Last year I wrote about my sailing escapades to Holland, and on the Blackwater River, and got as far as hinting about the Maldon rally in late season. The story carries on from that time thro’ Autumn and winter of 2003, laying up in Stebbens boatyard at Heybridge, and, of course the Heybridge watering holes, including………

Which is such a jolly fine pub sign that I couldn’t resist using the theme for the front cover.

And, of course, I mustn’t forget:

The venue for the springtime Dutch-Anglo herring eating competition and shanty weekend.

Unless I say otherwise in the text, all the photos, and scraps of poetry are mine.

Graham Jenkins

Autumn 2004

Thursday 28 August 2003

Summer Shenanigans

The driving wheels of time are rolling away the summer, and I’m heading out from Heybridge on a lazy early afternoon tide with the wind a light North Easterly, with the intention of getting to Brightlingsea. Beyond the Thurstlet spit buoy the wind fell quieter, and fluttered to a stop like a tired butterfly. My hasty mental calculations tell me that it is unlikely that I will get to Brightlingsea by just drifting on this tide.

I’ve fitted Island Blossom with not one, but two, rather dubious seagull outboard motors, on the basis that if one won’t work, the other will. So, getting bored opposite Bradwell, I start up number 1 engine. It runs for about 5 minutes, then stops. I try again, and it runs for a short while, then stops.

A breeze, jealous of my flirtation with engines, picked up enough to flutter the masthead pennant, and enough to make some progress, so I abandon the attempt to motor, and slowly, steadily, creep into the Mersea Quarters channel.

Here the tide is against me, but the wind is faithful, and I’m soon hooked up on my favourite mooring buoy opposite Packing Shed Island, where I can get the sails down and out of the way without messing about in narrow crowded channels, and where I can tinker with the un-working motor. This doesn’t want to perform, so it’s time to fall back on the older engine – number 2 engine - the one with no clutch. Ah! Yes! It lazily mutters into life without too much of my cursing, and I can un-moor and head towards the Mersea jetty and the prospect of a beer.

Strange, though. This engine seems to have lost most of its power once I’d unmoored and committed myself to motoring through the narrow channels. Memories of an earlier occasion came back – last year the motor cut out and I was left to drift onto the mud where I was stuck until the flood tide, and nearly missed out on pub opening hours. I’ve got my fishermans’ anchor assembled and chain out ready to drop if I have to.

But, slowly, slowly, I chug along against the tide, ears sensitive to every little change in engine note, mentally rehearsing how to get forward and let go the anchor if I need to. Finally, with relief, I’m at the Mersea jetty.

Officially, no one is allowed to stay here for long, so, I take the outboard off and disassemble the carburettor on the quayside. If I’m told to move - I can’t, I’m engineless.

I’m busy concentrating on the finer parts of the carburettor, when my reverie is disturbed with a “Hello Graham”. Well……….it’s Rik and Tiny (pronounced Teeny) Homan! Rik knows a thing or two about engines. Together we clean the gunge out of the carburettor, and discover the fuel tank is in a horrible sludgy state, but we can’t do much about that here. We put everything back together, the engine does start, but will only run for a few moments, and so we give up in favour of a beer and supper.

Tiny is amused by my mechanical attempts.

The hammerhead at West Mersea, low water.

Photo by Rik Homan

I’m invited onto Otter, which is parked alarmingly on the side of a shingle bank, at Besom Creek, boom out over the shingle with a bucket of water dangling to keep balance. We climb aboard gingerly, creeping around like cats so as not to upset the delicate equilibrium.

After a fine and sociable supper, I head for the delights of a Bevy in Soc’n Sail, the club run by mad Dutchman Ron Van Stralen. You will hear more about this establishment later.

Photo by Rik Homan

Friday 29 August

I should start really early, at 5am or something silly, to get the benefit of the last of the ebb en route to Brightlingsea, but a late night in the Soc’n’Sail worked against an early rising.

There’s just enough wind to sail, hard on the wind, out of Besom creek. There I find that Otter has just dropped her mooring, and is just a few hundred yards in front. Much to my surprise I find that I gradually overhaul him, and we beat in and out of the beach to cheat the flood as much as we can. I don’t know whether Rik was aware of it, but, I was racing! At least, being in front of him meant I was racing. I’m very pleased to find that, tack on tack, I stay in front. I’ve full sail up – full main, staysail and jib, but the wind increased, Island Blossom heels alarmingly, she’s chop chopping into some short waves, & I roll in the jib. This was a bad racing decision, as Otter immediately overtakes. I declare to myself that I’m not racing anymore, but sailing for comfort and survival.

It’s well into the ebb at the entrance of Brightlingsea creek and the wind has almost died. I know it’s not much using either engine, so I’m trying to short tack up the creek, aware of the narrowness of the channel. No sooner have I tacked and got moving, than I have to take a new tack. Each tack is taking me maybe a foot forward. I need extreme concentration all the time to avoid grounding, and keep moving forward.

Island Blossom beating towards Brightlingsea.

Note the twin outboard installation.

Photo by Rik Homan

Even if I thought the outboard would work, in the performance of starting it I would probably be aground. A proper old-fashioned sailor would head back into the deeper waters of the Colne and wait at anchor for a favourable wind and tide.

Ahead, Rik has seen my predicament and tipped off the harbourmaster, who motors out to offer me a tow. How could I refuse? I’ll get a beer in the Yacht Club tonight after all.

Saturday 30 August

I’m single handed on Island Blossom, racing from Brightlingsea to Osea Island. The old girl is creaming away nicely on a reach down the Blackwater, probably doing her optimum performance. This doesn’t prevent me from coming last, or near last, but never mind, it was a cracking sail.

There are two races today. One from Brightlingsea to Osea Island, and the next from Osea to Maldon. I anchored with the Old Gaffer fleet off the pier at Osea. I hate anchoring. I have a heavy fishermans anchor and a load of heavy chain. This is great for secure anchoring, but it isn’t half backbreaking to get the gear up again. However, I’ve learnt from experience to use my scruffiest clothes. Messy Maldon mud and best shoregoing clothes don’t get along together.

For the second race, I make a good start, but soon the bigger faster boats are ahead, and again I am well last. So late infact, with the wind dying, that I’m struggling to sail the last half mile down Maldon creek to the town quay, and the tide has just turned against me. The only thing to do is to try to motor. The engine starts first pull! It takes me a few yards then stops. I get it started again for a few more minutes motoring. I’m making progress! The engine will start and run, then stop, then run, and in this manner of fits and starts I’m eventually tied up in the crowded raft of boats alongside the quay. To get ashore I have to climb over 15 boats, but, no matter, at least I can get ashore, a most important priority, because I’ve just heard a rumour that there is free beer in Taylors Boatyard, right next to the Queens Head.

Shortly after high water a number of boats move off, heading for home. I see an opportunity – the smack Sally is now alone, right against the town quay. I will have to move my boat early in the morning anyway, to let others out, so why not lie alongside Sally? It would be a nice stable platform.

“The only problem”, says Sallys’ skipper, “is that we are leaving at 2am on the tide, and you’ll have to get up to move your boat.”

“Fair enough”, I agree, “that’s a fair price for being near the quay”.

Maldon town quay is also known as the Hythe quay. The Hythe is an old Saxon word meaning “landing place” and it has been in existence for longer than a thousand years. Musicians are singing, the sun is shining, the quay is crowded with laid back summer crowds, and the Queens Head is packed both inside and out.

So now Island Blossom is nicely tucked up, and I can indulge in some free ale, popping back every now and then to make sure she is settling nicely in the mud. Of course, afternoon drinking isn’t conducive for a lively evening. The Maldon Little Ship Club have laid on some supper for us, and the first part of the evening I spend quietly but then there’s a band playing in the marquee outside with such lively force that the afternoon lassitude soon shakes off.

Somehow I shake off slumber at 2am. Maybe I sensed people beginning to move about in Sally, so when there’s a knocking on the cabin roof I am ready to spring into action. The sky is black, stars are twinkling, but there is enough light to see what’s going on. In the afternoon, with the tide ebbing I reckoned that Sally to slip out backwards, and all I need to do is to run a bow line onto the quay. Suddenly the awareness hits me that the tide is going the other way, and there’s nothing to stop me being swept onto the bowsprits of the raft of gaffers in front and nothing to hook onto to stop it.

I’m saved from complete embarrassment because quite a few boats are leaving on this tide, and lots of people are about, armed with boat hooks to uncouple me from bowsprits, and suddenly I’m aware off the big black side of Sally sliding out, her skipper only concerned about his boat, which is fair enough because he has precious little manoeuvring room – about 3 feet for as 40 foot smack, which he handles with consummate ease and skill with just enough time for me to rush across his stern with a warp onto the quay, bringing me under some sort of control, and there’s no shouting or alarms almost as if we had practised and drilled this many times beforehand. Engines buzz in the night, red and green navigation lights of small craft amble around in the river. The bursts of activity slowly subside, the remaining boats sort themselves out, peace edges slowly in amongst the black balmy night, and I can relax sitting in my cockpit chilling out until its time to climb back into the cosy sleeping bag, as free in sleep as the flowing tides.

At 9am or so, on a lovely morning with birds singing, church bells ringing, and a blue sky daubed with bursts of cumulus. And all is well ……………or is it? Brian Hammett is wandering around the quayside, and somehow I feel something is wrong.

“Have you seen what’s happened to Avola?” he asks. I’m still sleep and beer fuddled but look around and there is the wine glass profile of his fine yacht Avola lying over alarmingly with a web of lines holding her up.

