55 years in Shoal Waters By Charles Stock

Forward

My original aim was to sail round the world. Three things prevented me from doing so. I never had the money, I never had the time and I did have a wife and four children. Sailing the wide oceans, visiting the palm fringed atolls and sweltering tropic ports where the jungle drops down the mountainside to kiss the warm seas remains a pastime for winter evenings in the comfort of an armchair with one of endless books on the subject. Before retirement and thanks to an understanding wife, on some dozen weekends each year I was free to sail as far round the world as I liked, provided that I was back in good time to go to work on Monday morning. Did this mean just pottering about in the river with all my years hopes pinned on fine weather for the precious summer holiday or could I still find some real sailing year in and year out? Did I have to race to get some sort of interest, challenge and excitement? Did my modest means compel me to crew on larger craft to enjoy offshore and night sailing? This book sets out to show the wonderful adventure playground that lays just a couple of hours from those crowded London railway stations, the maze of beautiful rivers that reach deep into the heart of the Suffolk, Kent and Essex countryside and the fascinating triangle of sandbank infested waters between Aldeburgh, Ramsgate and Canvey Island that might almost have been designed for modern small shoal draft sailing cruisers. A trip round the Whitaker Beacon at the northeasternmost edge of Foulness Sand may not have the glamour of a trip round Cape Horn, but careful research has shown that a man drowned off Southend Pier is just as dead as one drowned off the tip of South America. In spite of the rescue services and all the modern electronic aids and gimmicks, the welfare state ends at the seawall. They may have abolished the death penalty for murdering old ladies but the death penalty is still in force for bad seamanship. Once

you cast off the mooring on Friday evening for fifty hours of freedom and adventure, you are just as much on your own as any skipper of the thousands upon thousands of craft that have used these waters over the centuries. Make no mistake these have always been busy waters. The Roman corn galleys knew them in the days when we exported grain. Until the advent of the motor lorry most coastal villages and hamlets lived to the heartbeat of the twice-daily high tides. Every bank, every creek has its name and history. Men have traded this area since the beginning of recorded history. The routes they used, their short cuts, the tricks of working the winds and tides are still there for the modern yachtsman to test his skill and the ability of his craft. On the other hand the Thames Estuary is basically a safe area. You can make mistakes such as going aground on a sandbank for a few hours and merely get back to your mooring late where on other rockier parts of the coast, a similar mistake could mean almost certain loss of the vessel, and even the death of the crew. Remember the first time that the original Radio Caroline, a crummy lugger if ever there was one, broke her mooring and blew ashore near Walton on Naze in an easterly gale. She got off later under her own steam and went to Holland for repairs. There are few other parts of the coast where such a boat could have got away with it! The weekend sailor may risk death by drowning but at least he cannot be one of the dozen or so people killed on the road during his spell afloat. Furthermore, there is to my mind the big advantage in sailing in that very few people are injured. You are either dead at the bottom of the sea or alive and on top of the world. The sheer exhilaration of sailing back to your mooring after a successful trip, whether it be an Atlantic crossing or merely your first rounding of a buoy some ten miles outside the river, has to be experienced to be believed. Some years ago H.R.H. the Prince of Wales asked, Cant we do something to make mankind feel grand? The common love of boats, the fear of the sea and the camaraderie it engenders among all who venture thereupon is probably the best answer. Many of our hospital beds are occupied by patients who are mentally sick. How many more of us would join them if it were not for the healing effects of a brief taste of the quieter, calmer life among the creeks and marshes under the wide skies and eternally restless tides of the outer Thames Estuary It seems to me that in an increasingly cockeyed world, navigating a small boat is about the only thing which continues to make sense. Charles Stock. Gaff Cutter Shoal waters. Web site: http://shoal-waters.moonfruit.com/

Contents
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Learning to sail Learning to cruise Learning the Thames Estuary A winter on the Broads Cold cruising in winter 1949 Norfolks sandy havens Target Isle of Wight Zephyrs last year Coals from Newcastle The Northern Isles Admiralty instructions Stand by to repel boarders Barking creek and the port of Ilford Lighters on the sands Retirement. Freedom at last Shelter amongst the sands The Great Gale Easter cruise 1989 The Old Gaffers 25th anniversary rally The call of the reed beds All stations south To the Broads 1993 Why not try the back door Along the Saxon way Xmas 1993

Chapter one

Learning to Sail
Of course there is the Zephyr, said a voice in the twilight as I waited for a bus in the little Essex coastal town of Maldon. Her gear is all right but her hull is as ripe as a pear! My heart took a jump at these words and then sank. They were not intended for me but I couldnt resist the temptation to listen when I heard them talking about the dearth of small boats. You see, I had just bought the sixteen foot half decked gunter rigged sloop Zephyr that very evening. It was the Friday evening before Whitsun 1948 and the purchase price of seventy-five pounds (including an outboard motor which I later sold for ten pounds) represented a couple of years steady saving during my spell in the Royal Marines just after the war. If my memory serves me correctly, pay had started at eighteen shillings a week and rose to twenty-eight shillings during the second year. Saving this modest sum had earned me the title of `Baron Stock` on the mess deck of H.M.S.Buchan Ness, head-quarters ship of 416 Flotilla, Royal Marine Landing Craft. While I would never advise anyone to buy a craft without a survey, thank my lucky stars I didnt get further advice on Zephyr for she had been on the market for a long time and I would almost certainly have been put off buying her. I suppose that the story really started on Liverpool Street Station in 1944. At the time I was employed plotting merchant shipping in the Pacific Ocean by My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty and had developed a keen interest in this fascinating area as the American forces stormed from island to island. The previous evening I had found a copy of the National Geographic Magazine which told of the voyage of the yacht `Teddy` from Norway across the oceans to New Zealand and I instantly determined to sail round the world myself. The first thing to do was to learn more about small yachts and there on Smith`s bookstall was paperback titled `Yachting on a Small Income` by Maurice Griffiths, price sixpence. I still have that battered volume. This led me on to the wonderful collection of sailing books in the three branches of the Westminster Library and I soon got to know the work of all the popular sailing writers, in particular, that of Francis B. Cooke who seemed to me to have captured the very spirit of messing about in boats better than any other writer. We worked on the ground floor of the bank building between the Admiralty proper and the Whitehall theatre. The section called Trade Division M4 was run by naval officers and included a couple of dozen retired master mariners, all of who had started in sail. They worked out the probable daily position of each ship and convoy while a horde of teenagers, of which I was one, handled the stream of signals and moved the pins representing each ship or convoy on large wall charts so that the latest information was available night and day for the War Room. The Atlantic was of course the main plot but the Indian and Pacific Ocean plots were coupled together under the control of one Lt. P---- who had two driving interests in life, pretty girls

