Although we lived in Brighton, the Queen of Watering Places, the sea did not hold a strong attraction for me. To this day I am not fond of sea or water sports and prefer to bury my head in a book when I take my wife to her hydrotherapy sessions rather than join her in the water. This amazes those who swim with her and I suspect that as they lie there indulging in the warmth of the water and relaxing every bone and muscle in their bodies they think me not a little eccentric. It may be that my parents imparted to me a mistaken idea that it was common to go to the beach although we often went to the chalk rock pools at Black Rock when I was small or it could be that I was put off by the experiences I had with my brother.
The rock pools held a fascination for me that cannot be explained merely by the presence of strange sea creatures: sea anemones, crabs and shrimps: or the multitude of forms of seaweed. There is something about the smell of them that differs from the smell of the sea and the waves break more powerfully on them than on an open beach. So I enjoyed my excursions with my parents to them. Later I relished being allowed to accompany my elder brother when he went shrimping.
Even later he asked if I would like to go fishing with him at his favourite spot. The banjo groyne was so called because of its shape. At the seaward end its narrow arm expanded into a circular platform that maximised the sense of being surrounded by the sea. This main stage of the groyne had walls that rose several feet above the pavement and these provide shelter from the sea breezes to this day. Beyond the circle the groyne continued into the sea, but at a level below that of the high tide and adventurous souls could climb down onto this platform unguarded by walls or rails so that they could cast their lines further out to sea and continue fishing even at low tide.
The climax of these expeditions came one summer night when I was allowed to accompany him on a late session that entailed catching the last trolley bus home. It was exhilarating to walk the promenade relying more on the moonlight than the decorative lights that were erected every summer. And I remember the thrill of striding to the bus station for the last bus with the tension of 'Will we catch it? Will we miss it?' for we were seldom punctual.
Seldom have the mackerel swum so plentiously as they did that night, their bodies breaking the surface and leaving silver pools of moonlight scattered on the calm sea. This was enjoyment embodied; but this would be forgotten for many years, overshadowed by the terrible tragedy that happened on another day by the sea.
I had cast my hook as strongly as I could, but it only ever travelled a short distance from the groyne at the best of times. This time it virtually slid down the wall of the groyne but I was not to be deterred. I would catch a fish - I was determined to for I had never done so with a hook before. To that day I had only caught fish from pools with a net. The thrill of that first tug on the line heightened my sense of expectancy. Carefully I proceeded as my brother had advised. I struck just hard enough to lock the hook in the fish's mouth without tearing it. Then I proceeded to gently wind in the line, letting the fish tire so that as it left the water it would not leap and twist and set itself free in the process. As I swung it onto terra firma and called my brother he came over and suddenly became very agitated, almost demented, and started shouting at me. 'What had I done wrong?', I thought to myself.
As he calmed, Richard explained that I had caught a poisonous fish, a weaver. His agitation was caused by the prospect of having to remove the hook from its mouth and dispose of it without letting the barbs along its back discharge their venom into either of us. When he had done that we buried it ignominiously as close to the waterline as we dared and as deep in the shingle as possible so that no hapless soul should place their bare foot on it and become its victim in death.
It never seemed sensible to try to catch fish again for fear of repeating the horror of that scene, but some years later I was holidaying in Monmouthshire and successfully caught so many trout that the excitement paled and I lost interest. Only when I had children of my own did I return to the sea shore in search of prey with my son, but luck was against us, or rather in favour of the fishes and we caught nothing.
I am not sure whether I approve of fishing for sport. I have no objection to destroying vermin, but I abhor the socialising of killing animals as it is practised by the hunting fraternity.
When we lived at Brighton my brother built a sea-going canoe in one of the many spare rooms. It had a wooden frame and canvas sides. I cannot remember it ever being launched nor how it was removed from the room, down two flights of stairs and out of the house.
After we moved to Shoreham Richard bought a ten foot sailing dinghy called Bumble. It was kept in Shoreham harbour near the oil storage tanks, on a hard next to a dilapidated Second World War landing craft. In those days before the use of glass fibre and modern resins such vessels were either made of sheet plywood crudely shaped or clinker built. This superior one was of the latter construction and was equipped with two sails and oars for propulsion in a calm or when navigating against the wind in restricted surroundings. Its superiority demanded regular tender loving care and tin upon tin of varnish. If a crew was required my sister or I were invited for a trip. If the vessel needed to be hauled over the strand between harbour and open sea we might both be invited, the more easily to manhandle it especially at the end of a session when we would be fatigued and more than two pairs of hands would make it possible to return the boat to its berth. It is a near miracle how something as heavy as a clinker built boat can float.
There is virtually no keel on a dinghy - I think that is what differentiates them from yachts. In order to counteract the sideways force of the wind they have a centreboard that is a metal plate that can protrude through the floor of the dinghy and stabilise it. The board is held in a box the bottom of which is sealed watertight to the hull and the top of which is higher than the water level outside the boat so that it cannot flow in; the centreboard slides up and down in this. Raised, it allows navigation in shallow water or when using the oars does not provide such a large cross-section for awkward currents to sweep the boat sideways.
The command to lower the centreboard is 'Drop centreboard', and it is the duty of the crew to provide this service. Trained to the peak of efficiency I responded instantly to the command and dropped the centreboard by removing the pin that held it in its raised position and letting it descend under gravity.
The effect of a large slab of metal sliding through a wooden tube and then coming to rest as its upper lip engages with the top of the tube has to be seen to be believed. A half-hundredweight accelerating through a distance of two feet gains a not inconsiderable speed. On the basis of the old song 'When an irresistible force ... meets an immovable object' when that momentum is abruptly halted something is bound to give. In this case it was the box and as it was torn from the hull of the good ship Bumble water began to force its way through the gap between the two structures. The sound of wood tearing and water gushing was drowned by the mutterings of the skipper who belatedly questioned his choice of crew.
Once again the water did its utmost to dissuade me from engaging her as a mistress and I retired from my seafaring ways. The land proved a stronger lure than the water, and even as I write this in our bungalow that is less than twenty feet above sea level I am suspicious that the rain outside could raise the mean sea level to an uncomfortable proximity.