“I was awake at 2am, to help my inside neighbour leave on the tide”, he explains, “Then took a snooze, meaning to wake up in an hour to attend to lines on the ebb. But I didn’t wake up until suddenly there is the most alarming creaking, and she is slowly lying over and everything is straining. I really thought I had lost the boat.”

What shall we do with poor Avola

Heaving on warps in the middle of the night

Sat in the mud, near falling over

Creaking timbers, and a sleepless night

I think Brian has resolved never to bring Avola to Maldon again, but instead to go into the canal at nearby Heybridge.

Mentally putting Brians’ troubles aside, I’m off for a leisurely breakfast at the Greasy Spoon café in Maldons’ high street, and then I’m invited onto the smack Katrine to make some music with Peter and Judy. They have been learning some fine Strathspeys, the music perfectly fitting the occasion, accompanied by a few glasses of wine and a lot of warm sunshine.

The afternoon high water brings a fair breeze, and it seems such a shame that my mooring at Heybridge is so close, but, I ponder as I’m leisurely packing up the boat, all things must end, and it has been a fine weekend.

Thursday 4^th September

Old Father Thames

Avola lies in the canal at Heybridge, and she is ready to head to her winter quarters in Limehouse basin. Brian Hammett, the owner and President of the East Coast Old Gaffers Association, his friend John, and I, arrived on board last night. We are up and about early, surprisingly bright and breezy for such an hour, ready to lock out on the tide at 06.30. It is an autumnal morning: A watery orange sun is rising, and the decks are slippery with dew. Colin and his lock crew arrive to work the lock. There’s no wind. We motor gently over glass to Osea Island where we find a vacant mooring buoy for a proper breakfast. There is deep water here, and we don’t need to worry anymore about lying aground in Heybridge mud.

At 08.30 there’s the hint of a zephyr of a breeze, from the Northeast. There isn’t enough to sail into, so on with the motor again, to reach the Bench Head buoy at 10.20. The sky is cloudless blue. The horizon is hazy looking, but deceptive, for the visibility is quite good, and we can see as far as the Naze tower from the Eagle buoy.

Avola at Heybridge

Picture by Sarah Jenkins

By 11 am we are entering the Swin Spitway with an hour of ebb tide to run, and one metre under the keel. It feels like the middle of nowhere. A scrap of wind is in our favour now, and we can set the mainsail, staysail and jib to assist the engine. Fluffy bits of cumulus appear in the west. Westward, there is a grand sight of dark red sails of aThames barge, creeping out of the river Crouch.

There are one or two sailing boats around, and from the south a James Prior coaster passes us, heading North West. There is a fleet of ten of these little coasters, doing a regular run, starting from the Gravel workings at Fingeringhoe on the river Colne, to deliver their cargoes to the Orchard Wharf at Blackwall, feeding an insatiable demand for gravel. A fleet of these puffers have been doing the run for years. Infact, the company have been in operation since the 1890’s, originally in Thames barges, and they claim to ship 30,000 tons of gravel annually, saving heaps of road transport fuel.

The Mark Prior

Photo from the James Prior website

www.jj-prior.co.uk

Now we are in the East Swin Channel, with invisible sand banks on either side. In the distance we can pick out Thames landmarks – Whittaker Beacon, Barrow Beacon, and faintly, away over to port, the Knock John tower. As we run down the channel we are progressively going from close reach to broad reach, and now the tide is with us we can turn off the engine, to savour the silence.

Avola is a traditional wooden boat, gaff rigged in the old fashioned way. That doesn’t mean that we rely on old fashioned navigation. Infact, she’s fairly bristling with electronic gadgetry. We have an electronic chart display, which stores charts from the Baltic to the Bay of Biscay. We don’t totally rely on the electronics, though. We still plot our position regularly on the paper chart.

“What about doing a fix with the hand bearing compass” suggests Brian, just to keep your traditional skills alive”

This compass is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, taken reverently out of its wooden box on the bulkhead. I took three bearings:

Knock John 100 ^o M

Shivering Sands 160 ^o M

Red Sands 200 ^o M

Transposing these onto the chart makes a satisfyingly small cocked hat. This is corroborated by the fact we are passing the SW Barrow cardinal mark.

Well, actually, let me confess. The first two bearings hit the spot exactly. The third one is way, way out, spoiling the whole fix. 200 degrees is what it should have been for a good fix. I think I need some more position fixing practice!

We are on a dead run, cracking along at 5 – 6 knots, almost running by the lee now, and at 15.40 we are passing Southend Pier, where a 3 masted tall ship is parked. And onward past Canvey Island. Brian calls this “Grand Canarvey” – giving a posh and exotic sounding name to the grey industrial refinery wasteland.

Ah! Just imagine the old time sailormen of a century ago, reliant entirely on sailpower, lying at anchor in the Thames mouth in contrary winds, waiting for just such a rare breeze to take them up river.

We have passed the Sea Reach buoy now, and into the domain of The Thames River Authority, who keep a busy VHF chatter, telling the river traffic about movements of ships, the height of the tide, and general navigational information. The river is about two miles wide here, with the Essex and Kent banks in sight, and beginning to narrow. It looks more like a river and less like an estuary. River traffic increases, steamers are inbound on the tide with mysterious cargoes, from where? Are they carrying strange and exotic cargoes from the Orient, or just plain mundane household goods from the Continent? There’s a fishing trawler working just off the main channel, attended by seagulls, and launches and workboats scurry about.

Tilbury fort stands guard on the Essex bank, built to remind Napoleon to keep out, while Gravesend on the Kent side has tugs and workboats moored to huge buoys. We have to be careful of the ferries plying across the river. The cruise liner terminal at Tilbury stands empty, haunted by ghosts. The passenger terminal is now a listed building. Not so long ago it was full of émigrés filling cruise liners for £10 assisted passages to Australia. Occasionally, a cruise liner docks here – but, really, who wants to cruise to Tilbury?

With a following wind we’ve been able to carry sail all the way, jibing round the bends in the river. A great white freighter slides past us, with a single hoot signalling his intention to turn to starboard. To underline the point, an officer walks to the bows and, through a megaphone, announces their intention to turn in front of us, heading into the Tilbury docks. That warning wasn’t strictly necessary, but appreciated by us, and we are ready with sail trimming to turn behind her.

The wind is slowly easing with the evening sun. We’ve had a good run, but progress has slowed. At the bend by Greys, there is a nautical looking muddy scrap yard at Swanscombe marshes, showing the bones of old barges and workboats. We reluctantly turn on the engine and stow the sails. Smart modern flats rise out of the Greenhithe swamps. Commuter queues crawl over the Dartford Bridge.

“You’ve got to throw your £1 toll into the water under the M25,” remarks Brian.

“Ah!” I reminisce, “Those far off times when I was a road warrior in a grey suit and mobile phone, staring at traffic jam lorry wheels, thinking in jargon, looking down from the bridge with envy.”

Photo from the

Environment Agency

The sky is dark and red with the fading of the day, the tide still running as we come up to a buoy at the Erith Yacht club, where the clubhouse lights twinkle. It’s 7.30 and we have done 66 miles since Heybridge, another world away.

Brian is, as always, an excellent host. Gin and tonics magically appear. We don’t drink while sailing, but now is a different matter. Supper gets under way, bottles of wine are cracked open, yarns and tales are told, nightcaps and toasts drunk and we settle down in the waterlapping night.

Friday 5^th September 2004

The plan is to start at 0600, to catch as much flood tide as we can, or at least minimise the time we have to fight the ebb, but instead of a cheery “rise and shine, lets get going” sort of a call, there is a depressed murmur of “bloody fog everywhere”. We can’t see the boats on the adjacent moorings. Instead of breakfast underway, we have a depressed full English breakfast firmly tied to the buoy, punctuated by one or other of us climbing on deck to comment “I think I can see the next boat now – no I can’t, it’s vanished again”.

At 08.30, way above us, a blue sky begins to appear over the veil of mist. We can begin to see the neighbouring moored yachts, and eventually the Erith Yacht Clubhouse on near bank.

Anxious hours pass like the lapping of the waves. Traffic reports on the radio speak of land bound motorists crawling around the M25. (Oh, but it wasn’t so long ago that I listened to these reports while sitting in a traffic jam). It might seem frustrating sitting on a boat waiting for the fog to lift, but sitting in a car would be 10 times worse. Slowly, slowly, the fog burns off with the new sun, and the traffic reports begin to sound more optimistic.

“We’ll go when we can see the other bank,” declares Brian.

At 09.20, and way behind schedule, we creep into an almost comfortable visibility, motoring, pushing against the tide, past sewerage works and rubbish tips, by grimy, once active, but now derelict wharves and warehouses. River traffic is beginning to move again – barges and lighters, and a James Prior puffer.

Now we are into Ford Motor company territory at Dagenham now. Once this was a busy, thriving motor works, which brought prosperity to the region, but recently Fords announced the closure of the factory, and most of this vast industrial acreage is turning into a wasteland.

A complex of rusty pilings, once part of proud wharves, like trees of steel, play host to flocks of ugly cormorants.

The sky above is busy with aircraft heading into City airport. A police launch comes over to have a look at us, circling round and round, inspecting us closely. Do we look suspicious? There’s nothing on my conscience, but the mere presence of police makes me feel as if there ought to be. There are warships gathered around the Excel exhibition complex. Ahah! Of course - It’s a week before the controversial Defence Exhibition, a show that attracts the publicity of protest. The police decide that Avolas’ crew of hairy, hoary, old gaffers, are not intent on suicide bomb disruption, and they push off looking for more likely candidates..

Avoiding the busy ferries at Woolwich, we press on past smart, expensive looking apartment blocks, and announce ourselves over the VHF to the Thames barrier control.

(They get upset if you don’t call them).