and greyhounds, in each case the faster the better. I fairness he was an extra master mariner. His obsession with dog racing was shared by the chap in charge of the office and they were very good friends. We lads on the Pacific and Indian Ocean plots got a very real benefit out of this for the prettiest girls who came into the office were always allocated to our section. It was no good the young ladies being fast round the desk, they had to be fast round the chart tables which required a lot more staying power. At times we were very busy (and of course the department worked seven days a week), but there were plenty of slack periods when we listened to sea stories from the old timers, plotted voyages from Basil Lubbock`s `Last of the Windjammers` on the charts and generally soaked up the seafaring traditions of our nation in its finest days. We followed the island war in the Pacific on large-scale charts, which were freely available (no one ever asked why we wanted then), and I carefully copied hundreds of ports and harbours, atolls and anchorages on filing cards. Alas, they all remain in my desk unused. There was a branch of the Sea Cadet Corps at the Admiralty and coached by the old timers, three of us passed the petty officer examination in record time. Little time afloat was possible apart from a few evenings rowing a whaler on the tidal Thames and summer camps at Haldon Moor above the lovely River Teign in Devon where I managed to get my first hour sailing in a lugsail dinghy. It was great fun but at four shillings an hour, time had to be severely limited. With the end of the war in September 1945, my planned enlistment for training in the Fleet Air Arm was cancelled and I was offered a chance of transferring to the Royal Marines on the `Y` scheme entry which I accepted actually joining up in early January 1946. Throughout 1946 our potential officer squad was whittled down and I was chucked out on the last week before the passing out parade. After a month or two at Eastney barracks at Portsmouth I was drafted to H.M.S. Rosneath , the landing craft base on the Clyde, where I became a deckhand on an L.C.A.(landing craft assault). There were about one hundred and fifty bootnecks, three hundred matlots and most important of all, some one hundred and eighty Wrens in residence. Each morning the population was doubled or even trebled by an avalanche of dockyard mateys who arrived from Glasgow and Gourock in a fleet of ferries (one of them ex channel) and just disappeared among the ships and shore facilities. It was the middle of the terrible winter of 1947 with all its power, fuel and food shortages. This had been an American camp and they had left over two years supply of paraffin for the space heaters in the huts, which were spread among the woods onshore. There were two cinemas, a Church of Scotland canteen, a dance hall and several bars not to mention the lovely Gare Lock with its fleet of `Dragons` and six and eight metre yachts. At the base we had the seventy-two foot ex German racing yacht Orion, the scratch boat of the Royal Ocean racing Club in 1947. During the summer the Myth of Malham was launched by the engineering officer, Cdr. Illingworth, to win the Fastnet race a few weeks later. Two other new boats caused excited comment at this time, the Fairey Firefly and the Swordfish (later fitted with a wooden plate and renamed

the Albacore`). At the base we had naval whalers and naval fourteen footers but there seemed little opportunity to get out sailing. Had I know what I do today, it was just a question of going to Cdr. D E Chair in charge Orion`, and just saying that I wanted to sail, but I lacked the confidence to do so for the first few months. Then somehow I discovered that there were civilian staff to see that anyone taking out the fourteen footers took the right gear and brought it back afterwards and that before leaving and when returning to the base one had to report to the Officer of the Watch in the control tower but there was no machinery to say who could or could not take out a craft. On Sunday the 3rd of August 1947, my twentieth birthday, I went out sailing in charge of a boat for the first time after three years of solid bookwork. My companion was not much interested but had nothing better to do. There was little wind but it was a start. Monday, August bank Holiday, (at that time still the first Monday in August), was a glorious day and I booked a dinghy again. This time my mate Tilson, a cynical Irishman came along and we had a fine sail. I see from my diary that we were delighted to find the Wrens sunbathing on their private beach. More important, I made my first mistake, going alongside the jetty at the Church of Scotland canteen on the windward side with the tide setting onto it. On Tuesday the fourteen footers were reserved for the officers for their weekly race so we took out the twenty-seven foot whaler but there was little wind and the two of us had a hard row back against the ebb tide, which aroused my interest in tides. On Wednesday a difficult decision had to be taken, either to go sailing or to the weekly Scottish dance. I must confess that the lure of the fair sex won but a resolution appeared in the discovery of Anne, our pay clerk, who was keen on sailing and she became my sail companion afloat for the rest of the season. My regular entries in the dinghy booking list was soon noticed and we had some wonderful afternoon trips down the Clyde on Orion. At the end of September the daily orders included an appeal for crew to take an eighty-five ton gaff ketch from Dumbarton to the Channel Islands. The skipper was an ex mosquito pilot who was trying to make his living sailing professionally. For crew he got a naval officer and myself who had sailed but never cruised and an officers steward from the landing craft depot ship Buchan Ness on which we lived, who realised that he would never get to sea in the navy (she was reputed to be aground on empty milk tins) and thought he would like a trip on a yacht. He knew nothing, realised he knew nothing, did just what he was told and was in fact a most useful member of the crew. It wasnt a record passage but there can never have been a more enjoyable one. We arrived in St Helier in warm autumn weather at the end of the glorious summer of 1947. Back at the base once more, the early darkness prevented evening sailing but I continued to get out on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. On the 30th of November I went out for my last trip on the Clyde before going to Chatham for demob ready for Christmas. It was out of the question to go back to office life so I took a years training in farming at Chelmsford in Essex where I had spent the first three years of the war as an evacuee. Getting afloat was the problem and for some reason it never occurred to me to join a sailing club but of course there were not so many about in those days and

those that had survived the war were not very active. I scrutinised the papers each week and thus became the owner of the sixteen foot gunter sloop `Zephyr`. Post war prices had rocketed and a cabin boat was beyond my means. She had originated from Poole on the south coast and I am told she was clearly amateur built, firstly as an open boat and then decked in very well and tastefully as a halfdecker. She had a short bowsprit and a dagger plate, which weighed about eighty pounds. The planking was sound in most places but of course, she leaked round the garboards once I loosened up the pitch in the bottom planks by hard sailing. The cutwater had rotted through completely and been covered with brass plate which in fact I failed to notice. There were lead badges on the corners of the transom covering you can guess what. No mention was made at this time but I later discovered a lead keel underneath which I eventually found weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. One slight snag was that the rudder was fixed and reached a few inches below the keel which meant that when the plate was up, the rudder was the first thing to touch the mud (or hard sand). It was a late afternoon tide on Saturday. I sailed up and down off Maldon Promenade with two reefs in, finding that she handled well. Next day, Whit Sunday, my brother joined me for the day to get away from Maldon on the early tide and go down river for the day to return with the evening high water. My diary for that day is a stirring tale of the sea and I think I had best quote it direct:16/5 Sunday. Up early at 0620 a glorious morning, left at 0655 and cycled to Maldon picked up some papers, bottles of Tizer and down to the boat. Heaved ourselves out on the boats anchor line and made a perfect get away. Down stream and round the point - then a snapping and fluttering as the jib halyard carried away. We tried to get alongside another boat to repair it but were waved off so we beached for eight hours a long lazy time. Bill was very bored wind increasing. I fixed a stake into the mud (no anchor) with a line to our stern. It looked like being a sticky journey so Bill walked round (to Maldon). The tide rolled in and began to break over her. Could my stake hold. I jumped over and pushed. At last she slid back, round on the line, I heaved her up to it slowly down rudder, a job with the waves breaking on the stern. - plate stuck, hoisted the jib, sheet in hand, out knife and cut the line. She hesitated, picked up and very slowly eased away from the shore. I eased the sheet and got out into the stream. I looked behind, around, at a large yacht manoeuvring under motor round to Maldon, picked up Bill, more sailing and ashore, cleaned her down. Well she is far from perfect the boom is low and the bowsprit awkward. Her hull seems good. Very little turbulence at high speeds. Must get an anchor and sweeps. The point that does not come out in the account is the very interesting one that all our mishaps took place just above the lock gates at Heybridge which gave a total distance covered for the return trip of less then two miles! After that days exciting sport we decided to spend Whit Monday at home recovering. Laying a mooring was the next task. A local builder cast me couple of concrete blocks weighing about sixty pounds each with rings in the top for eight shillings the pair. The following Saturday I took them along the promenade in a borrowed wheel barrow to lay them. The position had been agreed with the water

