Chapter One
At the age of ten I could not help wonder with awe at the beauty and splendour of Lulworth Cove. I sat on a sheer ledge high up on the cliff eating a peach. I watched the sunlight glisten on the distant waves as they rolled gently into the sheltered cove below. I have lived here all my life with my older brother and sister. My parents had a gift shop down in the village; we lived in a small house overlooking the cove. My mother and father were townies really; they never quite fitted in with the village’s tight knit community. They quietly ran their shop and kept themselves to themselves. My parents hardly ever joined in with civic festivities in the village and left such things to the local folk.
Home life was just as quiet; my parents were busy and hardly ever took an interest in their three children. We were not a particularly close family, which included my brother John and sister Emily. My brother and sister are twins and are three years older than I am. They rarely played with me; I was too small and beneath them. My main function and usefulness were as an outlet for their frustrations and often they bullied me mercilessly.
I had to make the most of my own company and mostly played by myself. However, I was a resourceful child. I had a happy go lucky attitude to life. I did my best to make the most of what was available to me. In many ways, I was luckier than most kids were at least I was blessed. The blessing was to have on my doorstep one of the most beauty place to live in the entire country. Lulworth Cove was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen before.
Lulworth is a tiny fishing village snuggled in the heart of the Isle of Purbeck. The village consists of row of quaint thatched cottages leading down to a tiny almost perfectly symmetrical cove.
I had plenty to do during the summer months; I had my little friend Tom for company. To be truthful, I wasn’t sure I liked him that much. Beggars cannot choosers I suppose, and at times, I treated him with a bit of contempt, he came from a different background to me and spoke with a different voice. I thought he was slightly oafish and slow to grasp things. It is sad, but even at the age of six I sensed a cultural and class difference between my best chum and me.
Nevertheless, we enjoyed playing with each other. Because Tom was a bit slow, it allowed me to manipulate and dominate him to my satisfaction. In other words, he played whatever I wanted to play, this suited me very much. Tom’s father was a local fisherman; he caught crab and lobster in the cove and beyond, he was a muscular, scruffy individual and to be honest, was as slow on the uptake as Tom himself. However, Tom’s father was a complete craftsman a master at his trade and if the truth known, probably made as much money as my dad.
I remember once whilst rock pooling I found a massive crab and put it protesting into my plastic bucket. I quickly bored with the creature, as it was too big. It seemed to have a sole ambition in life and that was to snip one of my fingers off in revenge for catching and imprisoning it. At the same time, Tom’s father had come ashore with the daily catch and busied himself securing his boat to the pontoon. I looked at his crabs; they were just as big and vicious as my own. I tipped the one I caught in amongst them. I congratulated myself for adding to his catch, only to be disappointed. Moments later unknowing of my addition, Tom’s father took one look at my crab and immediately identified it as a different species, unceremoniously he tossed it over his shoulder liberating the creature back to the sea.
Life was grand in the cove, a new memory created each day. I would gather many cherished memories with my friend Tom, he was true inspiration. Sometimes when the day was calm Tom’s father often invite us, to go fishing with him. I loved those occasions. I could not think of a better way to whittle away a morning. I watched as Tom’s father pull pot after pot from the murky depths below.
The crabs and lobsters fascinated me; they crawled all over each other in a vain attempt to escape. I believe Tom and his dad had a particular soft spot for me. I reckoned it was because even at my young age I too had empathy for the sea; I shared their enthusiasm for all that was wild and beautiful.
Chapter Two
Tom and I remained good friends throughout our early school life. On my tenth birthday Tom’s father had a special treat for us both. I was intrigued because Tom’s dad never worked on a Sunday. The family were devout Christians and I had never known them to miss Sunday Service. However, today I was asked to meet them down at the cove for 8:00am. It was a beautiful glorious summer’s day. I felt the sun warm on my back even at such an early hour. The sea was mirror calm, only a gentle roll of waves broke the otherwise silence. In addition, resident herring gulls were particularly hushed and quietly preened themselves on upturned boats and rocks to add to the beauty of it all. I sat at the end of the pontoon with my toes dipped in the clear cool water while I waited for Tom and his father to arrive. I did not wait long; I heard footsteps through the shale behind me.
“Hello Robert, been waiting long?” said Tom’s father a bronzed man in his forties with his son stood at his side. I noticed as I swivelled around on the pontoon they were heavily loaded with bags and what looked like fishing rods. I felt excitement grow. I had always wanted to fish with rod and line but never before had the chance. I helped the big man and his son load the little dingy with all the equipment they had brought. The tiny boat looked as if it would sink for sure.