Photo from the Thames

Harbour Authority

The span we can pass through is well lit with green lights, and soon we are into the twisty turny part of the river, with a rivermans view of the Millennium Dome, the London skyline unfolding at every turn.

On the bends, mud is uncovering, and we have to keep the balance between stayinging out of deep water where the tide is running strongly, and cutting too finely into the shallows.

Photo from the East Coast Classics website

Limehouse Reach! Our destination is in sight! The lock gates are open. It looks kinda narrow, the lock walls look horribly slimy and we seem to be a long way down. There are mooring attachments hanging vertically, set into the lock walls. I get the bow rope attached to the slimy mooring, with some fumbles. Above, Brians’ wife, Lorna, appears. She works in the Cruising Association headquarters, right next to the lock.

This is perfect wintering quarters for Avola – right next to Lornas’ workplace and handy for London. The riverside gates close, water boils and swirls in the lock, and up we go. The inland gate opens to reveal a green lawn of algae in the inner canal. Soon Avola is moored, a seagoing ship amongst a collection of inland waterways craft. We take some lunch (mainly of the liquid variety) in the Cruising Club. It’s time to leave the ship. John and I must sadly leave our watery environment and take the short walk to the Docklands Light Railway, swallowed up in landlubberly crowds and the searing heat of the city, to take our separate ways home.

I wonder how Avola came to feature in this publicity shot of the Cruising Association Headquarters?

Photo from the CA website www.cruising.org.uk

Heybridge, Friday, 7 November 2003

Gunpowder, Treason, and Plot

A week or so ago I had an e-mail from Rik Homan in Holland. He asked if I am planning to go to the East Coast OGA AGM at Wolverstone marina, and if so, would I fancy sailing there in Otter. Well, I don’t need to think too hard about that!

The leaves are brown and cling ineffectively onto the trees. The canal pathway is damp underfoot, and the sky is a chilly blue. The wind feels light in the shelter of the canal, maybe an Easterly, force two, but, when I look over the lock gates the wind is several notches higher than that, chilly, and less encouraging.

Colin, the lockkeeper, looks at me suspiciously when I ask him for the key to Otter. “Rik didn’t tell me you’d be coming along,” he complains.

Along the quayside there is a great tree trunk of Douglass spruce, 80 feet long and two and a half feet diameter at the base. Two Shipwrights are busy aligning a jig to carve it into a mast. They tell me it weighs about a ton and a half, and when it is trimmed, this will reduce to about a ton weight. They also told me what boat it is for, but that fact fell out of my chilly brain very rapidly. In the months to come I was to watch as the tree slowly turn into a magnificent mast, varnish gleaming, and then, at the end of February, as I turned into the Heybridge car park, there, dominating the skyline and dwarfing the other masts, was a mast with red pennant flying proudly in the breeze, and at last I see the barge it is intended for, the Maaike Marie.

Otter is a Cornish Crabber, a fibreglass boat rigged with traditional gaff sails. She lies in the canal at Heybridge, and is owned jointly by two Dutchmen, Rik Homan and Hans Weehuisen. They like to keep a boat over here in England, to do some English cruising; taking turns at coming over here.

Otters’ cover is damp and heavy as I undo it and fold it away. It reveals two foresails. Which one is the jib, I wonder, and which one the staysail? How do I run out the jib along the bowsprit? Which bit of rope does what? Better than waiting and getting colder, I set to sorting them out. Hmm, looks about right.

Rik and Franz are arriving from Holland on the high-speed ferry, which arrives in Harwich at 9 am. Then they have to drive down to Heybridge, planning to arrive about 10. High water is about 11 a.m., so that’s already cutting it fine. At 11 am they arrive, delayed and frustrated by heavy traffic. Otters’ motor fires up first time, after months of idle waiting. Amazed, and pleased, we move the boat down the canal next to Riks’ car on the quayside, and it is unloaded into the boat in record time. No nice packing this morning, just push it in, to sort out later. Colin and his gang have opened the inshore lock gates and we motor in, still sorting gear. The gate is closed behind us and we have an opportunity to fill the water tanks. Just after midday we lock out into the Blackwater.

Away from the shelter of the canal the wind feels fresher and colder, but we think we can handle the full mainsail. As we turn at Herring point we realise that’s a mistake. Its more than fresh, it’s kicking up white horses. The motor is still on so we can charge the batteries, and to help us punch into the wind. Rik brews a welcome coffee, which isn’t an easy job in the lurching conditions, but ……….ahh……… lekkar! …..Rik is true to form, producing coffee with attitude.

When we get to the sheltered lee of Osea Island we put a reef in the main. As we round the corner past the Marconi Sailing club, wind over tide produces some big uncomfortable waves. The bowsprit goes under, Crash! Wallop! Icy green water sheds itself all over the cockpit. What’s in store for us when we get out of the Blackwater estuary?

Tomorrow I have to travel back home by road – car, train, or bus – don’t quite know which yet – so I’m travelling light. This was partly due to a benign sounding forecast I heard yesterday. What’s more, I’d left my waterproof trousers in the car at Heybridge. A big mistake. At the first wave get wet. I need to put another layer on, but that’s the limit of spare dry clothes. You can’t get complacent with Old Man Sea, I think, ruefully. Franz kindly lends me his spare waterproof cycling trousers, which go over my wet jeans. At least they stop some of the wind-chill.

Rik started from home in Holland at an unspeakable 5am, so he goes below to get some and zzzz s. Franz & I take turns at the helm up the Blackwater. As we arrive at the confluence of the Blackwater and the Colne, the water gets rougher and more confused. Hardly unexpected, in this stretch of water. The wind seems to have come round to the North more, so it looks like a long beat to Harwich. I’d hoped for more Easterly, so we could ease off a little. We take a long tack right out past the Knoll buoy and see, away in front, the white sails of a large yacht against the black clouds, on the same tack, heading in the same direction. I’m encouraged by the thought that some other madman is out in this weather, but when she turns in towards Brightlingsea in the gathering gloom this soon turns to a kind of loneliness. Maybe we should do the same, but, no, we can plug on. We still have plenty of tide to help us along, and, although its bitter cold and damp, we are still fit. We take a tack inshore, which wakens Rik, who now takes over the helm, announcing some surprise that we are still plugging along towards Harwich. Franz & I go below to warm up, and I struggle with a bouncing cooker to make hot soup and bread. Approaching Clacton pier, Rik announces, “I’ll roll in the headsails and push ahead under engine”. That’s a good decision. It would take ages to beat all the way up the Wallett, it’s dark now, and the wind seems to have increased.

Don’t get complacent with Old Man Sea

He’ll wind you and drive you,

He won’t let you be,

Howling wind and driving spray

In my mind I visualise

Roaring log fires far away

Poor Franz begins to look unwell. The bucket is passed down. Being seasick is terribly debilitating, and I don’t think he’s been enjoying himself in this last hour. We pick up the shipping forecast, which does little to encourage us.

“Are we being sensible?” Rik ponders. I’m surprised by the question ……………for a microsecond then realise what he means. It is cold, and damp. One man is out of action. What demons have we released? We discuss the options. We have about one hour to run to Walton pier, where we can bear away into Harwich. The tide is only in our favour for an hour, but when it starts to flood it will be fairly weak for a while. We could turn round and run before the wind, riding the swell back into Brightlingsea. Two of us are fit. We’re cold and damp but can continue for a while. It would be longer to go back than forward, and although we won’t be pushing against the wind, it will not be comfortable. Franz will have a bad deal whatever we decide. On balance, pushing on seems the right thing to do. The GPS becomes a morale booster now. We take our current position and the distance to Walton pier. We can see the distance narrowing. I see a fixed light well ahead, but it seems to be a long way off shore.

Salt and fire blaze in the sky from Walton shore in fistfuls of the dark shoreline. Guy Faulkes night has just passed, but fireworks blaze onshore.

I cobbled this picture, of fireworks over the Naze, from various Internet sources

Rik wanted to know what the fireworks were all about, so we delved into a bit of English history, starting with the childrens’ rhyme:

Remember, remember, the 5th of November,
Gunpowder, treason, and plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot.

I wonder why we still remember an event as far back as 1605? This pondering whiles away the time, and the Walton pier light gets closer and closer, and now the black line of the pier starts to resolve itself into a proper looking structure.

Aaagh, the Wallet! That tiny stretch of water. Twenty five miles from The Colne to Walton, the bane of East Coast sailors lives. We have almost finished with it. We’ve passed Walton pier, that hoped for waypoint, but that’s not the end, yet. We believed again, that this is where we can bear away into Harwich. We deceived ourselves. I’ve done this before in false hope. The engine, which has pushed us along so manfully thro’ the long miles against the headwind, suddenly stops, and we are left wallowing head to wind with only a reefed mainsail set. “Get her sailing”, cries Rik, as he searches for the spare diesel fuel. I bear away in towards shore and roll out the headsails. There’s quite a sea running, but eventually Otter digs in her keel and starts to make progress. We can probably, with a few tacks, sail into Pennyhole bay now, but the new fuel does the trick and the engine kicks into life again. Although the tank wasn’t empty, the bouncing slop caused some fuel starvation between tank and engine. At least that’s what we hope.

Assisted now by engine, we can push on towards the Medusa buoy, which is somewhere out there in the distance, unlit. Thanks to the wonders of GPS technology, and the light of the nearly full moon (when she chooses it peep out of the clouds), we get close enough to see it in the dark. At last we can bear away towards Harwich. Finished with engine now, it’s a good old reach towards Harwich, I’m still cold and damp, but I’m encouraged that the end is in sight. Franz is feeling livelier now. Oh but it’s a long way across the bay, and in the dark we can’t see the waves until they are on top of us. It’s a scary feeling to see some monster wave rear up from the beam. Somehow we avoid a soaking from the worst of them.