bailiff and the yearly charge was to be ten bob. Carrying the blocks out through the mud was really hard work until I realised that if I turned them over so that I pulled them along by the chain from underneath, they skimmed along almost effortlessly. For some reason I could not get down to take her onto the mooring on Sunday so Monday evening Peter, a school chum who was employed on the same farm, came along to find out what sailing was all about. After a few snags getting away, such as the lacing on the yard coming adrift and the parallel balls falling onto the foredeck as I hoisted the mainsail again, we got away at a fine rate with a westerly wind and decided to go behind Northey Island not realising that there was a raised road across to the island which the chart makers knew nothing about! We hit it with a real old bang and this brought home to me the big disadvantage of a dagger plate over the centre board which is pivoted at its forward end and will lift back into the hull on its own. The front of the case had been levered forward and water was spurting in. We got the plate up, the mainsail gybed and as she scraped on the road, I jumped overboard in the best tradition of all sailing books and pushed her over into deep water on the seaward side of the road. For some reason which seems inexplicable now, we did not sail back over the road but set off right round the island bailing hard all the way back to the mooring. Thank heaven she would be dry on the mud for longer than she would be afloat filling! This, in the years ahead, would become the basic principle for mooring `Zephyr`. By the end of June rough repairs had been made and an anchor and warp purchased, together with several other fittings. Peter and I were tempted by the fine weather to try a weekend camping trip to the river mouth. High water that Saturday was around five in the afternoon. The plan was to go to Brightlingsea for the night and on round to Clacton Pier on the ebb the following morning, returning to Maldon with the flood on Sunday afternoon. Remember this was long before the days of transistor radios and candidly we never gave a thought to wind force and direction. Having no dinghy we were dependant on getting one of the local boatmen to put us on board and he looked aghast as we climbed on board, for the water was almost up to the seat. You aint agoing to sleep on her, he exclaimed in amazement. Half an hours bailing soon put things right and we set off at 1545 hrs with a fine westerly breeze about force three under a blue sky for one of the greatest experiences in east coast sailing, the first voyage down the lovely River Blackwater. Once past the sandy point of Osea Island a new world opened up to us. To quote from the diary,` The sun was strong and life seemed good`. We lowered the sails and had a swim off Stansgate Abbey. Bradwell and Mersea passed quickly by and at 2015 hrs we arrived in Brightlingsea. The idea was to beach and walk ashore for some tea for we had nothing aboard but a few sandwiches, some bottles of Tizer, a fizzy orange based drink which seems from my logs, to have been a staple part of our diet in those days, and Mars bars for which sweet ration coupons were required at that time. After a quick look round, I ran her onto the mud halfway into the harbour on the north shore. Unfortunately, as the tide fell, I realised that we were on an island and it was ten oclock before we could wade ashore by which time everywhere serving hot drinks

had shut. Back on board we were interested to see the owner of a sizable yacht from the south coast very distressed to find himself drying out. At first he rigged his spinnaker boom and main boom as legs but then lost his nerve in case they broke and let him down with a bang. We settled down to sleep on the bare boards having neither blankets or sleeping bags and got a little fitful sleep before the returning tide reached us at 0130 hrs and chuckled against the planking, music indeed that remains a constant joy to my ears over the years. Our friend from the south coast was in a hurry to get away for he kept his engine going for at least thirty minutes before he floated off. At daylight he was moored somewhere on the horizon. We bailed each hour after she floated and at 0500hrs set off under a cold grey sky into a rising wind from the southwest. Outside the white capped waves soon killed off any ideas of sailing round to Clacton so we turned for home beating slowly past the four miles of Mersea Island over the ebb tide. We ought to have reefed but this was well beyond our capabilities under way. Peter began to feel sick. I suspect this was because he had breakfasted on Tizer and Mars bars while I had only had the bars. It was a long trip but towards low water the sun came out turning the waves off Thirslet Spit a vivid green and life seemed good again. The water was still dripping out of Peters coat as we travelled home on the bus. It cured him for life but I continued with day sailing for the rest of the season. In early September I had a holiday on the Broads in one of the `Leading Lady` class hire yachts and although there were some problems as none of us were really in charge, I got a taste for Broads sailing that has never wained. On Sunday the third of October I took `Zephyr` round to the Ballast Hole near the Blackwater S.C. and moored her high on the saltings for the winter. So ended my first season afloat. That winter I sent my copy of Hervey Benham`s `Last Stronghold of sail` to a sailing friend of mine from the marines with a caption on the chart inside the cover at the base of an arrow pointing to Brightlingsea,- `My furthest voyage`.

Chapter 2

Learning to Cruise
On the first Saturday afternoon in April I travelled down to Heybridge armed with tools and paint to fit out for the coming season. She seemed to have survived the winter well and I fiddled about without actually getting much done that first afternoon. There were many other craft in the Ballast Hole, mostly over against the Blackwater S.C. clubhouse. Zephyr was on a tongue of land that had once been the seawall before colliers trading into Maldon and Heybridge canal basin had dug out the present little bay for ballast to steady them on the long trip north. There was a broads style craft called Shrimp near me whose owner had come to live in this area from Lincoln and brought his craft with him to use on tidal waters. He soon found that the fin keel was a serious disadvantage and that the lifting cabin top lifted automatically, out by the Bench Head buoy at the rivermouth once the wind piped up. After a season she vanished from this area. In sharp contrast was a large white boat called Corrie whose six foot keel lay in a hole dug in the mud at the edge of the saltings. She belonged to Jim Robertson, an engineer who had been unfit for service with the armed forces and had spent the war years training sea cadets in his lovely centreboard yacht Petrel. After the war he had raced her with the Royal Ocean Racing Club but she was clearly unsuitable, even after conversion to bermudian rig. Now he had purchased this craft, which was a Clyde Thirty, a sort of eight meter without the girth measurement, built in Edwardian times for day racing. Friendships formed on the saltings that spring were to last for many years of east coast and offshore racing until such boats as Corrie were priced right out of the game. The first task on Zephyr was to remove the cutwater and use it as a pattern to make another. Unfortunately when I removed it, the rotten wood fell to pieces. To shape the new wood I painted inside the stempost and plank ends and repeatedly offered it up, rasping wood away wherever it touched. Three, seven inch by a quarter mild steel bolts, the longest that I could buy, were used to fasten it but I never managed to fix the lower one properly. Over the years I often wondered how much strength they had left in them but when she was broken up in 1963 they were still in fine order. Then I burnt off all the paint in the manner of all new owners of wooden boats and started from scratch, a thing that I have never done since or expect to do again. I have long realised that if paint will not fall off, it is best left on. New paint put on damp wood in spring often comes off again within the year, but this time I was lucky for Easter 1949 was the warmest of the century and by Monday evening she began to look very smart. My thoughts turned to cruising and I decided to try a trip to the Isle of Wight. Immediately after Easter I gave notice at work for the end of April and began to sort out the details. Over the winter I made a host of plans and sketches of lifting cabin tops and ingenious tents but they all cost far too much money so I eventually sent off for a sheet of barrage balloon material thirty feet by twelve. After the war this material was advertised widely and it proved very watertight and durable.

