Coming Home to Story

Captain Midnight here aboard the Henriette Antoinette.

She’s a fine vessel, built in 1920 and still going strong, which Himself – also being a bit long in the tooth – found very encouraging. Herself took the picture from what he insists on calling the pointy end, as she navigated us through the treacherous, crocodile infested, backwaters of The Loosdrechtse Plassen, somewhere between Utrecht and Amsterdam.

Himself was First Officer, under my command as Captain (naturally) with Herself as pilot. He’d like you to think otherwise, but frankly, he didn’t have much to do apart from turning the wheel now and again when we told him to.

When we got to the lake, we crossed a stretch of open water to dock at the local equivalent of the Royal Yacht Club for a spot of lunch. Disgracefully, even old sea dogs like me weren’t allowed inside the premises so the entire ship’s company dined on the terrace instead: a rare and welcome act of solidarity.

The return voyage offered frequent opportunities for viewing the indigenous wildlife. Herself alleged that she saw many aquatic birds but by the time she had pointed them out, all we could see were ripples where – according to her – they had been until the moment before we looked. We did manage to scare up a family of geese by gunning the engine, but old Henriette Antoinette was no match for a pair of black Friesian stallions galloping by the waterside.

Back at the mooring, Himself got out his fishing tackle and lobbed the line over the side of the jetty. We had a tricky moment when I mistook the float for a ball and jumped in to rescue it. He accused me of “frightening the fish away” and yelled at me to get out of the water.

Calls himself a fisherman?

He couldn’t catch a cold.