{"id":5144,"date":"2018-08-24T09:12:34","date_gmt":"2018-08-24T08:12:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.lovesail.com\/ls-news\/?p=5144"},"modified":"2025-09-30T13:21:37","modified_gmt":"2025-09-30T12:21:37","slug":"the-folk-boat","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.lovesail.com\/ls-news\/the-folk-boat\/","title":{"rendered":"The Folk Boat"},"content":{"rendered":"

Editor\u2019s note: This memoir was written by Lovesail member Gandalpuss back in 2018. It\u2019s a beautifully told story of a Folkboat in Brittany and a mysterious encounter on the water. We love sharing our members\u2019 sailing memories like this.
\n<\/p>\n

At twenty years of age, a friend gave me access to a fibreglass sloop built in the 1950s.\u00a0 Tired as the boat was – and of late neglected – her owner had not the time to enjoy sailing her due to the pressures of work.\u00a0 The deal was that I should repair and restore the boat as much as possible in return for the free use of \u2018Maggie May\u2019.\u00a0 The boat was moored in the Trieux River near the town of Lezardrieux in Brittany, France.\u00a0 My friend had set sail on an around the world voyage single-handed from Portsmouth Harbour.\u00a0 Arriving in France he had met a lady who was to become the love of his life, a much younger French woman from Lezardrieux. Except the lady was already on her way to Britain having secured a job as a teacher!\u00a0 \u00a0Balancing the desire to continue his dreams of circumnavigation with what he saw as the dream girl, the latter tipped the scales.\u00a0 He settled into the routine of job, mortgage and family.<\/p>\n

I began to stop the decline in the yacht\u2019s condition by throwing out much of what would have been useful to a \u2018liveaboard\u2019.\u00a0 \u00a0The only equipment of use from inside the yacht, apart from the tools, were six cartons of John Smiths \u2018Extra Smooth\u2019 beer.<\/p>\n

With eight cans per carton, I began gradually working my way through this obviously vital source of energy.\u00a0 Nodding relations soon changed to a wave of the arm as other users of the river became familiar with the improvement of the boat.\u00a0 I considered it my boat, though, in reality, it was not.\u00a0 These fellow sailors also assumed I was \u2018Maggie May\u2019s\u2019 new owner. What really mattered to the French sailing community was that the sloop was being loved and was now beginning to look less like a skip and more like a yacht.<\/p>\n

One day, I decided to go for a sail. It was high water on a spring tide.\u00a0 Following some good sailing off the coast, I returned home under engine sails stowed.\u00a0 We traversed beyond the headland of a small peninsular, topped with a stone cross – known locally as Point de Trouquetet.\u00a0 The light was failing and evening fog settled as night drew on. With Binic astern, \u2018Maggie May\u2019 headed towards St Quay Potreux on the way back to the mooring.\u00a0 I heard the engines of another vessel but could see nothing in the mist of the evening light.\u00a0 I strained to see ahead.\u00a0 Suddenly there it was, a large old rusty steel coasting vessel headed straight for my boat only yards away.\u00a0 I slammed the tiller hard over to starboard. Inexplicably, he altered course to port.\u00a0 Within seconds we collided.\u00a0 My yacht bounced along a steel rubbing strake down the ship\u2019s starboard side.\u00a0 I cut my engine and waited.\u00a0 I could hear the noise of his propellers disappearing into the gloom.<\/p>\n

He was gone.<\/p>\n

Having way on, I peered into the mist over the stern, refusing to believe he had hit and run.\u00a0 I turned to face the way \u2018Maggie May\u2019 was going.\u00a0 There, right in my path, was a steel pole atop a concrete pillar, jutting out of the sea. Instinctively, my hand threw the\u00a0tiller over to port.\u00a0 Too late, the sloop scraped down the side of the navigation marker (which was for isolated danger and was topped by two black balls called L\u2019Ours Seur) with a sickening crunching sound from the portside as my boat slowed with the impact.<\/p>\n

The following day, I inspected both sides of the boat.\u00a0 A gauge mark had been left at the widest part of the tumblehome on the port side stained by bits of old concrete.\u00a0 \u00a0A shallow groove had been left after the collision with the ship for about a length of three feet.<\/p>\n