We wonder if Ha’penny pier is a viable place in this wind direction. There will be a lot of rolling around against the jetty in this sea. Maybe Shotley will be more comfortable. We can decide when we get there, but in the meantime we pick up the flashing light of the Landguard Cardinal buoy. The shipping lane buoys are out there to starboard, and lights of commercial steamer break the blackness of the deep water shipping channel, the black line of Harwich breakwater becomes visible over to port, and we are suddenly rushing through the inky black waters of Harwich harbour, standing well out to avoid the shallows.

Adapted from

The Yachting guide to Harwich Harbour, 2002

Flowerpots and Faversham stoves

“I have a vision of a pint of foaming real ale in front of a roaring log fire in cosy pub with a buxom barmaid.” I remark,

“Let’s have a look at the moorings inside Ha’penny Pier,” suggests Rik, “There’s bound to be a few pubs in Harwich.”

Soon we are in the swell of the Stour, and turn into the wind to fight down and stow the wet canvass on a rolling deck. Ha’penny Pier has a reputation for an uncomfortable, even dangerous, rolling swell in certain wind directions. Tonight it is that certain wind direction. Fishing boats inside the pier are bucking and rolling, gyrating in crazy kaleidoscopic anger.

“It looks like we are bound for Shotley, boys!” Says Rik, as he heaves the tiller over, knowing, by the look on the faces of Franz and I, that there is hearty concurrence.

“We can at least hang our wet clothes over the radiators in the loo”, he continues.

A radio call to Shotley, establishes that there is a berth free, we sweep sideways on in the cross tide through the entry posts to the dredged channel, fighting the swell to keep off the shallows, watching the leading lights. The lock keeper has opened the gates in readiness. Spotlights struggle to illuminate the black jaws of the lock, the swell makes a last vain attempt to push us into the walls as we skither sideways into the peace of the lock, slipping lines onto the mooring cleats, and we relax in security, wind burn on our faces, suddenly sweating inside oilskins and multiple layers of sweaters.

“Did have a good trip, folks” says a voice high above with a voice as vague as the moonlight. The lockkeeper looks down on us from his Starship lock control office.

“Wild and windy,” I reply, “Wild and windy, and I’m looking forward to a pint in the Shipwreck bar.”

Now we are safely moored up, and, to my surprise, Rik puts ceramic flowerpot over the gas burner.

“This is a really effective way to warm everything up” he explains, “And, It will stay warm even when the burner is off.” (I’m sure I don’t need to say that but a plastic flowerpot won’t work!). Aah! The kick of hot coffee, then we trail off to the toilet block, where we are disappointed to find that there aren’t any radiators, but we monopolise all the coat pegs to spread wet gear on. And hot showers, even if I have to but wet jeans on afterwards.

The shipwreck bar doesn’t meet the criteria for a roaring log fire, but it is warm and the beer is welcome, as I sit there with damp clothes gently steaming.

Saturday 8^th November

The delicious smell of coffee and bacon and eggs lures me out of a cosy sleeping bag. The wind is howling outside and it’s chilly. There is no birdsong this morning, just the rattle of rigging of hundreds of boats in the marina. There patches of blue in the sky, struggling to make themselves heard amongst the grey.

Nearby, the crew of a sailing school boat are scurrying about in red oilskins, preparing to cast off. Inside our cabin the upturned flowerpot is doing good service, keeping us warm as we demolish breakfast. Our clothes are still where we left them, hanging in the heads, so I have something vaguely dry to wear.

The wind has decreased to a NNE 3 or 4, and at 1pm we have a fast, fully reefed cruise to Wolverstone, where old friends and old gaffers are gathering. Bob Burke and Lena Reeki have arrived on Lenas’ boat Linea, we all squash into Otter somehow to breach the supplies of Geneva, and then Lena proudly shows us the tiny Faversham stove, which is installed in Linea for the winter. This little cast iron black stove kicks out kilowatts of dry heat, making everything in the cabin dry and cosy, and I’m immediately envious.

I can’t remember much about the business side of The Old Gaffers meeting, but it was an enjoyable “meet and greet” sort of occasion, and I managed to wangle a lift straight back to Heybridge for Sunday when it’s goodbye to Rik, Franz and Otter, who are fortunate enough top have a few more days cruising.

Heybridge, Winter 2003

Saving old Seagulls

Adrian and Judy Robinson are the proprietors of Stebbens boatyard, both forty something. Adrian is slim, bespectacled, grey haired and active, and Judy is formidable looking, but friendly. The boatyard was owned by Judys’ father, hence the name, Stebbens.

It is just my kind of yard – nothing neat or tidy or uniform here, just a hotchpotch of small boats, a walnut tree in the middle of the yard, piles of timber, ladders, old tyres and oil drums. On the landward side is a housing estate of expensive looking modern tidy houses, the sort you would expect to see in a modern marina development. Stebbens is an anomaly. All credit to Adrian and Judy. They could easily have sold up to developers and retired in luxury, but chose to keep the boat yard alive.

By the sea wall there is a fixed crane for lifting boats in and out, and over the wall is the Old Haybay, where barges once loaded hay, and a smart looking barge which is home for Newham kids, for a week at a time, for adventure holidays. A wooden walkway leads you onto the Stebbens side where you negotiate a rusty steel barge, some gangplanks, onto crazy leaning pontoons.

Winter rolls on in. Trees have lost their leaves, darkness comes early, and it is time to re-fit the boat. When Sarah is using the car, I have to get on the rattly old bus from Chelmsford. Island Blossom has long since been craned over the sea wall, and she lies snug under her covers in her little niche behind the boatyard shed. I arrive in the morning, clad in long johns and several layers of sweaters, and start to scrape barnacles, lying under the boat with freezy fingers, mud and grit falling on my face. The paint comes off the bottom, but the mud doesn’t. I think I will invent a mud-based paint that will stick on forever. I hear the radio come on in the shed. There are people around in the world after all. I wander round to say hello, and get offered a cup of coffee by Judy. (What other boatyard would do that?)

At home, I stripped down the troublesome no 1 outboard, and must have flushed out the fuel tank and the filters a dozen times, but the pesky thing will still only run for a few minutes. There is only one thing to do – call in the expert. So I have a little trip to Tillingham, in the wilds of the Dengie peninsula, to visit John Williams, Mister “Saving Old Seagulls” himself.

“Hmm”, he says, “this may take some time to diagnose. I see someone has used the wrong exhaust tubing”.

“That was probably me”, I reply, “Exactly why is it the wrong tube?”

“Ah, the proper one has holes drilled half way down it on this model”.

“Hmm, this carburettor fitting doesn’t look right, someone has fitted the wrong part here. Oh, someone seems to have fitted the wrong sort of roll pin in the clutch mechanism.”

I think it is time to be discretely silent.

After Christmas, John rings me up: “I’ve found why your engine didn’t run for too long. The cylinder head is cracked. It will run for a bit until it gets warm, and the crack will open and the engine will stop”

Either I can scrap the engine, or pay John to fit a new power unit. It wouldn’t seem right for Island Blossom to have a modern engine, so I opt for the latter.

Number 2 engine came with the boat. It is a Seagull Silver Century longshaft, 6 HP, compared with the four horses of number one engine, but it doesn’t have the luxury of a recoil starter or a clutch. Before I bought the boat it had been serviced by a well-known firm of Maldon marine engineers. Right from the start, it has given trouble. The first time I used it, I discovered that the carburettor hadn’t been screwed on properly, and nearly fell off at a crucial moment. It has never seemed to develop its full power. During the winter refurbishment I now discover the cam follower arm has worn through, and, on describing it to John Williams, discover the wrong part was fitted. Now it is working beautifully.

Down in the boatyard, winter is holding spring in its arms. The grass is growing. Under the boat, nettles are beginning to spring up. Just what I want, while crawling under the boat, paint pot in hand. Four coats of primer are going on underside. Of course, it is almost impossible to lie on ones back under the boat painting without loosing jollups of paint on my face, down my sleeves, all over my overalls. The railway sleepers, that the boat lies on, resemble some kind of Jason Pollard painting.

Spring 2004

Sunday 25 April 2004

Island Blossom was craned into her watery element on Monday. This is the third (or is it fourth) year I’ve had her lifted into the water, and it is the first year I haven’t had to pump like mad for the duration of a tide to stem the leaks. I think this is a good omen. The mast was stepped yesterday. The yard is very busy with people coming and going, finishing their fitting out. It’s time to wash off the land dust and get sailing. Just a short couple of hours today, to get out and back on the two-hour tide window. Hurrah! Sailing again!

A newly refurbished and working engine

Sunday 2^nd May

As I walk along the canal towpath, there is Ian Wright sitting in the cockpit of his Vertue, Patience, with a broad grin over his face. He and Rob Williamson have been fitting out their respective boats in the canal over the last few months, and today they start their “round Scotland” summer voyage. I have a short sail out to The Osea Island causeway, and see the two Vertues starting out, Ian still grinning.

Ian is ready for the summer

The wind is coming straight down the river, and I realise I’ve left it a bit late to beat all the way back to my moorings. “Time for engine”, I think nervously. The big number 2 outboard starts first pull, much to my surprise. These engines usually only work in the test tank, only to fail when I need them.

Friday 7^th May

If I’m just out far a day sail, I have only 2 hours sailing, and I usually end up fighting the tide on the way out and on the way back. Then it occurred to me that I have never sailed round Northey Island. I’m a bit nervous about this, because I don’t know how deep it is, although the chart is reassuring, but today conditions are just right.

