Kerosene can Quench Your Thirst

Until it comes back up

I always liked sailing. I remember how Uncle Herman sometimes let me steer his yacht Albatros when I was still so small I had to stand on the helmsman's seat to be able to look through the windscreen. The most exciting part was steering the Albatros under the bridges of Amsterdam. Big bridges with people on pushbikes riding over the top. First, you had to blow a loud horn so other boats knew you were coming. Then you had to steer very carefully to go straight into that low dark tunnel underneath the bridge. The walls were of black and green slimy bricks and if you were very lucky you could hear a tram going across right above your head.

            I loved the Albatros, but I was intrigued by the marine toilet. At home we had a flush toilet, at Grandpa's place in Edam they had a long wooden seat with a bucket under the hole in the middle, but on board, there was a long pump handle next to the toilet. When you swung that handle it pumped the water out of the canal or the river, through the toilet and back into the river. Just as long as you liked. That really fascinated me.'

THE ALBATROS

            Uncle Herman’s river launch gave me my first taste of boating.

ON BOARD THE ALBATROS. 1936         

            At three years of age, I was proud to fulfil my duties as a deckhand.

'And you almost wrecked the Albatros on a glacial boulder, didn't you, Grandpa?'

            'No Tracy, that wasn't the Albatros. Uncle Herman lost the Albatros to the Germans early on during the war already. That time with the boulder was years and years later, shortly after I graduated from the Academy.

            I was sailing a nine-metre sailing boat then, a Staverse Jol, together with two good friends. [1] We had been away for some weeks and had just crossed the IJselmeer. Near the eastern coast was a small island, Urk, with a tall lighthouse. We had a strong stern wind. The forecast was for the wind to strengthen even further, and we wanted to get to Urk quickly, so we carried three sails. We were nicely on course to the harbour when we heard a horn signal from that lighthouse: short short long: 'you are standing into danger', the signal to steer clear of something. We couldn't see anything to steer clear of but thought we better do as we were told, and changed course.

            After we had tied up on the wharf we went to the lighthouse, climbed up the never-ending spiral stairs and talked with the lighthouse keeper.

            He didn't often see a Staverse Jol sail that fast, he told us, but we were heading straight towards a sunken ship. Apparently, another ship had strayed off course, hit one of the submerged glacial boulders near the safe channel, drifted back into the channel, and sank. Fortunately, the people on board had got ashore safely, but there had not been enough time yet to put a marker on the wreck. 'If you hadn't obeyed our horn signal,' he said, 'you would have hit the wreck, and with the speed you were making, you would have holed your hull and sunk too.' So it was just as well Dad had taught me all the rules and signals long before.

            Nowadays of course they don't have lighthouse keepers any more, and Morse code signals are no longer used.

            One time Dad had bought a botter. [2] That's one of those traditional Dutch fishing boats with massive leeboards instead of a keel and a mast made of a tree trunk more than a foot in diameter. The hull was made of oak planks so thick, that on the shore you'd call them beams, and the main sail of dark brown canvas was so heavy that it took three men to carry it ashore for winter storage. Dad didn't want to go fishing, but it was a marvellous family boat for the holidays.

            Dad hadn't had a boat for a long time and when he had finally saved up enough to buy the botter, the whole family was excited. She was still moored in a small fishing harbour, Hindeloopen, on the other shore of the IJselmeer and we all wanted to help sail her home.

            By then I was married, and Gino was little more than one year old. The IJselmeer could be pretty rough and the autumn storms sometimes came up rather quickly: no place for a little child. So, Karen had to stay home and look after him. Mum also stayed home with my youngest brother and my sisters. We decided to pick up the botter with Dad as skipper and my brothers Arthur, Nico, and me as crew.

            We had all gone to Hindeloopen the day before and slept on board. The botter didn't really look like a yacht at all, more like an honest working boat. The flat deck stretched from the bow to almost amidships and aft of the mast the boat was simply one big open cockpit. The aft end of the cockpit was slightly raised for the helmsman. No portholes or skylights or anything like that.

            The sky was beautifully clear when we left port shortly before sunrise, but it was freezing cold. As soon as we were out of the harbour and into open water, my brothers and I pulled up the mainsail and the heavy jib. Dad was on the helm. Once the sails were up and the leeward leeboard well down into the water the Pallieter, as she was now called, sailed beautifully. She was slow to get moving, but no wave could stop her in spite of her fairly blunt bow. I think it was Arthur who turned off the engine, but I may be wrong there. The sun came up, and as it was slightly hazy the shore behind us soon disappeared. Dad had brought his old compass along, no problem with navigation.

Oh, by the way, I must show you that compass, he gave it to me before he died and I still have it.

Anyway, all we could see was sunny sky and water, we had a light beam wind, and Pallieter was as steady as a house in the slight swell. Absolutely perfect. Until I realized how thirsty I was. We had left port without wasting time to have breakfast or to make coffee.

'There's a big plastic bottle of drinking water down below,' Dad said. 'If you go down the companionway you'll find it just around the corner to starboard. On that little shelf.'

'Thanks, Dad.'

Coming out of the bright sunlight into the pitch-black cabin, I couldn't see a thing, but sure enough, groping around I found the bottle just where Dad had said. I drunk and drunk, but when I finally came up for air I smelt something funny. Kerosene. I had drunk half a bottle of kerosene. Only it was so cold that you couldn't taste it. It quenched my thirst though!

Half an hour later, with hardly any warning, I threw up over the side, leaving big oil marks on the sea. The funny thing was that I never felt sick or anything. I kept burping kerosene for days though, and when we came home eventually, Karen was not convinced that I was nice to be near.

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[1] 1955

[2] 1957