I felt entirely at fault, regardless of the other vessel\u2019s failure to stop.\u00a0 I felt I had to repair and make good the damage that stood out for everyone to see. It did not take me long to fill, fair and sand the gauge marks. On a warm day, I painted over the repaired strips in a band from stem to stern on both sides of the yacht in an off-white colour that nearly matched the original.<\/p>\n

Then the idea occurred to me.\u00a0 Why not put a rubbing strake centrally down each side of the yacht to protect the boat from a future mishap.\u00a0 Less than a month later, I returned from England with a heavy-duty brown plastic \u2018D\u2019 sectioned purpose-built rubbing strake.\u00a0 After a day of effort, I was no further forward with the installation, having made a pig\u2019s ear of every attempt to begin screwing the strake to the hull.\u00a0 I went to my berth that night dispirited, dreading a repeat of the day\u2019s failure.<\/p>\n

The next day an ancient-looking wooden gaff-rigged vessel, sporting the flag of France, the Tricolour, sailed by.\u00a0 It was not unlike a Bristol Pilot Cutter<\/a>.\u00a0 This old wooden craft towed what looked like an archaic flat-bottomed, double-ended, wooden skiff with a blue-painted hull.\u00a0 At the helm of the vessel stood a grizzled-looking old man with a dirty old woollen hat reminiscent of fishermen from those parts.<\/p>\n

An hour later, as I struggled with the writhing brown plastic snake-like rubbing strake, the blue-coloured skiff appeared.\u00a0 The skiff\u2019s approach took me by surprise as I normally expect to hear the noise of an outboard engine accompanying a tender.\u00a0 The skiff came upon me in silence.\u00a0 It was powered by the old man, who stood facing the skiff\u2019s stern.\u00a0 He used a single wooden oar to scull the craft with the oar lodged over the skiff\u2019s stern between two wooden pegs.\u00a0 The skiff\u2019s course made for my boat.\u00a0 I attempted to secure the rubbing strake down my yacht\u2019s side.\u00a0 He came closer and I realised he had come to assist.\u00a0 He stood barefoot, ankle-deep in water in the skiff.<\/p>\n

The old man\u2019s mouth uttered strange words, heavy with dialect in a slow French accent.\u00a0 I understood nothing of what he said, attempting to politely introduce myself in my broken schoolboy French.\u00a0 There was a glint in the old man\u2019s eyes.\u00a0 Looking past me, he manoeuvred the skiff between my inflatable dinghy and \u2018Maggie May\u2019. Gently but firmly he pushed me out of the way. Taken aback, attempting to greet him politely, I gave ground allowing him full access to the rubbing strake.\u00a0 Pulling fine twine from a bag the old man-made several loops hanging them from \u2018Maggie May\u2019s\u2019 guard rails.\u00a0 Next, he pointed to a choice of positions as his eyes caught mine in a miming sort of manner, awaiting my approval as to how high above the water the strake should go.\u00a0 I nodded approval.\u00a0 He threaded the entire length of the rubbing strake through the loops after adjusting them to the height I had indicated.\u00a0 In this way the lengths of strake to be attached simply lay at repose, hanging down the side of the boat, while he progressively screwed the strake to the hull, removing the twine hangers as he secured it.<\/p>\n

Unfamiliar though he clearly was with the sloop\u2019s fibreglass sides, the old man soon got the measure of this, to him, unusual material.\u00a0 Pulling an old well-worn hand brace and bit from a sack resting on the skiff\u2019s thwart he drilled into the hull of my yacht.\u00a0 Without the aid of any measuring device he would scan from time to time, by eye, along the boat\u2019s length as, foot by foot, the rubbing strake was secured into position.\u00a0 The only contribution I made, apart from handing him tools, was to run two lines of white Sykaflex mastic along the upper and lower bearing surfaces – and around each hole about to be secured – of the rubbing strake. Indeed, under the sunshine of those three days spent assisting my benefactor a casual observer would be forgiven for thinking I was the apprentice assisting a skilled master.\u00a0 One day, in my haste not to hamper the old man\u2019s progress, I put the mastic gun down without releasing the spring-loaded piston.\u00a0 Mastic oozed out onto his skiff\u2019s thwart near his tool bag leaving what looked like a white \u2018tick\u2019 where someone might sit. The mastic had set in the warmth of the sunshine before I became aware of my mistake, leaving the tick visible even after my efforts to remove it.<\/p>\n

