H · TAPESCRIPT
The Tide Doesn't Wait
Sam, forties, telling it to camera
Every August - the whole month, every single year until I was about fifteen - I'd get shipped off to my uncle Davey's boatyard, down on the estuary. My parents used to call it a holiday. Funny thing is, I used to think it was one, too.
There were rituals. We'd be up at six, whatever the weather, and Davey would walk the pontoons with his mug of tea, checking the mooring lines, and I'd trot along behind with the toolbag, feeling tremendously important. Mornings, I'd scrape hulls or fetch things. Afternoons, he'd let me row the little tender around the moorings. And the whole time he was always quoting tide times at me - always. "Tide waits for no man, Sam." I was always rolling my eyes at that. I wish I'd listened.
So - the summer I was twelve. A customer had left this beautiful little sailing dinghy on the slipway - varnished hull, brand-new sails - and it had been sitting there untouched for weeks. I'd been eyeing it up for days, if I'm honest. One evening - Davey had gone up to the house to phone somebody - I told myself I was only borrowing it. Ten minutes. Round the moorings and back.
The light was going, the water was flat as glass, and for about five glorious minutes I was king of the estuary. What I hadn't noticed was that the tide had already turned. By the time I looked up, the current was carrying me past the last of the moorings, out towards the mudflats. I paddled - I'd been paddling furiously for, I don't know, twenty minutes - and I was getting precisely nowhere. Then the dinghy just stopped. Mud. Mud everywhere.
Davey came out in the launch and hauled me aboard, and he didn't say one single word all the way back. Which, believe me, was worse than shouting. I found out years later that he'd been watching me from the house the whole time - he'd let me get exactly far enough to be properly frightened.
They sold the yard when he retired. It's luxury flats now - there's a gym where the shed used to be. I've seen the photos, and honestly? I still can't get used to it. Because somewhere under all that glass there's a twelve-year-old boy, covered in mud, learning what the tide does to people who don't listen.