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Jacks

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Jacks
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We came to the top of the crest and looked down the fellside to the water. Two hundred feet below was a Red Stag. A medium size one. And not far away, a pair of Red Does. Humans still haven't made them extinct by accident in this part of the world. They were beautiful, wild. Wild is always beautiful. I pointed to the does and Jack looked. Oh, I should explain something here. Both of us are named Jack. Jack Cooper and Jack Morgan. We're together all the time. Have been since we were three, so when someone wants us, they just yell out Jaaaaacks! And both of us come running. Saves a lot of yelling time, I guess. [grin] I'm the Morgan one, Morgan, man of the sea in "Welsh". And Cooper, maker of barrels. Neither of our families were originally from the Lake District. Wales, or Cymry as we call it, is not far south and west, and Jack's family came from just east of Bristol. Our families came here not long after we were born, and even though we weren't born to and "steeped in the traditions" of the old families, we are Of this place.

The wind shifted a little and the deer smelled us and darted away. Bollocks! So we carried on walking and came to the summit of the fell. I looked back and could see Brothers Water in the distance. Sad story goes with that name. I don't want to think about it. We're a long way from home, Coniston Water, way down south in New Orleans and gamblin' on the Jackson Queens. Oops, sorry. Just the way my mind works. Ha. Always takin' a zag away from the straight line. And we've watched a lot of American telly. Why are we way up here instead of sailin' on Coniston? There was no wind this morning, so instead of putting out all that work rowing, we decided we'd go up north and climb the fells. Yeah, sensible, logical. Uh huh. There's wind here, right enough, blowing off the snow on the summits. Late November. There's even a little ice on the tarns up high on really cold days. Not today. No shoeskating.

I'm hungry, so is he. He's carrying a primus and fuel in his little pack, and I've got a few cans of food in mine. We start heating the food on the downwind side of the summit cairn. Every summit's got a cairn here. Like domesticated a bit, friendlier if you like that sort of thing. If this were July, we'd be surrounded by a crowd of fellwalkers with bloody iPhones. Dammit. But it's almost December. Yes! We're alone together. So peaceful.

The eatings done, and we have no tent with us, so we'd best be starting back to catch the motorcoach in Patterdale and go home.

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"Hi, Da!", we chorused.

"Hi, Jacks, how was your day?"

"Too many people on the coach."
"Except for that, it was great!"
"Next time we want mopeds!"

"Well, neither of you ever had much liking for crowds."

"That's for certain sure!"

"You're in luck it wasn't Remembrance day."

"It wasn't luck."
"Not luck at all"

We grinned our usual grin at each other.

"I would have driven you if I could, but I needed to put the finishing touches on the new boat today."

"And we would've been in the way."

"Right you are."

"What's to eat?!"

"Whatever you can make yourselves!"

We both laughed. "Saw that comin.'"

We'd never been spoiled by either family of ours.

"What about those mopeds?"

"You'll have to pay for them yourselves.

[see? told ya.]

"And you're still not legal."

"Da!"

Much groaning in close stereo was dramatically wasted on Da.  :|
We'd given up Whining ages gone. The Groaning isn't working either.

"We could already drive the LR a looooong time ago."

"Makes no difference to the gov, though. And that's an end of it."

"Just one end!"
"Ha!"

"An end. Think about something else."

"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."

We knew when Da had had enough.

---------

Next day, the wind was up on the Water. We grabbed some food and our boat packs, strapped on our knives [Mora 39 Scouts] [I'll explain later], waved goodbye and ran down the boatshop dock to Jacks, Too [the second boat we've built. Clever name, in'it? :D ], scrambled in, loosed the lines, set the sail and pushed off. Big Jacks is a 14 footer when our first one is a 9 footer we built when we were smaller. Both of 'em are made the old-fashioned way [we love! old-fashion], wooden planks, clinker-built [look it up], standing lugsail, a big one with lots of reef points to tie it down smaller. [look thAt up, too. :D ] Land lubbers won't know what we're talking about, but around here, most folk aren't lubbers, even if they do sail around in plastic boats. They don't know what they're missin'! We hate! plastic. Good thing it's pretty much winter already and there's no one sailing but us, so we don't have to see the moored plastics very long. We pointed south down the Water and plastic got small behind us.

The following wind was pretty good, so we both sat on the stern seat to lift up the bow for the fastest ride, me at the tiller and him holding the sheet [the rope that goes to the end of the sail's boom][I'm guessing you're lubbers. If you're not, sorry!] We didn't say much, didn't need to. We've been sailing so long together, we just react to wind gusts, tacking,  jibing  and such, automatically, so we just enjoyed the ride.

The sky's grey today, like usual in the District's winter, but also like usual, Coniston's beautiful. Always lovely, even when it's cold. We eventually got down west off Peel Island. It's a pity you can't camp on the island anymore or even start a campfire. Ever since Arthur Ransome wrote that book, you know the one, Swallows and Amazons, and called it Wildcat Island, the tourists got so many and The National Trust got hold of it, so they regulated all the fun out of it. You can go there and see it, and imagine what it was like back in Ransome's days, but it just isn't like that any more. Too many people! Preservation doesn't really preserve anything but memories in something like this. Isn't that right, Jack? Right!

We keep sailing and leave the sad wanting behind us. The steamer passes by. Wonder what they're doing out in this weather at this time of year; there can't be all that many people wanting to go from one end of the Water to the other. The people inside the cabin wave at us, wishing they could be us. We wave back, glad we're us. Poor commuters and tourist folk! Come to think on it, we don't need any bloody mopeds! What were we thinkin'?! I know what the steamer crew is thinking; they're thinking that those boys are totally maaaaaaddd to be out sailing an open boat in this. They've known us for years, and known the Water, but they still don't get it. Maaaad, baaaad, and daaaaaaaangerous to know. :))) That's us all right!.



Lancelot Price, Copyright 2014, A work in progress with several edits already done. The complete novel is a long way ahead.
Not exactly NaPoWriMo.
© 2014 - 2024 LancelotPrice
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jrockar's avatar
this reads ok, wish there was more.. ;)