Matilda.
Tim Biles shares an ode to Matilda - the timber vessel that stole his heart.
Oct 11, 2022
Right in that moment of autumnal calm, while looking out across the lake shimmering in early evening golden light, a boat gently passed.
Blood-red sails, gaff-rigged, dog and the skipper at the tiller.
His straw hat was slightly cocked and he looked at peace with the world.
That is when I knew I belonged here. But, I needed a boat like Matilda and company like this man with his straw hat.
There is a sound to old timber sailboats as they are driven by the wind. Creaking spars, straining halyards and the slap of water on timber.
Andy Henderson was a Scot. Broad of accent, ginger hair, wiry and a master of his craft.
Old timber boats are a love affair. Costly beyond reason, shapely in a way that is alluring and a joy to be around.
I bought a boat like Matilda. A double-ender.
It took a couple of years to find her after losing a bid on another vessel. The local real estate agent invited me to a meeting in the backroom of the Post Office, where I was advised by Old Dave Bull that for a ‘finder’s fee’ of $300, he would let me know where I could locate a sister to Andy’s Matilda.
I acquiesced and spent the kids' school fees buying the boat, then made a visit to Andy.
In his delightful Scottish burr, he gave me the thumbs-up of approval and offered to put in a centre case and bowsprit and fit a boom.
Weeks later, Andy rang and suggested I pop over to Bury’s Slipway on Bancroft Bay, East Gippsland.
I knew of Peter Bury but had never met him. Like peas in a pod, Peter and Andy met me in a sprawling ‘kids’ playground’ of old boats – seemingly chaotic arrangements of tools and boat bits all housed in a cathedral-like shed made of bush poles. Paradise!
Peter greeted me saying it was smoko time and ‘Would I like a cuppa?’ He was short, wiry like Andy, with a shock of white hair, a wispy white beard and twinkling blue eyes that searched out romance whether it be a wooden boat or something else.
A mug was produced, the interior of which was brown with the years of accumulated tannins and then given an invitation to help myself from the pot. How could I refuse?!
Over the course of smoko, Peter and Andy, scratching their ragged beards, explained how the new rig – consisting of a varnished bowsprit, mast, boom and centre case – had been installed. With quiet pride, the curved shape of the bowsprit was described by Peter, its curvaceous lines as I had hoped it would be.
During this process of renewal, I had serendipitously found blood-red sails for sale in the Trading Post.
“They’re a wee bit big,” says Andy, “but I’ve wrapped them around the boom and they’ll be fine.”
With smoko done, the boat was launched down the sliprails,cleaving the waters with a gentle bow wave, until she floated gracefully like a coracle – a small draft and wide beam for the shallow conditions of the Gippsland Lake system.
I slowly learnt to sail this boat, not with the mastery of Andy guiding Matilda, but good enough to only sink once. There is a sound to old timber sailboats as they are driven by the wind. Creaking spars, straining halyards and the slap of water on timber. It’s different from a plastic boat.
It’s not just speed.
Mostly though it’s about the characters.
I sail past Bury’s Slip on a regular basis, remembering Andy, who has since passed on, and looking for a glimpse of Peter who I last saw up the mast of his boat, varnishing it in a bosun's chair, nut brown and seemingly stark naked.
A reminder of why I know I belong here.