“It’s okay,” Tom assured me, “we’re only going over there.” Tom pointed at a sleek blue motor cruiser moored some twenty yards out into the tiny bay. It seemed to take Tom and his father ages to row the few feet to the boat.
We climbed up the side of the big boat. Once aboard, I helped bring inboard all the equipment we had brought. Tom tied the little dingy to the back of the larger boat, soon the engines hummed and we headed towards the entrance of the cove. Outside the tiny harbour, the wind picked up. I felt the boat pitch and roll through the gentle surf. Tom swayed back and forth, as he excitedly unpacked all the equipment. Out from the wheelhouse staggered Tom’s father and made his way towards me, he sat by my side on an oil drum and with a kindly smiling face said.
“Any idea what we are going to do today?” he asked.
“I guess we are going fishing.” I replied.
“Yes you are quite right.” Tom’s father announced. “Until now you and Tom have been a little bit too small to go wreck fishing. I was frightened I would lose one of you over the side. That would not do, would it?” Tom’s father declared.
“No.” I answered. “What’s wreck fishing?”
“I was just about to come to that,” he replied, with a look that was so warm it removed the chill from the open boat. “Tom,” he shouted back over the din of the noisy diesel engine, “bring over Robbie’s fishing rod.” Tom hurried over and in his hand; he held a brand new fishing rod and reel.
“Dad and me thought you might like a fishing rod and it is yours to keep forever Robbie,” Tom said with a smile handing me the rod and reel.
I was overwhelmed I didn’t know what to say, but there is no doubt the best present I have ever had. I felt humbled, honoured that my friend and his dad should value me so highly. Tom left me with my new rod and on his father’s command rushed back to the wheelhouse; he switched off the noisy engines. Immediately, the powerful boat slowed to a stop. Straight away, the temperature rose and I felt the warmth of the sun on my back. The froth of the sea quickly lessened to a gentle slop on the hull of the boat.
“We are here Robbie this is where we are going to fish,” said Tom’s dad. “Right below us is the wreck of a cargo ship which sank some thirty years ago. These sunken ships become home to many species of fish. Commercial fishermen do not use their trawls here because their nets will be snagged in the rocks. The pickings are generally bigger for those like us using rod and line. There are some huge conger eels living down in the depths. Do you know what a conger eel looks like Robbie?”
“No.” I replied.
”Well then,” he concluded, “let’s see if we can catch one.”
Now the boat had stopped, the sea seemed calmed and the early morning sun beat down. Tom showed me how to rig a rod and line and soon the three of us were fishing. It was not long before the first fish reached the light of day. There was a roar of delight as Tom reeled ashore a two-pound specimen of twisting silver. On closer inspection, the fish was not silver at all but a dusky golden Pollack. By the end of the morning’s fishing, we had each caught several fish. The illusive conger eel did not oblige us with an appearance.
However, the most important part of the day for me was the taste it gave me for fishing. I shall never forget the first fish I ever caught. I was so thrilled at having something struggling and fighting on the end of the line. I suppose the real excitement was the anticipation of not knowing what kind of fish I caught until I reeled it in. Anyway, that sunny Sunday morning was to start a new hobby that was to remain with me for several years.
Chapter Three
Unfortunately, the prospect of going out in a boat to fish was not a regular one. That Sunday morning with Tom and his dad was a one off treat. However, the fishing rod I used that morning was mine to keep. A super present it was. I may not have been able to go out on a boat and fish, but I was blessed with having Lulworth Cove on my doorstep. I also had compliant Tom to keep me company whenever I wanted to go fishing.
Fishing was a delightful and relaxing hobby even for a 10 year old. So much so, I could not fish enough. However, being able to fish was not as straightforward as I had hoped. I tried fishing with Tom during the day but holidaymakers made the task almost impossible. They were forever asking me if I had caught anything, which generally I hadn’t. They were simply getting in the way and they often got tangled up in Tom’s line or mine. I thought the holidaymakers so ungrateful, being a nuisance, whilst we were doing some serious fishing. Eventually the holidaymakers won, we gave up fishing during the day. Tom’s father said that tourists were not the only problem, there were too many yachts coming and going in the cove that caused water disturbances. Also the water probably gets too warm during the day for fish to venture in close enough for us to catch them.