Keeping clothes dry was the next problem. This was solved by the purchase of a couple of ex W.D. steel ammunition boxes twenty inches by thirty-six inches and eleven inches deep. They were a godsend and in some ways the most important part of my equipment. For cooking I bought a primus stove and a book on cookery for men only. Things began to look up. A galvanised two-gallon water can at twentythree shillings and sixpence made a big hole in the funds for this was before the days of polythene cans. In fact I hung on at work for another week to help them out and made final preparations to leave on Saturday the 7th of May. Saturday morning found me flat out on my back with stomach trouble that kept me in bed until noon. The breeze at Heybridge soon cheered me as I packed my gear on board during the afternoon while the tide was out. Almost by chance, I took along my knee length waterboots and these turned out to be essential for the type of cruising I was to do. I admit that my enthusiasm was not quite so great as it had been but there was no turning back to those friends whom, I felt certain, were expecting to see me within a week. It was a fine evening with a light breeze from the northeast that gradually freshened and veered east. The sun sank behind me in a crimson glow as Zephyr dropped down the river while the moon rose bold and clear on the starboard bow. My plan was to moor somewhere down river and sail on the ebb at eight in the morning to Burnham, but as I was not particularly tired, I sailed in the brilliant moonlight until long after midnight and then ran back to anchor west of Tollesbury Pier at about 0100hrs. Tell the truth, I toyed with the idea of a night passage to the Crouch but my nerve failed when I pointed the bowsprit into the blackness beyond Bradwell. It was a grand night so I laid the tent on the floorboards and gazed up at the stars until sleep overtook me The first signs of dawn were visible in the eastern sky when I woke at 0400hrs. My back ached and the cold of the night had got into my bones. I put the tent up and made a cup of tea. This was the first time that I had ever used a primus stove, for as a non-smoker, I had not had any matches with which to try it out before. It looked very bright and shiny as I read the instructions by the light of my torch but it was not to stay that way long in the salt air. Tea was made by sprinkling tea leaves onto the water in an ex army mess tin as it came to the boil. After standing for a few minutes, the leaves sink to the bottom and the liquid could be poured off into an ex army pint mug. While drinking my first brew, it suddenly occurred to me to lash the oars on the foredeck from the bowsprit to the shrouds in which fashion I carried them for many years. When I came to get the anchor, I coiled the ten fathoms of coir rope on the foredeck, hooked the anchor round the sampson post with the shank across the foredeck and the stock vertical outside the rubbing strake. At first I put a lashing round the warp but later gave up the practice for it never moved even during the foulest weather. Whilst twisting and turning among my belongings I noticed that one of the steel boxes could be fitted alongside the starboard side of the sternsheets against the centre thwart. The gap left aft between the box and the stern seat could be filled in with the bucket covered by the hatch cover from the transom locker. This gave a reasonably flat level area over six feet long and at least two and a half feet wide on which I slept for the next few weeks. It was hard but a shirt folded under my

hip bone helped a lot. After another spell of dozing rather than actual sleep, I found a lovely morning with the promise of a breeze from the northwest. While waiting for the tide to turn I busied myself checking the one-inch Ordinance Survey maps of the area and the yachtsmans chart of the Essex Rivers. A couple of chaps were fishing off the end of the old pier and all in all, it made a very peaceful scene. At 0745 hrs I got under way as the ebb started and the trip was on. Essex has many detractors but few of them can ever have been in the Blackwater Estuary on a fine summer morning as the mist is swallowed up by the first warm rays of the sun. West Mersea lay away to the north, a comparatively high feature for this coast and in the sheltered harbour, white sails were appearing and moving slowly out towards the open sea. Behind me Osea Island lay like a dream atoll and Tollesbury Pier itself just stood there as it has been doing for so long while the ebb tide gathered momentum about its rotten piles and fingers of gurgling water reached out towards the open sea once more. This pier was removed in the early fifties and little trace of it remains today except the overgrown track running from the shore to the village. The wind seemed to be feeling much the same mood as myself, not particularly bothered , but the tide knew its job and was carrying me out into the blue. Progress was slow, the target piers on the Denghie Flats were in line by 1010 hrs but after this the wind rose from the northwest, backed rapidly west and then south so that I had to beat down to the famous Buxey Beacon of which I had read of so often and was now about to see for the first time. The distance down the coast from the Blackwater is about ten miles, but the distance to be sailed varies with the state of the tide and how much water one needs, for there is little indeed in the Ray Sand Channel at low water where Frank Cowper found twelve feet in 1893. (today, 2003, it dries three or four feet). Waves began to break as the wind rose and I seemed to be making little progress for the ebbing tide was against me. At noon I anchored to bail out and force myself to eat a doorstep of bread and jam. It is one thing in favour of this `dull uninteresting coast` that one can stop almost anywhere, for the bottom is not usually far away. Suddenly the wind went northwest again and I was soon rolling down on the Southwest Buxey Buoy (now renamed the Sunken Buxey) round which a number of yachts seemed to be racing. The fickle wind backed west and settled down to a fine working breeze that made Zephyr heel more than I was used to at that time. A long beat into the river Crouch taught me a lot about the need to work the tides for I had reached the River Roach two miles below Burnham by the time it turned in my favour. When this river turned westward it began to get very lively indeed and I anchored to pull down a reef before turning into the Middleway between Potton and Foulness Islands. Of course it was far too early on the tide for these creeks dry out completely. The marshes didnt seem to have quite the magic about them of which Maurice Griffiths wrote, but I was to love them before the week was out. The dagger plate touched regularly as the boat twisted and turned up the winding creeks. She grounded completely on the long spit that juts out from Rushley Island to separate the Middleway from Narrow Cuts so I had to get over the side to

push her back towards the bridge. This was my first chance to gauge the strength of the tides here. They run very hard indeed on the first of the flood and Zephyr swept quickly down the last mile to the bridge with the fair wind. Its black skeleton suddenly loomed up above the sedge grass on the sea wall, still well above my head and stage one of the trip was over. To my surprise the tide was flowing round the southeastern tip of Rushley Island and back to the Middleway as well as straight under the bridge towards the sea. Having no dinghy, I beached for the night on firm sand, dropping the anchor behind me and taking a line to the shore. I rigged the tent feeling that I was really alone out in the wilds but was to learn different later. When turning the stove off in the morning I must have closed the tap again after releasing the pressure for the warming bowl was full of paraffin. In trying to empty the excess paraffin over the side, the silencer fell into the water and that meant no hot drink to round off the days sport. I seemed to have lost all taste for food so I turned in and got down to some serious sleeping. The tent at this stage was only a rough uncut sheet lashed to some hooks screwed into the topsides about a foot below the gunwale. It had a good test that night for the wind howled and I wondered if it would take off altogether. The amount of traffic over the bridge surprised me. It was only about a hundred yards away and even a bicycle set the whole thing rattling in the open silence of the marshes. Next morning was bright and clear. It was low water and the silencer for the stove lay on the sand a few yards away. After a walk to the nearest farm for some milk, a good cup of tea braced me considerably and the next move was a stroll under the bridge to the famous Maplin Sands across which I hoped to reach the Thames at high tide. The channel shallows seaward of the bridge until it peters out altogether after about half a mile as the seawalls on either side fell away north and south. A pole with a crisscross topmark shows the watershed half a mile out from the shore and beyond it the hard sand falls away very slowly for two or three miles to the River Thames. A hostile wind blew from the northeast and no crossing of the Thames was likely today so I decided to go into Southend, walking from the boat across the mud and sand in my waterboots, which I then hid in the long grass after changing into my shoes. On the road to Great Wakering I was surprised to find a police checkpoint. All cars and pedestrians seemed to be producing passes so I had a chat with the constable to make certain that he would recognise me on my way back. The view of the estuary from the end of Southend Pier rather dulled my appetite for the crossing, although the wind was certainly in the right direction. By the time I got back to the boat the tide had come and gone again. The tent sagged badly between the boom and the gunwale so I sorted out some pieces of wood from the flotsam on the saltings, bound them in pairs with six inches of line between them and hung them over the boom. This doubled the amount of room inside and there was less chance of rain collecting in the hollows. A visit to a friend on a local farm passed away the rest of the afternoon and I turned in soon after eight oclock. The calls of the seabirds over the marshes still ring in my ears. Nowhere else have I heard them so crisp and crystal clear.

