Страница 5 из 8
Travelling by hovercraft is a most unusual and unique sensation. The craft skims over the surface of the sea making the most minimal of contact, held aloft on a cushion of air, so it travels much faster than a conventional ferry.
Soon we were racing over the Goodwin Sands – a natural sand barrier that lies just below the water but becomes visible in paces at low tide. For centuries it has been a hazard to unwary ships. We could see the skeletal remains of some of its unlucky victims stuck fast in the treacherous sands, rotting masts pointing at the clouds.
Sand barriers, sea, beaches, car parks – it was all the same to our hovercraft. We didn’t even have to slow down.
My father had just closed his eyes to get half-hours sleep when there was a tap on his shoulder. Daddy Volvo was about to engage him in conversation.
“I say old chap, couldn’t help noticing you people s we were getting on the ferry. Not going far are you? You seem awfully overloaded, if you don’t mind me saying so”.
“Barcelona”, replied dad curtly hoping the smarmy sod would go and bug somebody else. Not an earthly.
“That roof rack of yours looks rather unsteady and it is awfully high you know. You may find that the Gendarmes will have something to say about it when we land in Calais, old chum.”
We find it much more convenient to travel with the caravan. A regular home from home you might say. Of course we are old hands when it comes to tripping around France. Been coming here for years…”
Daddy Volvo had a really plumy upper class accent coupled with an extremely arrogant attitude. The overall effect of listening to him being somewhat less attractive than the sound of fingernails being dragged across a blackboard. I found myself wondering if you could hit him really hard on the head with a spade, could you make it adopt the same shape, like happens in Tom & Jerry cartoons.
He droned on and on, neither listening to nor interested in anything anybody else had to say. Dad gave up any hope of getting his catnap and tried manfully to get a word in edgeways.
But I had my own problems to contend with. Once over the Goodwin Sands, the sea had become very choppy. The hovercraft was no longer gliding smoothly along but bouncing from the top of one wave to the next one. Or worse, bouncing off the top of one wave and dropping heavily into the trough before the next big wave hit.
Now, I love roller coaster rides. I can spend a fortune in an amusement park. This trip was fast becoming the roller coaster ride from hell. What I like about roller coaster rides is that you have that adrenaline fuelled two or three minutes, then it stops and you return to terra firma. Nobody sensible uses all his or her ride tickets up one after the other without pause for breath. Not me anyway.
Initially we four children were having a lot of fun. We invented a game of seeing which one of us could stand in front of our seat the longest before the erratic motion of the hovercraft would steal our balance, forcing us to fall back into our seat.
My spine was slowly straightening out, the stiffness leaving my limbs. I was returning to my normal shape and height. Internally things were not going nearly so well.
If you are prone to seasickness then do not, if you can possibly avoid it, cross the seas by hovercraft. Just trust me on this one.
Many years of foreign travel have taught me that I hate being on the sea and the sea hates me. Being possibly the world’s worst sailor is a serious drawback when you are born to an “island nation” like Britain. To get off the place and visit anywhere else on the planet, you have to somehow cross the sea. I can actually get a queasy stomach watching a documentary on migrating whales, or even worse, Jacques Cousteau re-runs. If I had been Christopher Columbus the world would be a much different place today. Aztecs would possibly still rule South America and the plains of North America would still be teeming with herds of migrating buffalo. Why? Simple. I would have sailed once round Cadiz harbour, thrown up that morning’s chorizo sausage and called the whole thing off.
As far as I am concerned mankind’s greatest technological achievement is not the internal combustion engine, satellite communications or the computer chip. Without a doubt it is the Cha
I was no longer in competition with my siblings to see how long I could stay on my feet. Rather I was sat on the edge of my seat, stomach clutched tightly and head between my knees. It wasn’t going to help. Having never been seasick before, I had no idea why I was feeling so bad, what to do about it or what might happen next. Like children usually do, I decided to consult with the fountain of all knowledge. Dad.
I turned to the side, “Dad?”
“Just a minute son, I’m talking”. He wasn’t actually. He was being talked at.
“Dad I feel really ill. Dad, honestly, I think I might be …Dad?
“In a minute, son”, he totally missed the tone of growing desperation in my voice.
“Please Dad, I’m definitely going to be…Dad .Daaad…Urrgh…Raalfffff.”
Conversation across the aisle ceased in mid sentence. Dad stared dumbly at the equally speechless Mr. Volvo Driver.
Mr. Volvo Driver was staring in disbelief at his legs. From the knees down they were coated in a body temperature cocktail of chocolate and coke. The event had been so sudden and volcanic that I half expected to recognise some of my internal organs flopping around on the deck. It was not a pretty sight.
I just about had time to mumble “Uh, sorry”, before Mother grabbed me by the arm and half dragged me outside onto a narrow promenade deck for some fresh air.
A kindly stewardess, carrying a box of tissues to help clean me up accompanied us. Her assistance would have been a lot more appreciated by Mr. Volvo Driver, for sure. I had escaped relatively unharmed. After all I had done my best to get the goo as far away from me as possible. The stewardess agreed.
“That was amazing,”she confided to my mother. “I never would have believed someone so small could throw something so far without using their hands. I`ve been doing this crossing three times a day for the last five years and that is the most awesome example of projectile vomiting I have ever witnessed.”
I can’t say I felt particularly proud.
Dad joined us on the promenade deck. I was holding on to the handrail like a drowning man gripping a rescue rope. Mum went off to check on the others.
“How are you feeling, son?”
“Absolutely crap,” I answered convinced I could not get myself into any more trouble. I waited for the clout on the back of the head, the obligatory reward for an outburst of uncouth language. It didn’t come.
I turned to look up at my father. His face was split by a huge grin and he was struggling not to laugh out loud. He slipped some silver coins into my pocket.
“Here take this, but don’t tell the others, or they will all want to throw up over a
“Just one thing, don’t spend it on coke or chocolate on the way back. You’re too bloody dangerous on that stuff.”
No problem, I thought. If it means another trip on this bouncing torture chamber, I’m not bloody coming back. Dad distracted me.
“Look son, Europe!” he pointed ahead.
Fast approaching were the sand dunes of the French coast. My ordeal was almost over.
Fu