Therefore, there was only one answer and that was to fish at night. This too had its problems; Tom was okay with night fishing he had a liberal dad. He did not mind Tom being out late, on the other hand, I had a conservative father, and he wanted to know all my movements every minute of the day. Fishing was rapidly getting into my blood. The need to fish was too compelling to allow my parents to stop me from my night-time’s escapade. My fate was set; I needed to win them around to my way of thinking. I wondered if I should approach my mother first, she was slightly more approachable than my father who always seemed too busy to stop and talk to me properly. My mother was a woman in her thirties and was strikingly beautiful with emerald green eyes; her long flowing black hair sometimes hid them. However, her noticeable Irish good looks had not missed her own attention. This made her a little vain and neurotic, my best chance of approaching mother was to catch her making herself up with cosmetics. This she tended to do a lot and made her for my purposes a captive audience.
One afternoon my brother John and sister Emily appeared to be out of the house. I found my mother in the bedroom making finishing touches to her eyes. I stood behind her in awe and wondered how women can keep their eyes open long enough to apply mascara without pocking them out. With just a single blink of each eye, she completed the task. Through the mirror, she spotted me looking at her pensively.
“Yes Robert, do you want to speak to me?”
Mother always called me Robert, never Bob, or Robbie, which I preferred. I feared the worst a negative response and reluctantly replied:
“Mum, you know I like to go fishing with Tom?” I began to say building up my courage bit by bit.
“Yes,” she replied, whilst smoothing bright red lipstick onto her lips with great dexterity. Somehow, I thought she hadn’t been listening her thoughts were preoccupied with the next beautifying application to her face. This was the time for me to strike up an interesting conversation to get her approval.
“Mother,” would you mind if Tom and I go fishing in the cove after dark?”
This request almost made my mother miss her beauty spot with her eyebrow pencil, to her it was a beauty spot, and to the rest of us it was a mole. I was sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her it was a mole.
“No Robert,” you are much too young to be allowed out at night,” she swiftly replied.
“But Mum.” I protested. “You will be able to see me from the living room window. You will know exactly where I am.”
Mother looked at little annoyed at being disturbed with my petty problems whilst she was engaged in the serious business of beautifying herself. Nevertheless, she put down her powder puff and swivelled on her seat; she clasped her hands and rested them in her lap.
You are ten years old Robert, no responsible and caring parent would allow a child so young to play down at the cove at night.
“The answer is no,” she shouted.
Without further ado, mother returned to her mirror and continued to dab her face with a powder puff. My mother decided this was a simple end to the matter.
“No,” I retorted. Mother looked at me oddly. “This is simply unfair.” I pleaded. I saw no reason in continuing to argue the point. I graphically showed my disapproval. I got up, stamped my feet to the door, and swung it hard until the door crashed with a deafening shudder.
“Come back here immediately.” My mother’s voice cried from behind the door. Gingerly, I crept back into the room to see my mother on her feet scouring at me.
“Sit,” she demanded pointing to the bed. I sat and awaited the inevitable tongue-lashing. I was not to be disappointed.
“Look child,” she continued saying, “there are all sorts of bad and distasteful people go down to the cove at night, perverts and all. What might show up on a summer’s night, we may never know. Listen here it is no place for a small child. If I catch you down there after dark there will be trouble. Now go and play like a good child and let me get on with my make-up. One can never be too beautiful, you know.” Mother concluded.
I left the room, thinking this time it wouldn’t be a good idea to slam the door. There wasn’t much point in pushing my luck. Mother can be good with a hairbrush if pushed. However, fishing was too important to me to abide by my mother’s wishes. I started immediately planning and conniving. I had to find a way to get around my mother’s sanction. I ran to the cove to see if I could find Tom playing. Lulworth Cove is a small place; it did not take too long to track him down. I saw Tom in the distance amongst the holidaymakers; he danced from one rock pool to another carrying his bright yellow bucket, spotting him was easy as he was scruffier than all the other children were.
I waded through the warm clear water and I struggled over the slippery seaweed clad rocks until I reached his side. I found him on his knees. Tom was engrossed with what he could see in a deep clear rock pool.
“Hello Robbie,” he said cheerfully. “Come look,” Tom added, wanting me to join him looking into the rock pools.
“What am I looking for?” I asked, carefully descending to my knees by Tom’s side.
