Sunday, 14th June 2020
With the prospect of 23 double locks ahead of us today, The Captain and The Commodore were up early. Mrs Chippy, however, was, as usual, nowhere to be seen.
This was the day that many of the crew had been viewing with a good degree of trepidation - the challenge of a four to five-hour, non-stop slog to the top of the Hatton Locks; a flight that is known, somewhat ironically, as The Stairway to Heaven. Four to five hours of raising and lowering paddles; four to five hours of opening and closing the cumbersome double gates. There was a palpable sense of tension in the air as those who were to be responsible for the lock operations trusted that the novel 3:1 ratio turn on the paddles wouldn't be the death of them. The Forward Observation Officers were readying themselves for a long day as look-outs, and hoping that there would be no down-stream traffic to delay our ascent.
The Chief Engineer had requested a briefing with the Second Engineer and Mate, to run through the day's schedule; weed hatch to be cleared, stern gland to be turned, and engine oil levels to be checked. Battery levels were also to be monitored over the course of the day. The Chief Tosser was taken through her duties, as her role as rope-thrower and catcher would be fundamental to Matanuska's successful manoeuvring into the locks.
The day was overcast and predicted to remain so, making it ideal for the work that lay ahead of us. The first twelve locks were completed smoothly and we barely noticed the gradual gradient. The total rise of the Hatton Locks is 145 feet ... and six inches, so we should have been prepared for the steep pull over the last flight of ten locks.
Looking up the flight, from Lock 36, at the last ten locks
The Marine Radio Officer set up communications with the lock-openers, via walkie talkie; the Chief Mate, Ordinary Seaman and the Antipodean Support Crew came on deck as support crew, and the Ship's Nurse reviewed her medical supplies in the unlikely event that assistance was needed. With the welcome news from the galley that a cold Guinness and a medicinal-strength G & T were chilling, we began our ascent. At that moment, a number of elements changed. The sun came out, and in some apparently mystically-related fashion, gongoozlers appeared in their dozens. With children in tow, they crowded the edges of the locks, impeding the Chief Tosser's aim and swarmed around, on and over the gates. Running commentaries on the crew's activities abounded and with it came the offer to push and pull, open and close. Social distancing wasn't given a look-in. Three locks from the top, the experience became somewhat surreal.
A small cafe was doing a roaring trade in ice-creams (did I mention the sunny conditions?) and a nearby pub was dispensing cooling ales in what looked like plastic buckets! Everywhere were happy picnickers spread over every available square inch of space as well as some who had set up their packed lunches on the lock gates. The sunny conditions and the ales had combined to produce a festive air - with a corresponding noise level - in the assembled crowd, and a number of onlookers felt compelled to dispense raucous advice to the staggering crew. The remaining two locks were completed in a blurry daze and Matanuska and Mary Jane, plus crew, staggered to their moorings.
This family worked the last eight locks with us. Well - mum and the kids did; dad met them at the café!
Later, as the Matanuska and Mary Jane crew shared a well-earned ale under the shade of some enormous oaks, we gazed in wonderment at the now-deserted space outside the café, and collective heads were shaken in disbelief. Had it really happened?
The Captain, The Commodore and The Cat
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