The night was very cold and I lit the stove early next morning to warm up the boat a little, a practice I rather dislike in case I dropped off to sleep and something caught fire. It was a lovely clear day with wind from the northeast again. While waiting for the tide to float me just before 1100 hrs, I cut a sump in the floor boards in the stern sheets so that I could bale out while steering. The bridge keeper came along and had a chat, telling me that I would be unable to cross the sands to the Thames until the weekend as they were a firing range and he was not allowed to let anyone through the bridge. This meant several days delay but it couldnt be helped. Anyway we had a long chat while he showed me over the bridge. It is a curious structure, pivoting at the northern end with a curved scorpion style tail loaded with blocks of concrete to balance the weight of the span. It had to be wound up by hand which was very hard work indeed but of course the correct positioning of the blocks can make it much easier. More important from the sailing point of view, he told me a lot about the run of the tides here. About two hours either side of low water the channels are dry except for a few shallow pools near the bridge. The first of the flood appears from the Crouch, flowing up between Rushley and Havengore Islands and under the bridge towards the sea. Eventually the tide flooding across the three miles of sands from the Thames meets the water from the bridge on the watershed by the beacon. Until the early twenties this watershed was the only road to Foulness Island and is marked by line of brooms or withies, from which it gets its name, the Broomway. The tide coming in over the sands is later than that which has made the long journey round from the Crouch and is therefore higher. It overwhelms the tide from the bridge and floods back into the channels among the islands until high water. Then the reverse procedure takes place. It ebbs under the bridge towards the Thames until the Broomway uncovers when the rest runs slowly back into the Crouch until we are left once again with a few shallow pools. Of course I could have lowered the mast but in those days I considered it a Herculean task quite out of the question singlehanded. At high tide there is only a foot or two of clearance under the centre span of the bridge but at the first of the flood there might be enough to get under with the mast up. I was high on the bank and would not float until about an hour before high water so there was no chance of slipping straight under the bridge today. After careful consideration (half the joy of sailing) I decided to sail away on the ebb, exploring west of Rushley Island, back into the Middleway with the ebb and up to Burnham, later returning with the young flood so that I might pass under the bridge and through to Kent. It was a fine sail and with the tide full, I had a much better view of the surrounding countryside than when I had crept along, deep down in the channels, on Sunday evening. The magic of the area began to grip me. Although I had to beat once I reached the River Roach, the tide had begun to ebb by now and progress improved. This was before the days of `cam` and `clam` cleats but over the winter I had devised a clever device for holding the mainsheet that would enable me to release it instantly in a sudden squall. Off Potton Point I gave it a test and found that it wouldnt work! The boat heeled over wildly as she lumbered round into the wind with water pouring over the coamings, giving me the first real scare of my sailing career. Water was well over the floorboards by the

time she righted herself but this was the first sign that Zephyr was the type of boat that suffered fools gladly. She was to suffer many times at the hands of this fool over the years ahead. Of course there was no question of buoyancy although I vaguely hoped that she would float water logged if the worst came to the worst. Later I found that she carried two hundred and eighty pounds of lead on her keel. My course due west up the Crouch brought the wind astern but now the tide was against me. This was my first experience of the sort of seas that can get up when a strong ebb meets a lively east wind in the Crouch and I was scared of gybing, after the experience off Potton Point earlier that day. I kept the jib full of wind and sort of tacked to leeward, coming round into the wind each time I neared the shore. About two hours before low water I beached on the mud at Burnham and enjoyed a stroll along the front among the busy boat yards. It was my first visit and I certainly liked it, but would hate to moor there as it is so crowded and there is little scope for weekend cruising. I got into conversation with some of the old salts on a waterfront bench and became a freeman of Burnham in a manner of speaking in that they showed me how to nudge open the gentlemens lavatory without putting a penny in the slot. Alas, a new building has long since replaced that old one but it is now free anyway. By the time that Zephyr floated again the wind had almost died. I realised that it would be impossible to beat back over the flood tide and round to the bridge, so I took the easy way out and went upstream with the tide. There was only the barest suggestion of a breeze as the sun went down ahead of me. She drifted along surprisingly fast. Peace so peaceful; quiet so quiet, just a few seabirds, the swirl of an occasional fish, the almost full moon over Canewdon Church and the amber glow where the sun had just gone down. I even made a cup of tea under way. It was 2245 hrs when I anchored among the moored yachts at Fambridge, which at the time, seemed to be the safest thing to do as I had no riding light. The fear that I might hook my anchor round the moorings never occurred to me. Ignorance is bliss? Next morning I moved on with the flood soon after 0700 hrs At Hullbridge I went ashore for some stores and discovered sterilised milk (sold in sealed bottles like wine) for the first time together, with several other things. This time the boat was still afloat when I returned unlike my experience at Burnham the previous day when I had beached on the ebb tide. This business of getting ashore without a dinghy would turn out to be the main problem with this type of cruising. On with the flood tide to the head of navigation at Battlesbridge where I had my first real meal of the trip. The sky was overcast at high water the wind came in easterly with vicious squalls. After a few tacks down river I beached against the cant of the saltings on the Northern Bank about a mile below the mill for it was too lively for my liking. It may seem silly to be scared so far inland (fifteen miles) in such a narrow part of the river but I read a few weeks later that a chap had drowned while sailing there. This system of beaching the boat on the mud against the wall of the saltings, usually about two feet high, is very convenient for one can step ashore in shoes, and odd gear can be dumped out of the boat onto the grass. There is of course the danger that the boat will topple outwards as the tide falls and to counter this I took a line