“Down there, look down there,” he insisted excitedly. “Look between the weeds I can see a Butterfish.” Tom announced.
True enough deep in the pool we watched darting back and forth a brown fish about four inches long, it had the distinctive row of black spots down its flank. For a while, I was as fascinated as Tom. We studied the fish for a time until I remembered there were important matters for us to discuss.
“Tom.” I began to say, his head turned in attention towards me. “I want to talk, come with me.” I instructed. We both struggled over the slippery rocks and made our way back across the shingle. Finally, we sheltered from the sun under a steep cliff. I looked up and around to make sure nothing was going to fall down upon us, as the cliffs are not that stable in the cove.
However, come to think of it. I had never heard of a holidaymaker being squashed by falling rocks. Then again, there was always a first time.
“Tom,” I continued to say when settled.
“Yes,” he replied.
“We have problems, huge problems.” I explained.
“Do we?” Tom replied, wondering what I was going to say next.
“Yes, we do.” I answered.
“What might that be?” he asked me.
My mother says I can’t go fishing after dark, she won’t hear of such nonsense. I replied.
“Well,” Tom remarked, “that’s it then we can’t go fishing.”
“Don’t be such a defeatist Tom.” I retorted angrily. “I haven’t come here to tell you I am not fishing at night. But, to ask you how are we going to do it without my mum and dad knowing?”
“A difficult one to solve,” Tom concluded, seeming puzzled by my dilemma. “The cove can be seen from your house,” he told me with great concern.
“I know.” I replied. “I know this why we need to think of a way around the problem.”
“So,” Tom continued. If you go fishing after dark, your mother has only to look out of the window once, and you’ll surely be in deep trouble. Unless,” Tom added thoughtfully, “we stay on the other side of the cove there we cannot be seen. This is because we will be hidden under the cliff.”
Tom also mentioned the tide comes right into the cliffs that side, so fishing was something that we would not be able to do for long. I was impressed. Tom was putting so much thought into the matter, maybe I have been misjudging him, and perhaps he is not so daft after all. For a while, we both sat silently in the sun each mulling over the problem. Then I had an idea, not just any idea, but a brilliant one.
“Tom. Tom, I have got it.” I said excitedly. “You can see my house from your bedroom window can’t you?” I asked.
“Yes.” Tom replied, wondering what I had in mind.
“Well, that’s the answer?” I assured him.
Tom still looked puzzled and kept scratching his thick red hair.
“Tom, what happens in the cove most nights at this time of year?” I asked him. I was anxious for him to try to guess. Tom still hadn’t understood he hadn’t taken to my meaning yet. “It gets foggy.” I exclaimed, announcing my brilliant deduction with triumph.
“So?” Tom inquired.
“So, so.” I replied mockingly. “The cove cannot be seen properly from my house. All I have to do is convince my mother and father that I am in my bedroom studying. Instead, I could signal you with my flashlight. Then, we could sneak down to the cove and fish for a few hours.”
Chapter Four
The plan hatched; all Tom and I needed was a foggy night. I was very disappointed a foggy night eluded us for weeks. Once upon a time, we always got mist and fog at this time of year. Now there never seems to be a foggy night when we want one. Still, it comes to those who wait and we surely been waiting. One night quite by accident, I looked out of my bedroom window and to my amazement; a glorious mist surrounded the bay. I looked across at Tom’s cottage and through the dark, I saw him at his window. Tom frantically tried to attract my attention with the flashing of his light. I flashed an acknowledgement back with my torch.
I prepared my fishing tackle and sneaked passed the living room where my parents were watching television. I ran down to the cove and saw Tom. Everything went as planned, sneaking passed my parents was a doodle, and they were far too engrossed in the show to hear me go by. Outside the air was brisk but not too cold. I had to be very careful of my footing as the track leading down to the cove was wet and slippery. In one hand, I carried my tackle box, in the other the fishing rod and beach chair. By the time, I made it to the bottom of the cliff my arms screamed with aching.
Through the swirling fog I found Tom, he grinned at me as he sat on the pontoon with all his equipment. The sea was flat and calm, all I could see was a few distant mastheads and the gentle clinker of rigging. The moored boats gently swayed back and forth with the incoming waves.