Daysailing Range from Heybridge

From Imray Chart Y17

With a Northerly wind, I can reach along the Maldon direction, then run up the Northey channel. As I approach the Northey corner, the echo sounder is showing only 1 metre, so the centreboard is probably ploughing the mud. The wind is pretty lively as I turn into a run heading to the Northey channel. Now I can see the tide running over the causeway kicking white foam and me approaching at a lively speed and I find my centreboard handle isn’t engaging when I desperately want the plate up, and suddenly there isn’t time to do anything except hope as we rush down towards the causeway, and Whack! Crunch! The plate hits the causeway, lifts up, and rumbles over the solid surface, while thankfully the echo sounder shows a metre under the keel so I’m not going the ground the whole boat and suddenly I’m across the causeway and into relative tranquillity, and swishing past the island and into the main channel almost before I realise it.

The wind is too lively to carry full sail and the jib as well, but I realise that the jib furling line has slipped off its roller. The jib is out at the end of the bowsprit and I can’t roll it in.

The only alternative is to drop the sail and lash it onto the bowsprit, which takes so ten minutes or so, hove to, with gusts heeling the boat over, and me on the slippery wet foredeck, trying to control flogging canvass with the mischievous wind doing its best to blow it away.

At last it is under control. I should really put a reef in the mainsail, but now I don’t have too much sea room. I think I can manage unreefed by easing and playing the mainsheet, so I have an interesting half an hour beating, overpressed, back towards base.

So, that’s two things I’ve been reminded of early in the season: Don’t go up strange creeks in a big wind, and, when unfurling the jib, keep tension on the furling line as she feeds out, then it won’t jam up later. Finally, put some more ballast in the boat.

Friday 14 May

Entirely no wind. Not a breath of it. The tide runs sluggishly under a bright blue sky. Seabirds are singing. High water is at 10.15, and the boat is afloat at 08.15. It seems hardly worth the effort of rigging and setting sails, which always takes a long time – 40 minutes or so, but, hell, lets try. And, yes, it was worth trying, because a tiny breeze springs up. Ah, that’s grand! Suddenly there’s the satisfying chuckle of water under the prow, and enough wind to head in the Maldon direction with the tide. Although I am confident that John has done a good job on the engine, I decide to turn back early – at least if the wind dies I can drift back to the moorings on the tide if all else fails. The wind dies. Sails hang idly. I drift for a while, enjoying the sun. John has done a good job - the engine starts on the first pull!

Thursday 20 May

Another little shakedown cruise in the 2 hours or so I have available on the tide. It’s hot and muggy, but the sky is clouding over. I started by sailing backwards, carried by a windless tide, and then a tiny Easterly breeze sprang up, and suddenly before I knew it we are leaning right over and creaming along, and soon I’m out by Osea Island. I think it’s time for a little exploration – I’ll try going the other way round Northey Island, but the wind has other ideas, and dies again. I can’t see the entrance to the westerly creek round Northey. There is a lagoon, but I’m not sure whether it is the creek, or a lake formed by a breech in the sea wall. The tide is unforgiving. If I head into this false lagoon, I might get stuck and unable to get back to my moorings again, so I abandon exploration and head back the conventional way. It starts to rain bringing a bit of wind. I’d forgotten my oilskins, but luckily it’s a light rain that doesn’t last long.

Thursday 27 May

Ploughing the Raysand

The cowslips have finished, and Bluebells are just beginning. After recent rain, the lanes to Heybridge are lush, green and almost unrecognisable. I’ve shaken the boat out with a number of day sails. At the Heybridge berth I can float off the mud about 2 hours before high water, and return 1 hour after, which limits the scope for day sailing. Now it’s time to head out for a night and get some more time afloat. It was a damp start to the day, but now in late afternoon the skies are blue and at 5pm the water is making a satisfying slap slapping on the stern. High water is at 19.00, and I’m afloat at 17.15, wondering whether to put in a reef but decide against it.

Now I have a functioning engine, but there is one snag – it doesn’t go backwards. Dear old Seagulls never had reverse gear, and you can’t even swing them right round like more modern engines. This gives me a problem in an onshore breeze. There’s not a lot of space to turn the boat round on her mooring, and no buoy far enough out to warp the boat out. I try sailing off, which almost works, until the rudder gets caught on the line between the jetty and the mooring buoy, and suddenly I’m tangled up, with the boat heading for the mud, and the wind behind the mainsail. Nothing for it but to get the sails down, with difficulty, and then jump off the bow into knee deep mud to swing her head round. A couple of onlookers help me out, and with their assistance and some engine power I finally get under way, muddy and embarrassed.

Being early on the tide, I go round the back of Osea Island, searching out the deeper water, and by 20.00 arrive back into the lollopy chop of the main channel where there is an evening dinghy race from the Marconi club. It’s a bit chilly, and I’ve now ended up with two sweaters and a jacket. I Arrived at Mersea quarters about 20.45, picked up a mooring buoy, hauled the sails down, tidied the boat, and, wow! The outboard motor starts first pull and behaves perfectly through the crowded moorings all the way to Mersea jetty. As it’s early in the season, and not many boats on the jetty, I think I will be cheeky and moor on the end of the hammerhead for the night, which is perfect for staggering back from the hospitality of the Dabchicks sailing club.

Friday 28 May

I’m sailing out of Mersea Quarters at 10.20 under reefed main, destination Burnjam on Crouch, heading North East into the wind. By midday, after 2 tacks, the Molliette beacon is a mile off to port. I have a decision to make: to get to Burnham on Crouch, I have either to go the long way round, to Bench Head then through the Swin Spitway, or I have to take the short cut through the Raysand, and anchor off Buxey Beacon and wait for the tide to cover the sands. There is about one hour left of ebb tide, and at the current rate of progress it will take me that long to get to Bench Head, and I will then have to fight the flood tide to get out to the Swin. The weather is benign, and anchoring seems a better alternative. (I’ll try to forget how hard it is to pull up the anchor).

For Christmas I’ve been given a new toy – a handheld GPS. At home I did my homework and plugged in the co-ordinates of notable landmarks, including Buxey Beacon. Unfortunately, I put in the wrong co-ordinates, because the instrument tells me I have 70 miles to go! Hmmm. Single-handed and trying to plot a course on the chart isn’t an easy thing to do, even if the boat will self steer on this heading, but I have a rough course which means I can bear away a little.

There is a red sail of a gaffer, who is probably going the same way as I am, to the OGA rally at Burnham. I wonder who it is. As we come closer I begin to think that maybe I recognise it. It is a fibreglass hull and gaff sails. I think it is Teresa, owned by Richard Phillips, who is affectionately known as “Mudskipper”. (The name of his previous boat, and probably still appropriate).

Faintly ahead I see a beacon. I wonder if it is Buxey? The echo sounder is showing shallow water, maybe 1.5 metres, and something I would worry about normally. The centreboard starts to rumble on the bottom. Thinking I’m near Buxey, I bear away. The centreboard rumbles some more. I lift it a bit. More rumbling then awareness hits me that all forward progress has stopped. Sails are pulling, progress is nothing. Time to throw out the anchor and stow the sails. There’s about another ½ hour of ebb too run. There’s a lot of waves and disturbed water, kicked up by the wind. Island Blossom rises to each wave on the stern, and then grounds with a thump. The rudder, being lower than anything else, creaks up and down, the boat jerks on the anchor chain, the mast creaks, and it is altogether unrestfull. I tried to snooze, but that is impossible with all the thumping and banging, until the water disappears completely. That respite doesn’t last for long before the tide begins to make.

Time for a cup of tea. This fortification produces a brainwave – The GPS will give me an exact position. I can do a proper bit of navigation. I am in position 51 degrees 42 minutes and 59 seconds North, 00 degrees, 58.62 East. Now I’m not sailing I can plot a proper position on the chart. Ahah! That post ahead isn’t Buxey after all. It is a cardinal marking a wreck. Through binoculars I can see now that it is an East Cardinal mark, and the black bones of the wreck are plain to see. Had I known my position, I would have turned to port to anchor in deeper water and saved myself a lot of discomfort. Oh my, the pain of learning by experience.

From Imray Chary Y17

Teresa is stooging up and down over by the Blackwater. Richard must be single handed, decided not to anchor, but to potter around waiting for the tide.

Fortified by yet more tea, and with enough water to float in, I set my sails. There’s no problem hauling up the anchor, why am I making all that fuss about anchoring? But the one problem remains – hard on the wind, without enough water to drop the centre board, I’m being set towards the beacon and the ominous wreck. Maybe I should get motoring – but, no, I’m just creeping past the right side, and progressively dropping the centre board as the water gets deeper, and, Phew!, I’m past the hazard and able to free sheets and get the sails nicely balanced so that I’m hands free with the tiller lashed. I need to get my navigation a bit more precise now, as it is always difficult to find the entrance to the featureless Crouch, and I don’t want to run across it onto the Maplin sands even on a rising tide.

By 16.50 I’m running across the Raysand shallows, ploughing the bottom with the centreboard, and soon enter the deep waters of the Crouch. Ah! The wind is perfect for running along the river at Burnham. I’ve had to beat all the way up the Blackwater, so I think I’ve earned a favourable wind. Hey! This is great! The sun is getting warmer and I’m running down into the Crouch entrance, and ticking off the buoys, Holliwell Crouch, Inner Crouch, as I pass.