from the masthead to the anchor, which I planted out in the field. I tried a tinned Christmas pudding and found it very good indeed. For several years after the war they could be bought very reasonably during the summer and could be eaten hot or cold. Over the years I knocked them back by the dozen. With plans to leave on the night ebb, I got down to sleep early. I was settling down into the rhythm of life and began to sleep well. Too well in fact! It was dark when I woke to the first chuckle of the returning tide but there was no hurry so I dozed off for another hour. Suddenly I woke to find the boat heeling over. I clambered out into the night to find that the tide was well away and the boat had shifted for I hadnt troubled about fore and aft lines. Her stern was well aground but the bow was high over the saltings and as she settled the weight must come on the bowsprit. Already the bobstay was as tight as a fiddle string as it cut through the rough grass into the firm mud. Suddenly my eye alighted on the dagger plate, a fine piece of armoured plate that a previous owner had put into her to improve her windward qualities for racing. It did noble work that night as a gigantic spade. I soon cut a slot into the saltings for the bowsprit to drop into and the panic was over for another twelve hours. That ladies and gentlemen, is the only advantage I have ever discovered for a dagger plate over a centreboard. So to sleep again. Next morning I walked across to the farm and left a bottle there which the cowman promised to fill with milk while I shopped in Wickford. When I returned about mid morning, they gave me back the empty bottle saying that the farmer had told them not to let me have any milk. Halfway back to the boat, I was hailed by the farmer who gabbled away furiously in some foreign lingo. I explained that I had been forced to stay there because of the weather and intended to leave on the noon tide. He gabble on and I repeated my story time and time again. Suddenly his face broke out into a broad grin, he did everything but throw his arms round me and kiss me and we parted the best of friends. I have often wondered what that conversation was about. The only theory that I can come up with is that he feared the possibility that I intended to moor there permanently as a houseboat. The wind was still easterly but a little easier and I sailed at 1515 hrs at the turn of the tide. Just how many boards one has to make between Battlesbridge and the River Roach is anybodys guess but it seemed a long, long trip. With the spring ebb tide, everything was in my favour but of course the tide at Battlesbridge is an hour later than at Key Reach so that only five hours are left to get into the River Roach before low water. By the time I got to Burnham I was watching the clock anxiously. It was cold and I was glad of my duffle coat under the overcast sky. As I eased the sheets round Branket Spit, the clouds rolled away to the southeast leaving a clear blue sky. Already the wind was dropping off when I grounded on the way to the bridge and I seized the opportunity to make a quick cup of tea while the water gurgled past the boat. In a few minutes she swung to her anchor, eager to be on her way. The wind died away completely in the Middleway but the boat glided along on the tide. Magic is the only is the only word to describe that evening. The light was fading and the moon quietly introduced herself above the sea wall. Even the sea birds seemed to have lost their normal fears and just sat there in the silent gloom as I glided past. The

only sound was the occasional ripple of the water over some irregularity in the shiny mud banks. By the time that I reached the bridge, the mast would not pass under by about a foot. Just too late! I rowed back fifty yards and anchored for the night, had a cup of cocoa and so to sleep. At about 0200 hrs a great roaring noise seemed to be shaking the whole boat. Through the open flap at the stern, the sinister black frame of the bridge loomed very close indeed. I rushed aft and looked out to find the ebb tide rushing past the transom out under the bridge towards the sea. My seven-pound anchor had dragged and now I was but ten paces from the bridge. I had horrible visions of being swept hard against the cold ironwork. My! How that tide was roaring past! The full moon looked quietly down as I wondered what the hell to do. I could never have rowed against such a tide so I ended up just sitting there waiting, Macawber like, for something to happen. After about a quarter of an hour I realised that the noise was getting less, the tide was easing and the danger was over. Next time I looked out, it was daylight and the boat lay well away from the bridge in a few inches of water. Friday was misty with light winds from the northeast. I spent the morning shaping the tent to the coamings so that I could walk on tip-toe along the side decks when it was erected. Brass hooks were screwed in every six inches. The edge of the balloon material was cut to shape and the lower edge doubled back. Holes were made every three inches and a line threaded through which gave alternate three-inch lengths outside and inside. The outer ones clipped over the brass hooks. At the bow and the stern I fitted double flaps so that the outer one kept the wind out whichever way the boat lay. Suddenly I realised that the returning tide was halfway up my boots. The bridge keeper came along to say that the shoot might be cancelled today in view of the poor visibility, which would mean that I could sail across the sands to the Thames. Actual permission came at 1340 hrs, three minutes before high water. I made a very poor show of getting under way, such was my excitement to get to sea. My guide was an artillery hand bearing compass and the only chart to hand was the Bartholemews half-inch road map of Kent, which gave some of the buoys and banks in the estuary. My plan was to clear the flats and then steer due south in the hope of finding Whitstable. The sea was smooth, the wind was about force two from the northeast and it was a very quiet trip indeed. The shape of the Isle of Sheppey gradually grew out of the mist and after picking up the West Middle Buoy, I altered course slightly more easterly. The East Columbine buoy helped me to pick Whitstable Harbour out of the mist. I found my way into the entrance, running aground almost immediately. A local informed me that it was as good as low water, which of course was absolute nonsense, but at the time I had not developed a mistrust of such local experts. After a cup of tea I began to look around me. The dirty little harbour with its high slimy walls looked very much less attractive than the open saltings. In fact the tide didnt turn until 2000 hrs and it was 2200 hrs before I floated and moved to anchor for the night on the mudflats. It was an awful job trying to cook supper as she rolled and tossed monotonously in the slight swell. I was beginning to realise the vast

difference between artificial harbours along open coasts and the sheltered creeks of Essex.

Chapter 3

Learning the Thames Estuary

Saturday dawned warm and sunny. Before the tide returned I slipped ashore for bread and milk and a one-inch O.S. map of the Swale for I had little urge to press on at once towards the South coast. A chap working on one of the small fleet of eighteen foot international dinghies moored there sent me on my way to Oare Creek for the weekend It was a steady run past the massive Horse Sand to pick up a trail of withies that led to the loveliest creek that I have ever found. What a contrast to the harbour at Whiststable! I moored opposite the little church and stayed all day Sunday. An elderly lady from a houseboat brought me a couple of eggs (rationed at this time), complete with a little salt in a wisp of paper. This was typical of the friendship and help that a youngster cruising in a small boat got in those days. During the day I walked round the western bank and down to Harty Ferry in warm sunshine. Life seemed good. On Monday I sailed with the ebb tide at 0450hrs for Margate but made little progress beating into the light northeasterly wind. By low water I had only reached Herne Bay, halfway to the North Foreland, and it began to pipe up. The lonely feeling of being out on an open hostile, shelterless coast overwhelmed me and I turned tail and ran back into the Swale. The fact was that I was just not capable of such a bold trip yet. It would be far better for me to spend the time exploring the Thames Estuary. Looking at the map, I noticed Windmill Creek running three miles into the Isle of Sheppey from the south and worked my way in there at high water. Zephyr lay comfortably against the rotting timber of an old barge wharf a mile in and I stayed all day Tuesday walking over the island to the north shore to enjoy the fine view across the Thames whence I had come. More shopping included a Valour wick stove for slow cooking and warming the boat. That evening the first rain of the trip tested the tent, which proved to be completely waterproof. Leaving at high water on Wednesday morning Zephyr worked her way westward through the Swale, finding plenty of room under the old iron swing bridge at Kingsferry. It was very squally off Queenborough and I was glad to pass into the shelter of the extensive marshes south of the river Medway where I was to learn a most important lesson about tides. It was already past springs. I worked my way south as the tide filled the channels towards Halstow and eventually put her right against the saltings handy for the seawall near to a cherry orchard. The tide left me at 1630hrs and did not come back until 1100 hrs the following Monday morning! I am one sailor who never forgets that successive high tides in the Thames area between three oclock and nine oclock get lower every day and must be treated with caution when beaching. Now, I always watch the water drop at least six inches before letting the boat ground and begin to dry. The days passed pleasantly enough with fine easterly weather under clear blue skies and I walked for miles in the Kent countryside. Returning to the boat on Sunday, I was delighted to see that the tide had been back into the little mud harbour and moved my waterboots, which I had left

