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2
The Wild Hunt
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied
John Masefield
Sea Fever
On the riverbank, beside the old railway bridge, I loaded my boat. I
tied on a spool I had made from hazel poles, wound with orange
twine and a team of tinsel lures. I lashed a bottle of water and a
wooden club to the cleats on either side of my seat, and attached the
paddle to the boat with a leash: anything not tied down was likely to
be lost. In the pockets of my lifejacket were spare lures, swivels and
weights, a chocolate bar, a knife and - in case I was stung - a cigarette
lighter.
I stepped into the brown water. It filled my diving boots, soaking
into my socks. It would keep my feet warm all day. I pushed the boat
into deeper water then swung myself into it and set off downstream.
Two sandpipers dipped and swooped along the bank. A family of
swans bow-waved up the river, struggling against the current. Soon I
reached the fast sparkling water in the shallows beyond the first
meander. It rose in plumes over the rocks and raced between them,
breaking into manes of spray. I sped through the rapids, bouncing off
the water cushions on the boulders, feeling alive and free. Then the
river reached the beach and spilled in a shallow fan across it. I found
a channel just deep enough to carry me, and slid down into the first
wave, which swamped the kayak then let me pass. The other breakers
alternately sluiced over the prow or lifted the boat to smack it down
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