dnipro being carried off to Oz or Uzbekistan by a gust is very real. So I’m out in the gale, dressing gown flapping, heaving bags of compost and old gas cylinders onto it-him-her. Sorry, that anthropomorphic feminisation seems awkward.
Then I go back to bed and lie awake, worrying.
I’d forgotten. It’s always like this with boats. Ear constantly cocked for the force 10 that will rip and sink or send your pride and joy skywards. A boat is like a bad conscience, nagging at you: should have secured her-it-him better. Should’ve spent more on better rope. Should’ve.
But didn’t. Anyway, as calm descends and dawn breaks my ship-called-Dnipro is still sitting on the grass next to the compost heap. Inflation maintained. Flotation remains on the cards. But not, I hope, levitation. Or submergence..