Soon I’m in amongst the moored yachts at Burnham. My objective, the hammerhead jetty of the Royal Burnham yacht club is in sight. The tide is running strongly, and I set myself a challenge. What I have to do, under sail, is to curve around the end of the jetty, coming head to wind, and judge my speed perfectly so that I come alongside the inside of the hammerhead without being swept back by the tide. I’ve set up the engine for a quick start in case I get it wrong. Yes! It’s perfect! Just the right speed, and I step onto the jetty with a bow line at leisure and make fast. I tidy the boat up and set the sails in a harbour stow, and then stride smugly off to the clubhouse for a drink. There I meet Denise (Fred) Rawlinson, the OGA treasurer.

“You did that well” she comments.

“I’m pleased with that,” I reply, “but I’m glad I didn’t have an audience yesterday when I messed up my get-away from Heybridge in an onshore wind.”

The Royal Burnham Yacht Club

From their website www.rbyc.org.uk

It’s the Old gaffers Burnham rally, and time for a chat and a beer. We are mingling with smartly dressed Royal Burnham socialites, but it doesn’t seem to matter – jeans or suit, we are all united with a love of sailing. And, oh yes, it’s curry night here, so I don’t think I will cook on board.

Saturday 29 May

The morning sky is painted in shades of dull grey, and the wind seems to be howling a bit, coming straight down the river. High water at Burnham is 08.28, and I’m away at 07.40. That’s a bit later than is comfortable, but about as early as the after effects of last nights’ beer and curry have allowed. I keep the reef in the mainsail and short tack through the crowded river. With quite a flood tide running, I can scarcely get up speed after a tack, before being swept towards another moored boat, and for the first mile it’s hard work. The wind seems to have dropped, and as soon as there is a bit of space, I shake the reef out. The tide slackens, and then the ebb starts. I do a bit of motor sailing, as I want to be well across the Raysand before too much water runs out.

Suddenly, it’s crowded, as a several yachts beat out of the river. By 09.13, by the Inner Crouch buoy, I can free sheets a little, by 09.43 I’m passing the Outer Crouch, doing a tidy 5 Knots, so the GPS tells me, and I’m scanning ahead seeking the yellow buoy which marks the shallow channel over the Raysand towards Buxey on a course of 050⁰. I did my homework last night, and now have a confident GPS position for Buxey. The echo sounder is showing a constant 4metres, but I don’t feel happy until I seem to have crossed the shallows. Strictly speaking, I don’t need to go close to Buxey beacon, and can cut the corner somewhat, but curiosity dictates that I go over to see what it looks like, and so I can confirm that I’ve finally got the GPS position right.

Hurrah! By 10.25 I’m next to the famous Buxey Beacon, which has a cormorant sitting on top of it, my navigation has worked perfectly, and I’m across the watershed. As the forecasters say, there are spits and spots of rain as I idly reach across towards the Blackwater, and by 11.46 I’m well into the river, setting a course against the ebb for the Nass beacon by West Mersea, where I reach the Quarters at 12.43, pick up a mooring, and catch up with some lost sleep.

By the way, I learned a trick from Charlie Stock, about how to pick up a mooring under sail (or under engine) when sailing single handed. You run a couple of long lines from the Samson post at the bow, down each side of the boat, outside everything, and lead them into the cockpit. You head for the buoy, turn into the wind at the right moment, lean out of the cockpit, slip the line through the ring of the buoy, run forward with the line and, hey presto! You are attached. Of course, you have to be going at the right speed, not too fast, and you have to make sure the buoy passes close to the side of the boat. It works for me most times, but I don’t always get it right. It is not always easy to get the buoy close enough alongside, because, when the wretched buoy is dead ahead you can’t see it.

At 15.41, refreshed, and well past low water, I’m off again for a lazy, uneventful run back to Heybridge. At 18.09 I moored outside the Blackwater sailing club, waiting for some more water on my mooring, and by 19.40 Island Blossom is happily tucked up in her rightful place. A good couple of days, a good shake out cruise, I reflect. OK, so I made a mess of getting off the Heybridge mooring, and OK, so the navigation wasn’t perfect on the outward trip, but I was never in any real danger, and I got a lot of things right, so I am well satisfied.

June 2004

House martins have returned to their nests under the eaves of the house, hares are in the ripening corn, and roadside verges sing of red poppies. It must be nearly time for the Old Gaffers East Coast Classics.

During early June, fitting in with work commitments, I made a number of day trips around Heybridge. On the 7^th June, as I was walking along the rickety pontoon towards the boat, there, on the end of the pontoon, making a fine old fuss, was an Oyster Catcher. She doesn’t want me here, I thought.

The reason for this soon became apparent. She has a nest on top of one of the wooden piles next to the pontoon, and in that nest are two chicks, quite large ones, jaws agape, making a huge “I want to fed” sort of a fuss. In human terms they would be teenagers, I guess.

“Well, Mrs Oystercatcher, I don’t mean your chicks any harm, and I’ll soon be off, so don’t worry about a thing.”

Today, I’m heading off for an overnight visit to West Mersea, going round the back end of Osea Island for a change. It’s a beautiful day, and I’m running on a fine westerly breeze, over the Osea causeway and round the back of the island to dodge the flood tide. Way out in front is a small gaffer with red sails, and as I get closer I realise that Charlie Stock and his wife on “Shoal Waters”, heading in the same direction.

The causeway leading to Osea Island

I arrive at West Mersea in a evening of beauty and grace, with the sun setting red over the marshes and the call of seabirds “cheep”, “caw”, “caway”. I imagine the ghosts of old rum runners, with muffled oars in some 18^th century Dickensian marshy landscape.

Sun sets red over watery marsh,

Leaving the silence of the sea birds call,

Wildfowlers watch the weatherglass,

And listen quiet,

You cannot fall.

Oh, yes, it’s been a nice sail, and I’ve been happily sitting in the cockpit, enjoying the solitude, but it is now time to seek out some company, and I row over to the pontoon. I’m disappointed to find that my favourite evening venue, Willow Lodge, also known as the Social And Sailing Club, (the “Soc’n Sail”) has closed down, and the empty building looks sad and forlorn. There used to be a Thursday evening Folk music night, a meeting place for local musicians. At about the time when most pubs close, Ron (the mad Dutchman owner), would put on the CD player at incredible volume, drinking and dancing would carry on, until an impossible time in the morning, earning yet another name by the locals – “The Dark Side”.

How Ron and his wife could keep up that lifestyle, night after night, I’ll never know, but it must have worn them out, because they have sold up, to set up again in Grenada. Good luck both – I will miss your wild musical nights, your social evenings, the madness and chatter.

The Victory pub isn’t to my liking, slightly seedy, all medallion man and bouncy castles, but the West Mersea Yacht club provides a more convivial, if quiet, evening.

I designed the poster for the 2004 Brigaff festival, based on an original photo by Mike Robertson, and I was well pleased with the finished product. It was produced using “Adobe Photoshop Elements” software. I removed the background of Harwich harbour cranes, and added the text. Finding a suitable format for printing gave Richard Giles and I many headaches.

Brigaff 2004

The Old Gaffers Association are staging an event – The Brightlingsea Festival of Gaff Rig and Classic sail, or Brigaff for short. I’ve been helping with the organisation, specifically the entertainment. The event runs from the 18 –22 June. I start out from Heybridge in the afternoon of Wednesday 16^th June, (13.00 hours), a day early, feeling that I’ve been away from the water too long. (Though it’s only been a week). The breeze is in the right direction, I have plenty of daylight and plenty of tide to dreamily reach to Brightlingsea in one go.

I reached the Molliette cardinal mark at 15.42. This post marks the edge of shallows reaching out from East Mersea, and it also marks a wreck known at the Molliette. (This is the name the locals know it as, although its real name, from the chart, is Cocum Hills).

The Molliette Beacon

The tide is still ebbing, and against me as I enter the Colne river, so I opt to keep in the shallows and go reaching down the two metre depth contour line, to keep out of the tide.

Well………….this works for a bit, until the moment I stop concentrating on the echo sounder. Rumble, rumble. The centreplate is hitting the gravely bottom. The echo sounder is registering less than a metre. Aaagh! Panic! Pull the plate up, run off the wind, and head for the deep-water channel. Phew! Got out of trouble this time. Later I learned that the bank has been shoaling in recent years, and something to watch out for. But I haven’t learned that yet, and proceed with caution.

From Imray chart Y17

By the cardinal buoy, which marks the entrance to Brightlingsea creek, I am always faced by the dilemma of decision. One choice is to hand in the sails out on the river, where there is lots of room, then hope that the motor will start so I can carry on up the creek. The other option is to sail into the creek. Island Blossom doesn’t handle like a dinghy. She is pretty cumbersome and needs a fair bit of manoeuvring room. There barely enough space in the busy I part of the harbour, with moored and moving boats, and I’m usually in a jangle of apprehension there.

The wind is right for sailing in, so that’s the decision I take. With some trepidation I weave in and out of the small craft, scanning for a space - somewhere to get alongside. The yacht club jetty has a yacht already sitting on it, but to starboard there’s a scrap of pontoon in front of a fishing boat. Perfect! I manoeuvre onto it without incident, and can get the sails down, generally get shipshape, prime the engine, and wait for Bernie, on the Harbourmasters launch, for directions to an allocated visitors space. He is expecting about 50 or so old gaffers this weekend, and has been busy re-arranging the permanent boats to fit us all in.

It has taken me 3 hours and twenty minutes to do the 15 miles from Heybridge to Brightlingsea. I discover later, to my surprise, that this won me the third prize for the passage race.

Thursday 17 June

Richard Giles is the local OGA representative in Brightlingsea, and, on top of running several local businesses, looking after two newborn twins, a young family, and a house in the process of refurbishment, he has somehow found time to run around, arranging the events of the next few days. He has an office above his Wholefood shop in the high street, and today finds Richard, Denise Rawlinson and I busily printing (at the last minute) sailing instructions, programmes, posters and song books. To reach the office you have to negotiate a wooden staircase at the back of the shop.

