Punting

Punting is a long-cherished tradition in Cambridge. While most other students already had the experience of lounging in the small wooden boats on the river Cam, my delayed arrival and the onset of winter meant that spring was my first time to get on the water.

A punt is a small wooden boat, maybe 20 feet long and 4 feet wide. It is roughly rectangular, but tapers off to blunt points at the front and back. If you think about a Venetian gondola, you’ll have a fairly accurate picture, except that no one wears strange overalls, and singing (especially in Italian) is strictly forbidden. The punt can hold a captain/pilot/chauffeur who stands aft (“rear” for all you nautically-challenged folk) to propel and direct the boat, and four passengers that sit on the floor, two in a row, facing each other with a small space between their outstretched legs. I think the magic of punting comes from this arrangement. Unlike a canoe in which everyone is oriented in some way, a punt seems directionless. It puts the emphasis on just being on the water rather than trying to get somewhere specific.

The captain drives the punt with a long wooden pole, about 15 feet long, which is dipped into the water and pushes off the river bed. The experienced punters have a graceful stroke: they let the pole slip vertically through their hands into the water beside the punt, and lean forward, allowing their body weight to provide the force on the pole, which stretches out behind the moving boat, anchored to the soft mud. He stands upright, and with two smooth motions the punter tugs the shaft from the water and into the air, reaches for the middle while rotating it to a straight vertical position, and allows it to fall once more. The cycle takes about 6 seconds, and the slowness of the maneuver perfectly complements the boat’s lethargy. No need to hurry.

I had made plans to spend one glorious Saturday afternoon with some friends, punting for the first time. We had agreed to meet at King’s College by 11:30 and rent several boats for 3-4 hours. I didn’t manage to make it out of my house until about noon (which I blamed on a faulty alarm clock ☺ ) when my phone rang.

“Thornton…. We forgot the wine.”

Deafening silence on the line. I could feel the entire team’s consternation. The prospect of a river journey without booze is like a worn-down pencil: no point. (AH HAHAH!)

I could hear the question before it was spoken: “are you anywhere near a store that sells ethanol?” As a matter of fact I was. My tardiness turned into a blessing, and I arrived triumphant; three bottles of Sainsbury’s finest chardonnay, pinot grigio, and cabernet in my hands. The center gap between the four passengers is ideal for a picnic space, which makes any punting trip incomplete without food and drink. That day we had chips, guacamole, bruschetta, and ice cream from the riverside vendor.

There are soft pads in the bottom, and a wooden seatback to lean against. As I reclined, I reached over the side and let the river run through my fingers. Algae clung to my hands. The bottom of the punt lies well below water level, so you feel like you’re floating on the surface.

The green area adjacent to where we entered the river is called the Backs. The land is owned by several of the colleges, including King’s, Clare, Trinity, and St. John’s. We don’t have regular access to the grounds of the other three besides King’s, so snaking through on the water gave me my first daylight look at some of these beautiful areas. We passed under John’s “Bridge of Sighs”, modeled after its more famous cousin in Venice. There were marks on the stone arches above the water that showed how high the river had gotten in floods of years past. One line about 3 feet above water, was marked “1834”, another which would nearly have made the bridge nearly submerged was marked 1922.

The day was absolutely gorgeous. 75 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, and the sweet smell of plants emerging from hibernation, sending the aromas of spring drifting into the air. It seemed like all the city was out there with us, on the banks, the bridges, or the boats, soaking up the pre-summer light. We watched the people on the bridge disappear behind stone as we crossed underneath them, and they watched us re-emerge on the other side. Some of the stone arches can be quite low, especially if you don’t enter straight on through the center. There was more than one occasion where our driver (me included) had to duck, holding the pole horizontal to the water, and let us glide slowly under the shaded bridge dampness. It was in these moments that the dark art of punting (using your hands to push off of objects) is practiced with reluctance and shame. Even though redirecting the boat under the bridge was necessary to avoid some painful headaches, I felt like I’d fallen into a pit of moral decrepitude as I guided us through the narrow quarters with minimal headroom. I could almost hear the hisses and boos of my judgmental audience. Oh the humiliation!!

We spent nearly four hours like that. Eating, drinking, talking, and laughing as we tried to figure out the best way to switch pilots without tipping the boat or falling in the river. These swaps ended up being strange Twister-like maneuvers with must have looked quite comical to the causal bystander. Twice (but none on my watch) the pole got stuck in the river and we were left adrift, calling in mock distress to a nearby boat until our propulsion stick could be returned to us.

There was something so peaceful about it. As we climbed out and sat on the shore, I admired how the Chapel looked from this side of college, lording over the back lawn, with it’s twin spires pointed skyward and the stained glass glinting in the afternoon light. The water lapped softly against the bank, and the boats, lined up in a row against the western edge, rose and fell with each slight wave, tugging gently on the chains binding them to shore.

….

The weather has been a bit dreary the last few weekends, but at the next possible opportunity I want to punt to Grantchester, a small idyllic village about two miles south of town. It’s not exactly Huck Finn on the Mississippi, but for the sake of pure contentment, things don’t get much better than spending your day on the Cam.