“A prefect night for fishing,” I said greeting Tom with a smile of satisfaction. “Let’s fish over there,” I said pointing to the far side of the cove. Slowly we struggled with our gear across the shingle to the desired spot. Tom frantically primed his oil lamp and soon the beach all around us lit up in a bright white light. Soon we were fishing and casting out our lines out some thirty feet. The fishing line landed with a splash amongst the moored yachts. The night was perfect. It was warm and misty. There was not too much weed to get caught in our tackle. However, there was just one thing missing neither Tom, nor me, had a bite after an hour or so of fishing.
“I don’t know Tom.” I said a little dismayed. “We are not catching much here. Let’s pack up our equipment and fish on the other side of the bay.” Tom was not too keen on the idea; he reminded me that it was the time of the month for a spring tide. I loved fishing but there were still lots for me to learn. I had not had the slightest idea what Tom meant by a spring tide. Tom explained that with each full moon the tides changed. On the spring tide, the sea came much closer inshore.
“So,” I said sounding rather cocky.
“Well.” Tom continued. “Over the other side of the cove we could get cut of from the rest of the shore if we don’t watch it.”
“When does the tide come in next?” I asked
“Not for another two hours,” Tom replied.
“Then we have plenty of time,” I retorted.
I began packing my gear. Then I trampled around to the other side of the tiny cove. Tom was clearly not happy and obediently, without further word, he picked up his rod and we both noisy wadded through the shale. The time was getting late we were the only ones left in the cove. I preferred this as we could do as we want, laugh, joke and to play silly beggars. There was no one to stare and admonish us. We set down our beach chairs on ledge, which protruded into the cove a few yards. This gave us a slight advantage of being able to cast our lines further into deeper water, this was where supposedly the fish were, moving to the far side of the bay was a good idea.
Not long after we started to fish, we discovered a shoal of wrasse. We both began to catch one fish after another. They were not terribly big or for that matter made good eating, wrasse were full of bones. However, it certainly was worth the time ventured. On the scale of excitement, we were in seventh heaven. No sooner, one of us landed a fish so did the other. The fish came to our bait fast and furious. However, we were oblivious to what was happening behind us.
Eventually, I glanced back towards the shore and saw that the sea was all around us. We were stranded on a ledge of rock only some six inches above the water line. Tom and I looked at each other in amazement and total shock. Suddenly, out of the quiet we could hear the waves rush into the cove. The noise of the sea was terrific. Our oil lamp lit up the white surf until knocked over by the tides wake. Our little island of rock had disappeared under the relentless rising water. I felt the warm water up to my ankles and knew we had to decide on our escape quickly.
“What do we do now?” Tom screamed. “We will have to swim for it,” he added, with a chill to his voice.
In my panic, I estimated the shore was some thirty feet behind us. I knew instinctively I could not swim that far. Tom realised too that he was a far stronger swimmer than I was.
“We have got no choice Robbie,” Tom reminded me as he pointed to the rising water, which now up to our thighs and was destined to rise further.
“I will look after you.” My friend said reassuringly. “Just hold on to me.”
Tom prepared himself to plunge forward with me at his side. Then out of the swirling mist we saw the cutting edge of a boat’s hull move towards us, silently the dingy drew along side. At this time, the waves were close to sweeping us off our feet. The water had risen above our chests. I tried to peer into the boat but it was too high out of the water. Nevertheless, we were relieved to see help at hand. Tom, who is much taller than I am, began to heave himself aboard.
Then a young girl’s face appeared over the side of the boat, gripped hold of Tom’s soaking shirt, and helped him in. Once in the boat, Tom hauled me unceremoniously into the dingy. Our rods and tackle were now floating with the tide. Amazingly enough we managed to bring most of it aboard the dingy before our rescuer turned the boat for shore. By this time, we were both wet through to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. With great efficiency, the young girl saved our lives; she turned her back to us and began to row ashore.
She was little more than our own age. I only caught a brief glimpse of her face; it was full and round like a china dolls. The girl also had long flowing black hair elegantly gathering at the sides, draping over the flimsiest of white dresses. She cut quite a figure, as the white from her dress seemed to radiate against the swirling fog and darkness. Silently, the boat glided up to the wooden jetty. Our petty little saviour turned to face us again. With a fleeting smile, she held the dingy steady to the pontoon, while Tom and I tumbled ashore. I took note her face once again, as she passed out our sodden fishing tackle.
Once safely on terra firmer with what was left of our gear, we began through chattering teeth to thank profusely our rescuer. With a final smile that lit the dark night the girl let go of the jetty and slowly floated away into the fog and disappeared without a trace