It is quite a decent sized space, but today every available tabletop and every spare piece of floor is covered by bits of gafferey paperwork in a heap of ordered chaos.

I have acquired, from a boat jumble, a fold up dinghy - One with plywood sides and canvas bottom. Although it is rather heavy, and cumbersome to stow, it does fits nicely inside my cabin, is very quick to erect, and just the job for Brightlingsea.

Although there is a launch service from the pontoons, it is nice to be independent. I put the tender to good service, because, there is a folk club in the Swan Inn tonight, and the water taxi finishes at 11pm.

The folk club – what an evening! Local musicians gather here once a month, and what a lot of them there are. It is run by a actively middle aged chap by the name of Bill Kitchen, one of those people who seems to be able to play almost any instrument, and who is able to orchestrate the singing of anarchistic musicians. Maybe musicians’ beer tokens helped, because by the end of the evening the whole Pub is rocking, rolling and stomping. It is a good job that I have my tender at the hammerhead, because by the time we have finished, I’ve missed the last water taxi. By good fortune, I meet Sven, who has a neat, inflatable canoe, and who also has to get to his boat across the water on the pontoon. The two of us set out about half past midnight into the dark creek. The wind and tide are against us, the rowing is hard, and we are heading into quite a chop, so it’s really good to row out in company, looking out for each other.

Friday 18^th June

I awake to find a new neighbour. Sven has been asked to move his boat, and is now rafted alongside me. His boat, “Bravore” is a 20 ft., clinker built, double ended open sailing dinghy. He tells me that it normally lies on the freshwater Thames at Wallingford, and he started from there two weeks ago, sailing into the tidal Thames, through London, out to Leigh on Sea, near Southend, and from there through the Hangavore Bridge to Burnham, arriving at Brightlingsea yesterday. Quite an adventure, especially as he has been living on the boat under a boom tent.

I help Richard and his team to start the racing from Batemans’ tower, from where there is an excellent viewpoint for the whole Colne Estuary. After that we head for Richards boat, Sara, so that he can do at least some sailing. The boat is a 21 foot marine ply mini-cruiser with a huge cockpit and a tiny cuddy in the bow, much in the style of a Romily. There’s a heavy old wind out in the Colne but Sara takes it in her stride. We briefly debate whether to head towards Osea, where the fleet are racing, but Richard has some more organising to do, and I have to get back to meet and greet (and pay) tonights band.

The Colne Yacht club have provided a marquee on the quay, in front of the club, and a real ale bar in the old building they know as the Oar store. The band arrives to set up in the marquee. They are the most excellent duo, John Ward and Mario Price. Both are youthful and energetic. John is a professional musician who plays contemporary songs on guitar, and Mario is a Pharmacists and fiddle player who seems to flow into his instrument. Both can turn out an excellent evenings entertainment, getting the audience singing and dancing in the marquee.

This is helped by the contingent of Dutch friends, Jouchim, Julie, Molly and Shippas. ( …… Dave Shipley, who is actually English, but who sails so often in Holland that I think he qualifies as an honorary Dutchman). They set up station right at the front, singing, cheering, dancing, encouraging the band, which in turn encourages the rest of the audience, ‘till the whole marquee is humming with music.

Saturday 19^th June

This is the day of the traditional East Coast Old gaffers’ race, and I’m helping Richard, who is the race Officer. In the last few weeks the country has been in the grip of European cup football. Cars have been flying the St Georges flag from plastic flagpoles fastened to their windows.

The resourceful Richard has adapted this idea, and his Volvo proudly flies the Old Gaffer flag, and it feels like a presidential limousine as we sweep through the Brightlingsea streets, carrying Brian Hammett, (East Coast OGA president), his wife Lorna, Fred Rawlinson (Treasurer), Richard Giles (race officer and chauffeur), and I (Musical Director and apprentice race officer).

The top of Batemans tower is a cold and windy place today. There are lots of spectators below, enjoying the morning and the spectacle.

Batemans’ tower - From The Colne Yacht Club website www.colneyachtclub.org.uk

I get to learn the sequence of race start flags, and the fleet of gaffers make a fine sight out there on the Colne, fighting for a favourable position in a stiff breeze. In these days of political correctness and health and safety, we are no longer allowed to use cannon to start races. But, no matter what sound signal is used, it is still referred to as “the gun”.

The tower has an electrically driven compressor which pumps up air pressure for an earscreechingly loud siren. The clock counts down to the ten minute gun.

“Ten seconds to go for the first gun” yells Richard, “get ready with the flags, and mind your ears” The countdown starts, the wind howls, the siren howls, flags are set fluttering from the flagpole.

In another five minutes we do the same procedure. Five more minutes to the start. Boats are screeching about, manoeuvring for a prime position on the line, trying to avoid each other.

“Ten seconds”, yells Richard again “ten, nine…….four there two, one!”

“Waaaah” goes the siren, down come the flags, the fleet are off!

Well………………. that’s almost as exciting as being in the race.

“What about a cuppa tea from the café, now that the excitement’s over” I suggest. Armed with orders for refreshments, I climb down the dusty ladder and staircase to the front door of the tower. Rattle, rattle. Hmmm, the door seems to be stuck. It can’t be. Let me think for a moment, then try again. Rattle, rattle. It’s definitely stuck. Seems to be locked from the outside. Defeated, I climb back to the top.

“Is it my imagination, or has the door been latched by someone outside?” I ask. Four people climb down to try.

“Definitely not your imagination” ventures Brian

“I bet some kids have latched it,” says Richard.

There are still some spectators below. Luckily we can shout down to get someone to release us. We take tea, and have a couple of hours off before sweeping back to the tower in the presidential limousine for the finish of the race.

The old gaffer fleet comprises all sorts of boat in all different shapes and sizes, with different sail colours and configurations. The boats that are racing do have numbers tied to the shrouds, but these are difficult to read from a distance. So, it needed all four of us, with binoculars, at the top of the tower, to identify the boats as they got near the finish line, and to get the proper sequence of finishers. We must have got it right, because there were no complaints when the results were published.

I have to meet and greet the band as they arrive in the marquee tonight. They were to have been “The Tom Collins Jazz Band”, until I had a last minute phone call from Peter Jezzard, to say that Tom Collins had had a stroke, and the band, with a similar line up, has instead become “Peter Jezzard and the Blackwater Jazzmen”. This attracted and audience of local Brightlingseaites, mingling with yachtclubbies and gaffers, And what a great night of Jazz, Blues and swing, with some of the locals doing some amazing 1950’s jiving.

Sunday 20 June

The fleet are making a parade of sail to Wivenhoe today, and taking part in some lunchtime hospitality. I will have to miss this, but I’m taking part in another equally pleasurable activity: My band “The Barnrats” have been engaged to play at a garden party in Colchester.

I’d planned to get here by bus and shanks’ pony, but Richards wife, Amber, offered me a lift. In consequence, I arrived early to a winds and rainswept garden. The band has a small marquee to play in, so we are much more privileged than the guests. The showers put a bit of a damper on the proceedings to start with, but, as the guests are an extended family of Irish folk, determined to enjoy themselves, its not long before guests and musicians get into the swing of things, and we all are enjoying themselves so much that we run over the allotted time.

Monday 21st June

Richard is keen for his boat, Sara, to be used, but he is landbound with organising. He has invited me to take his boat Sara, and his daughter Sara out on the race to Packing Shed Island.

Well………….I’ve met Sara the boat once, and Sara the daughter not at all, so I wait at the Yacht Club with some trepidation. But I needn’t have worried, Sara jumps from the car, all smiles, aged about early 20’s, nose rings and body piercings, a happy, punky, kind of girl

“Lets get sailing”, she says with enthusiasm, “but you’ll have to excuse me if I go to sleep during the proceedings, ‘cos I left Leicester at 5 this morning.”

I think we’re going to get along well.

There’s not much wind in the moorings so we hoist the sails there, me trying to look as if I know what I’m doing, and she quietly putting me right. (She tells me that she was actually named after the boat, and has been sailing in it since infancy). The outboard starts without too much fuss, and we motor past all the crowded pontoons to the creek entrance, just arriving there to find a driving squall. Out on the river, boats look overpressed.

“I’m going to put in to the end pontoon and put in a reef,” I announce “I’d rather do it there than out in the river.”

With the sails nicely reefed, I find that the outboard won’t start. There is something about engines and me that don’t agree. I decide to try to tack out of the creek, and immediately we start sailing the squall has passed through and the wind dropped.

So, once more I find myself trying to short tack in Brightlingsea creek under shortened sail, without enough wind, and this time, of course, with an audience of Sara. Misjudging a tack, I go aground. The centreboard is stuck nicely in the mud. In the river the fleet are manoeuvring to start the race – in ten minutes time, I think there’s no chance of getting there in time now. But the tide is rising, and with a bit of shoving on the mud with the boathook, we finally get floating.

“I can’t see much future in continuing to try to tack out. I think we need to go back to the pontoon, un-reef, and see if we can start the engine” sez I “What do you think?”

“You are probably right,” replies Sara in a resigned sort of way. Somehow I don’t think I’m making the right sort of impression here, but never mind.