Often, I would bail the skiff-like fury when the water level reached the middle of our calves.\u00a0 Many times, perhaps because of the lack of spoken communication between us, the aged skilled artisan would stop to top up his pipe with tobacco.\u00a0 The tobacco resembled browny black stringy bladderwrack seaweed with a distinct nauseous smell.\u00a0 The few teeth he had were revealed when he smiled or exhaled smoke.\u00a0 These teeth resembled brown stained pegs set in black gums.\u00a0 I learned not to inhale too close to his face as his breath was even fouler than the evil exhalations from his pipe.\u00a0 Aware of the state of his teeth, I prepared a stew from tinned \u2018Irish Stew\u2019 adding diced broccoli and haricot verts, green beans which I happened to have aboard.\u00a0 I added more stew to the pan as each day passed.\u00a0 He liked my offering very much as he washed it down with beer.\u00a0 In this way, the third day saw the completion of the installation. I rowed a little distance from the yacht in my dinghy expecting to see the line of the rubbing strake wander unevenly down the vessel\u2019s hull.\u00a0 Yet it was as straight as if lined up with a modern laser-level light!<\/p>\n

A strange comb-like object was taken from his tool bag, resembling the metal-toothed curry comb used in grooming horses. This device had a handle of wood with a patina of sweat well-worn from years of use.\u00a0 Unlike a curry comb this tool had many rust-encrusted needles of steel bent at ninety degrees.\u00a0 Each needle was razor sharp and stiff and twanged as it snagged the surface of the plastic.\u00a0 The man dug it into the curved surface of the rubbing strake pulling the tool along under steady pressure.\u00a0 With what looked like ease, he scratched each rubbing strake down its entire length with this tool.\u00a0 The ease of his efforts belied the skill and experience and the power and control the old man brought to bear.\u00a0 Not long after, the rubbing strakes\u2019 plastic outer surfaces could not be distinguished from wood as these scratchings resembled the grain of the wood.\u00a0 I had over the previous days attempted to offer payment for this old man\u2019s labours, but the look in his eyes and the set of his flabby chin made it clear that he would not accept any payment. Having washed down his stew with a glass of beer at the end of the third day he waved goodbye as he sculled the skiff away to his craft, anchored just out of sight around a bend in the river.<\/p>\n

That was the last I saw of him.<\/p>\n

A week later, I enquired of the old man and his traditional old wooden sailboat.\u00a0 Later still, I visited boat yards, marinas and jetties and even private islands near to the river\u2019s mouth.\u00a0 Over several weeks, I cast my search further afield to fishing boats and even to the stone jetties of Le Legue.\u00a0 No one had heard of, or seen, such a man or his craft. One day, months later, in Le Legue, I was browsing along the old stone-jettied boulevard, adjacent to the lock-gated section of the river, where many types of sailing boats nestled below the viaduct of the overhead motor road.\u00a0 I came across a model boat workshop displaying in its dusty window models of traditional Breton sailing craft.\u00a0 There in the window sat an exact replica of the blue skiff. The model was not for sale.\u00a0 The label beside the model read, \u2018Model of workboat as used in Napoleonic times\u2019.\u00a0 Beneath the dust could clearly be seen a small white tick in mastic on the model\u2019s thwart!!<\/p>\n

THE END<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Copyright “Gandalpuss” (Member of Lovesail.com)<\/p>\n

Related Articles: Bristol Pilot Cutters<\/a><\/p>\n

\"lovesail\"<\/p>\n

Lovesail.com<\/a> is a global sailing community where single sailing enthusiasts meet for dating, friendship and crewing opportunities.\u00a0 Join today to meet like-minded soul mates.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Editor\u2019s note: This memoir was written by Lovesail member Gandalpuss back in 2018. It\u2019s a beautifully told story of a Folkboat in Brittany and a mysterious encounter on the water. 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