stuck in the mud beside the boat, a hint that I was not smart enough to take. Walks out over the mudflats showed that it would not be necessary to retrace my route back to the main river as I could cut through the saltings westward at high tide directly towards Chatham. Monday brought the tide back but the weather changed completely, with only the lightest of airs from the west under an overcast sky. By the end of the day I had merely reached the entrance to Otterham Creek. Tuesday brought strong westerly winds with plenty of rain so I moved in close to the shelter of the seawall for the day. As I wanted to use the flood tide up the River Medway, I let her drop out into the middle of the creek on the night tide so that she would float as early as possible next day. My sleep was interrupted by voices and I looked out to find a barge leaving under sail with the crew wondering if I was adrift. Next day I bought a riding light on the basis that it was better to be alive and broke than dead with thirtyfive shillings in the bank. Each day I made a little progress westward, the main trouble being that in order to get ashore, I had to beach the boat and thus did not float early enough next day to get the full benefit of the six hours of flood tide. It rained and blew hard from the southwest each day. On Thursday morning in the Hoo Marshes I lit the wick burner stove early for warmth and went to sleep again. It must have been turned up too high for I woke to find black soot everywhere. Luckily I found a public bath house in Chatham. Friday found me near one of the old abandoned cement works along the upper Medway. It seemed to have all the air of the overgrown deserted city in Kiplins `Jungle book`. After the water had gone, small boys galore appeared through the mud to visit me. I was surprised to see one of them taking off his muddy shirt and putting it back on inside out, So as me mum wont see I got it dirty, he told me cheerfully. On Saturday I made steady progress through heavy rain under Aylesford Bridge and up to the massive lock sea lock at Allington. Once through onto fresh water I found that there was little wind among the trees for me to sail but a motor barge gave me a tow for a mile or so until I found a nice spot to lay alongside the towpath. The sun burst through soon afterwards and that night I slept soundly with no need to keep one ear open in fear that the winds or tides would disturb me. On Sunday morning I moved over to the western bank and while walking along past the moored craft, noticed some galvanised pipe cots in the bushes. I found the owner who willingly gave me one. Among my gear was stretcher canvas which I had bought to use between two oars but had not found anywhere in the boat to fit it up. Now it fitted the pipe cot frame which I set up between the centre thwart and the stern bench and found it to be sheer paradise after three weeks sleeping on a hard steel box. Later in the week I cut a little out of one end so that it fitted under the foredeck starboard side mast. All the spare gear could be stowed on the bunk and when the tent was folded I left it fixed to the coamings from the mast round the starboard side as far as the centre thwart, merely lifting it over the boom and tucking it under itself over the head of the bunk. Life began to get organised which is the secret of all small boat cruising. I didnt realise it but the best of the trip was about to come.

The wind was westerly on Sunday and I passed out through the sea lock just before high water. A warm sun took the place of the previous weeks rain. At Aylesford Bridge I had to wait for the tide to fall low enough for me to pass under at 1700 hrs. Once I was clear of the trees, the miles began to flash by, Snodland 1800 hrs, Wouldham 1830 hrs, Borstal 1900 hrs and under Rochester bridge at 1910 hrs to moor off Gillingham just after 2000 hrs. Next day I did some shopping and sailed over to Stoke Creek on the north bank to wait for a favourable slant to enable me to cross the Thames back to Essex. There was a chap there with a houseboat for which he was building a jetty out of massive planks twenty feet long or more and many inches thick, all of which he had found floating about the river. Quite a thought for night sailing! God help any small craft, which hit one of them while sailing hard. He was the local tallyman for the Isle of Grain and took me round the island. Little did I realise that this was the last chance I should get see it before the oil refineries spread over the area engulfing the old pier at Port Victoria. One evening I left my waterboots in the mud by the side of the boat and forgot them when I bedded down for the night. The night tide floated them off and a new pair cost me thirty shillings, which made it an expensive lesson. Always tie them to the boat by using the holes near the top of the boots on the inside edge. On Thursday afternoon I sailed as soon as Zephyr floated, about two hours before high water, and set off for Havengore. By this time I was feeling on top of the world as life became more comfortable and my competence increased daily. The compulsion to sing when out of earshot of my fellow men was irresistible and I sang so heartily, so often, that I began to get a sore throat. Off Sheerness the waves were rather too big for my liking so I took down the mainsail as it would be a difficult ask once I got out onto the broad Thames. The gunter rig has its good points but it is the very devil to lower singlehanded in a lop (I have since realised that this can be overcome by using a double topping lift so that the gaff and sail must fall on top of the boom fully under control). Things were much quieter under jib only but it is a small sail and slower progress meant that I would be too late to get across the sands to the bridge at Havengore before they dried. The coastline looked bewildering flat and I didnt realise that the outer measured mile beacons could be used as leading marks to the entrance to the gore. My sounding pole touched miles out but the depth shallowed very slowly until I grounded still miles from the seawall. By time that I had bailed out and made cup of tea, the water was completely out of sight! A friend had lent me his copy of `Riddle of the Sands` to read on this trip and thus I remembered to put up the riding light and lay out the anchor before walking to the bridge keepers cottage to arrange to pass through next morning. Little did I realise at the time that it was a three-mile walk. Still it was pleasant enough splashing along through the shallow pools and had anyone called `Davis`, I am sure that I would have answered automatically. The sun was low in the sky now and somehow the sands seemed to reflect a strange blue gold sheen. Fortunately I remembered to take a bearing on the boat with my ex WD handbearing compass before turning along the deepening creek to the bridge. After a pleasant chat with the keeper, I walked back into the night. To my dismay the anchor light was indistinguishable among the maze

of bright lights over on the Kentish shore. I walked on the compass bearing, swinging along into the breeze, thrilled by a sense of loneliness. A sea bird or two flapped up into the darkness as I splashed by. Regularly I dropped to my knees to try and pick out the riding light above the shore lights. It was a relief to get on board again. I do not think that I have ever been more pleased to find a friend. A rough calculation showed that I would float about 0345hrs next morning. I need have had no fears of oversleeping for the tide came in with a fine southerly breeze behind when it returned at 0340hrs. The boat did everything but stand on her head and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I made a cup of cocoa. She was soon snubbing hard at her anchor as the waves began to come over the foredeck. It was no good leaving before the watershed covered but eventually I had to move on. As she raced along through the shallow water, waves curled up astern and I had an interesting lesson in catching them just right on the quarter so that they didnt break over me with a cold douche. The bridge went up at 0445 hrs as a golden orb burst above the horizon in the east. I was soon swallowed up by dark clouds and rain was on the way by the time I reached the River Roach and turned west to Rochford where I dried alongside a little jetty by a farm. A cowman at the farm was a keen sailor and I was able to dry my gear by their boiler later in the day. On Saturday I woke fresh and fit for a days sport. The tide turned at 0600 hrs and I sailed off into a glaring sunrise with a growing westerly breeze behind me. Progress was fine but rain came before I reached the River Crouch at 0730 hrs. Out in the Ray Sand Channel there was a far more wind than I liked and after a sharp splitting sound in the tiller, I dropped the mainsail and continued under jib alone. It had been my plan to visit Maldon but there was three hours to wait for the tide and with memories of the first trip with Peter a year ago, I decided to carry on for Pin Mill. It was a wild scene off the Knoll that morning. A keel-boat passed me beating south and at one time or another I saw most of her bottom as she pitched into the rising summer gale. A dark patch was creeping up behind me and I quote direct from the log here. `Rain and hail like bullets, wind must have been gale force, the boat seemed to fly along. Waves mounted, the troughs vanished in the mist while the crests stood out cold and black like mountains in the clouds. The sheer force almost tore me out of my seat. Stangely, I wasnt frightened, just very alert and tense. Later I learned that one boat was dismasted in the River Blackwater and two of my friends lost their mainsails in that squall but remember they were made of cotton in those days and almost certainly prewar. Heaven only knows what would have happened if I had been caught with my mainsail up! A calmish patch followed but the wind soon settled down to a steady blow from the southwest . There were plenty of squalls about but they kept clear of me until I reached the shelter of Harwich Harbour. The coast runs east at first but soon swings more northerly and I gradually began to enjoy some shelter from the shore. Once past the cliffs of Walton on Naze, I began to look for the seaplane crane that was recommended by Francis B.Cooke as the guide to Harwich five miles away. It meant bearing up more than I expected and I wondered if I could fetch into the harbour under jib only. To make matter worse, the jib began to tear from the clew making it out of the question to luff up to the large waves

