The dictionary defines gunkhole, a term used in the language of cruising yachts, as “a shallow inlet or cove that is dangerous or difficult to navigate”. The attraction of such places should be obvious, they afford some measure of tranquility shall we say, and the silted-up little branch off the river that has been our home for the past few nights meets all of those criteria. It is so shallow that it’s barely deeper than wet grass, which is exactly how much water we need to float, although even for us, progress across it was impeded by the soft mud and weed.
One would think that when one finds said gunkhole, one would tend to enjoy it in solitude, but the opposite always seems to be the case. The first boat in acts as a decoy to others who appear to lose all caution at the site of another boat all snug calm, and come charging in oblivious to the differences in their hull shapes. Some listened to our warning shouts and went on, but one gave it a try, running out of momentum before they could reach the dock. We caught their ropes to pull them through the ooze as best we could to somewhere approaching proximity to shore.
They seemed embarrassed, perhaps wondering how they will get out in the morning, then no doubt deciding that problem can wait till tomorrow, quietly disappeared on their bicycles into the green, and things returned to the way they were.
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