Back on the pontoon, a miracle happens – with some prayers and priming, the engine springs to life, and away we go, at last out of the creek, but, of course, well behind the racers. So far behind infact that they are all well away on the horizon, out by Bench Head. OK, we didn’t start the race, so the best strategy now is to head for Packing shed island by the most direct route – as direct as the wind allows, which means taking a long tack out into the estuary. Sara decides to kip down in the cabin to catch up on lost sleep from her 5am start, and doesn’t miss an awful lot as the wind has fallen light, and progress is slow. So slow that after an hour or so I decide to try the engine, which wakes Sara up, and, yes! The engine starts, and roars away, but doesn’t seem to be making any contribution to progress. Has the gearbox packed up, I wonder? Or maybe the sheer pin, after our dalliance in the mud, but how come it worked coming out of the creek? Technical discussion doesn’t help fix it, so we are back to sailpower.

“We’re a long way behind schedule, and an maybe two hours to Packing shed at this rate,” I think aloud, “We could press on, and maybe miss out on lunch, or we could give up and head back to Brightlingsea?”

“Lets ring Dad, and see if he will save us some lunch” replies Sara

Thanks to mobile technology, a call to Richard, organising things on packing shed, establishes that some lunch will be set aside, and a launch ready to get us to the island from the moorings, along with some helpful suggestions like “You have engaged the gear lever, haven’t you?” and “What do you do to poor old outboard engines, they don’t seem to agree with you.”

Plod, plod, along we go, with no more sail area to put up. “When we get there, you might as well go back by road, if you like. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of point in you plodding all the way back on the boat after your long day.”

By the time we reach The Nass Beacon, and nearly at our destination, and the wind picks up to get us fairly quickly to a mooring buoy in Mersea Quarters. “Phil the Rib” is on hand with his fast Rib (Rigid Inflatable Boat), called “Spare Rib”, and we’re finally at the delightful Packing Shed Island.

Of course, we arrive after everyone has left. Richard is packing things up, but true to his word he has set something aside, and we get our much-delayed lunch.

I decide to take a box of lunch back to the boat, so I can get back to Brightlingsea as soon as possible, so I say my goodbyes. I’ll miss Saras’ company, but I think she would rather be going home in comfort after a long day. Dougie the boatman, aged 65 something, Town Councillor, and placid potterer of the solid old West Mersea Marine launch, takes me back to Sara in a fast tender, in a darkening threatening sky.

“Let’s have some fun, “ he says with a gap-toothed grin, opening the throttle, “Let’s see if we can get this machine up on the plane.”

We roar off, bucking and bouncing over the waves (which have developed in the short time I’ve been on the island), my backside lifting off the seat then crashing back with a thump, to arrive on Sara just in time for me to throw on some wet weather gear, for its now raining and the wind’s picked up, and suddenly there’s some furious gusts and driving rain blasting onto my face. I struggle to reef the main with the boat rolling and leaning crazily, even while sitting on its mooring. There is no sense in continuing to set sail until this lot has blown through, I think, so I sit down and survey the angry waters. The island is blotted out. Slowly the squall diminishes in violence until there’s no wind at all, just vertical soaking rain. I wonder if another squall is coming, but it feels calmer now, so I hoist the wet canvas, check everything is in order and cast off. But, with no wind, I have no steerage way and find myself just drifting helplessly backwards on the ebb. With several moored boats between me and the estuary, I think that trying to paddle the boat to face the right way will just end up with me being swept onto one of them, so the best strategy is to carry on backwards until the end of the moorings, avoiding the boats by paddling when I need to, then, when there’s space, manoeuvre her to face the right way. By the Naas Beacon I set about shaking the reefs out – the reefs that cost such a struggle to set. Of course, the tiny bit of wind has swung right round, so I’m beating against it where I’d hoped to be running before it.

With no wind, there isn’t much to do, so I can set about demolishing my belated lunch – delicious seafood, even if the bread got soaked in the continuous rain, washing it down with a bottle of wine Richard has thoughtfully provided.

Hmm………..here I am trundling down the estuary in vertical rain, which has killed the wind. This is fine for the next hour or so as I drift on the ebb, but what about when I get to the Colne and the tide is against me? Well, I have an anchor, there is no more violent weather forecast, I have food, water and cigarettes, I can communicate by mobile phone and VHF, and there’s a cabin too shelter in, I can anchor until the early morning flood tide. Sure, I’ll miss a night in the Yacht Club bar, but there are no musicians for me to host tonight, so it won’t be a disaster.

The rain has eased, and there’s a smidgen of wind, and I’m at last making progress. I’ll take a tack out into the estuary, then tack again, back towards the Molliette and think about where to anchor.

My guardian angel is a mischievous soul. She’ll play tricks, flirt and taunt me, and just when I get to feel despondent, she’ll pull out a rescue. Behind me I see a boat. It alters course. It is Avola. I see familiar faces.

Brian Hammet grins and looks serious all at the same time from the wheelhouse.

“Do you need a tow?” asks Pete the Knife from the foredeck.

“You bet”, I reply, “I’m moving now, but I don’t know how long this wind will last, and I don’t think there will be enough to sail down the Colne.”

“Get your gear down then, and when you’re ready, we’ll pass a line.”

With sails down and stowed, maybe not a beautiful harbour stow, but adequate, I sit, drifting. Avola circles round, passes the line, and we’re heading for Brightlingsea, me concentrating hard in steering to keep the boat in line, feeling damp but happy. Old Gaffers always know how to look after each other. We moor alongside the pontoon where I pick up a new tow from the Harbour Masters launch, and Sara is taken back on her rightful moorings, where I tuck her up nicely, and call Jon Brett, the water taximan, who ferries me to Island Blossom, where I can pick up some dry clothes, showering gear, and fiddle, then onwards to the yacht club. Ah! The luxury of a hot shower, the comfort of dry clothes, the thought that I might have been lying at anchor out there in the Colne in the damp dark wetness.

Outside in the Oar Store there lies a dozen barrels of real Ale. The Yacht Club had overestimated the thirst of the Old Gaffers (after all, we drank them dry last year). The barrels can’t be moved without waiting for the beer to re-settle, so It’s being sold at £1 a pint. But even this isn’t enough incentive for folks to venture outside where it’s cold, windy and damp, a showery street of puddles, but John, the jovial and irrepressible bar steward has recruited his guitar playing friend, who sits on a damp plastic chair playing a mixture of contemporary songs and some interesting stuff of his own composition. I join in, jamming with fiddle, and along comes a melodeon man to lend more force to the music. This combined musical effort brings a few onlookers. The rumour of cheap beer brings Gaffers from their boats with plastic containers.

“Fill this one up with Old Wobbly Bitter, please, and that one with Merrymaking Mild.” The scene like an English seaside resort – we don’t care about our weather, we will enjoy ourselves and pretend it is a Spanish beach.

And so, the Brigaff festival draws to a close. A number of boats are heading north to Walton on the Naze for the start of the East Coast Classics, and have to start at 3am, with a 24 hour forecast which doesn’t sound very encouraging. I have an easier option, with the excuse that I have to go to work, and can rise at my leisure, to head for Heybridge, scuttling out of it before the weather deteriorates.

Thursday 6^th July

For once, I’ve been glad to go to work instead of being out on the water. Over the last few days, the gaffer fleet have been holed up in the Walton Backwaters in dreadful weather, but they tell me they’ve been spending the time in wet and muddy route marches to the Naze tower, and in quiz evenings in Tichmarsh marina. I managed to extract a promise from Jouchim, the Dutchman, to join him on his cutter “Ragamuffin” this coming Saturday, to start the itinerant phase of the East Coast Classics (itinerant in the sense of leaving Island Blossom behind, and boat hopping).

But today, the Barnrats, my band, (not my band in terms of ownership or leadership but the band of which I am an equal member), are engaged to play at a Little Ship Club rally on Packing Shed Island, and we’ re at West Mersea pontoon, clambering onto the launch, all feet and bags and instruments, amidst boxes of seafood lunches, cartons of wine, boxes of glasses, plates and cutlery. It’s going to be a longer introduction to the island this time, after the fleeting introduction I had at Brigaff.

We’re stationed by the door to the packing shed, playing as the guests arrive, feeling that we are not making much musical impact as we are playing acoustically and un-amplified, and the old cold wind whips away all the notes, and my hat, which is seen to float away on the rising tide.

Then it rains. Everyone rushes inside the shed – which has a theoretical maximum of 50 people, and now more like 150 – where the rain rattles the windows in fierce squalls, and we find a corner to play in and suddenly everyone is joining in, singing heartily and lustily (The food and wine having worked their magic), and dancing so that the floorboards are heaving and we all wonder whether the shed (which is built on stilts above the high water mark) will end up three feet lower.

To quote a letter from the organisers:

“What can I say – You were absolutely marvellous and totally made the day with your music! Everyone thoroughly enjoyed the location and with your infectious music and all the dancing, I am glad the shed has not sunk into the mud!”

What a day! Band and guests had a great time, a happy and convivial start to the rally. Ah! What it is to do something enjoyable and bring enjoyment to others as a bonus. To make another quotation, this time attributed to Mae West:

“Too much of a good thing ………is wonderful”

The Lazerette

This is my third year of log writing. I begin to feel like a writer of a magazine serial, but turning out episodes annually instead of weekly. This log has run from late summer of 2003, into winter, then the spring of 2004 and gotten as far as Brigaff in June 2004.

I’ve run out of time to talk about the 2004 East Coast Classics, Southwold, the blue waters of Douarnenez, the Lands End “Not the Cape Horn” trip, and strong winds in Brightlingsea. The lazarette, according to the Collins shorter English dictionary, is also known as a glory hole, and is a small locker at the stern of a boat. Here’s a little taster of that small locker, to whet your appetite for reading the new episode next year.

Elizabeth, my home for a week at Douarnenez

Well oiled at the Café Du Rad

A foggy morning on Bessie Ellen

The blue water, Lands End, “Not the Cape Horn cruise”

On the 50 ft. Danish Kotter “Josefine”