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
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 4th 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 5th 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 8th 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 2nd 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 7th 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!
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.”
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.
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 7th 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 18th 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 abou