coming in on the beam as I crossed Dovercourt Bay. The only thing to do was to bear away which carried me down to leeward. The mainsail was not reefed and it would take too long to reef while I drifted eastward. Anyway, I passed into Harwich at 1225hrs having made the thirty-five miles passage from Rochford in eight and a quarter hours, most of the way under jib only. Once in Harwich, I anchored in the lee of the town to reef the mainsail and let another squall pass over. Then I began to beat slowly up the River Orwell towards Pin Mill as the sun broke through. Zephyr is very poor to windward under reefed mainsail only. The jib I had was too small for normal work and too big for rough going. This was my first visit to Pin Mill which I had read of as the `Mecca` of east coast yachtsmen and I liked it as much any of them. I beached over on the western shore and the warm sun soon dried out my gear. The barge Redoubtable was fitting out on the hard together with other craft of all sorts and sizes. Next morning the local sailmaker behind the Butt and Oyster pub mended my sail for two shillings and sixpence. From now on the coast north was completely unknown to me. The O.S. map showed the River Deben just round the corner and I left at 1830 hrs as the wind began to ease for a very steady trip out of the harbour and up the coast to the Deben entrance. This was the first calm period I had experienced for some time and I enjoyed every moment of it. There was all the time in the world to get into the River Deben, which is only five miles north. The red lights on the pylons of the wartime radar towers on the northern shore guided me after the sun went down and darkness closed in. It was 0100 hrs when I reached the bar but couldnt make any sense of it so I her drift out a little and anchored to doze until daylight. At 0400hrs a fine breeze carried me in over the bar but it soon died, leaving me drifting along on a sea of sky among the marshes while all the birds in creation seemed to be singing their heads off around me. Wind came in again off Waldringfield to give me a fine sail to Woodbridge where I worked my way into the saltings south of the town to beach under a great oak tree. Once the tide had gone, I might have well been on the fringe of Epping Forest! That evening a chap came along who had been the mate on the Tuesday, the last barge on the River Deben . She had been engaged carrying shingle from Shingle Street, a few miles up the coast, to Woodbridge for road building but the owner skipper had never been paid and was eventually found dead on board, presumably of malnutrition. Zephyr was already afloat when I woke on Tuesday. After breakfast I sailed up to the town and anchored in midstream from where the local ferryman put me ashore for I was getting short of food. Going to the butchers with my ration card could have two results. Some just palmed me off with any old meat that they wanted to get rid of while others, possibly sailing men, went to the other extreme. I left Woodbridge with a whole rabbit and a big piece of steak. It was 1115 hrs by the time I got away for a swift trip down river. A little rain passed over but the sun came out again as I reached the bar. The strong ebb tide racing southwest from the river met the ebb tide coming northeast up the coast in a rare old popple which threw the boat about alarmingly but I was soon swept clear.

The five miles due north up the coast to the entrance to the dreaded River Ore passed quickly and I found the Martello towers very useful landmarks. Shingle Street, a cluster of cottages along the shoreline, looked a very desolate spot. As all writers predict, I had a job to spot the entrance to the river but by hugging the shore, I found my way in with no trouble and soon reached Orford where I bought some milk and cakes before pressing on to Aldeburgh with the strong flood tide. The last part of the trip was done under jib, for it was blowing hard now. I anchored in the sweep of the river off Slaughden Quay not realising that the water is very deep here. She began to drag but the local club boatman put me on a mooring for the night and seemed worried at my plan to stay on board. Have you got anything to eat? he asked. Some hours later I lay on my bunk having eaten a complete rabbit together with onions and potatoes. Next morning at half past five I woke feeling fresh and bright. The tide was flooding, there was a light breeze and the obvious thing to do was to press on upstream to the first road bridge at Snape. It is a delightful spot. The village is about a mile from the bridge along a lovely country lane. The local shopkeeper told me that no one in the village sold newspapers but that if I came back in half an hour he would get me one from the paper-boy. Half an hour later there was still no paper but as I left the shop the local bobby was very pleased to see me. He seemed to suspect that I was one of the two lads who had escaped from the nearby Borstal Institution the previous day. I explained that I had come by boat and had been sailing very hard for several days so had not found time to shave. We walked back to the bridge from where I showed him Zephyr anchored in midstream. Where is your dinghy? he asked triumphantly. I explained that she was anchored but that a lazy painter lay under the water from the boat to a stake hidden in the long grass on the bank. A pull on the line and I could step on board. He believed me at last and we had a chat on the lovely old bridge (long gone) until the tide turned and it was time to go. I took the ebb back to Slaughden Quay where I beached for the night. From here it is nine miles back to the open sea but the sea is only a few yards away from the quay over the shingle bank. It broke through completely in 1953 and since then hundreds of thousands of pounds have been spent in keeping Father Neptune at bay. The idea of sailing in at Shingle Street and going out again at Aldeburgh is always attractive to yachtsmen but the snag is that millions would have to be spent to raise the sea walls for the rise and fall in the river is about seven feet against twelve feet outside. Furthermore there would be a danger of erosion taking most of the town of Aldeburgh into the sea. The village of Slaughden once sent fishing vessels to Iceland for cod and the chap who helped with my mooring told me there were twenty-seven kids in the school in his time. Today it has all gone! Now it was time to think of the journey back home. Thursday brought a light breeze from the east and I made a pleasant passage round into Harwich and up the River Orwell as far as Freston from where I walked into Ipswich to collect mail on Friday. Later in the day I sailed round into the River Stour and drifted rather than sailed towards Manningtree. By the time I anchored for the night, the tent was

already up and supper nearly ready. Small boat life was beginning to swing along smoothly. I shopped in Manningtree morning while the tide flooded. The westerly wind gave me a fine sail down river and across Dovercourt bay into Walton Backwaters where I moored for the night on the eastern bank just below Foundary Hard. To prevent the boat swinging inshore and drying high on the mud during the night, I used the dagger plate as a stern anchor to keep the boat lying fore and aft along the channel. Next day as she floated I found that I could not pull the plate out of the mud. I remembered reading that the mud here has a reputation for being sticky stuff and that barges would lay a chain under them before taking the ground ready for loading. If the mud held them down as the tide rose, the chain was hauled back and forth to break the suction under the boat and release her. My only plan was to make fast the plate as short as possible to the stern and wait for the bow to rise as the tide came in.(because the plate held the stern down). Then I walked forward and the leverage pulled the plate out of the mud. The wind was easterly and I worked my way along the Twizzle channel, across the Wade and through the maze of saltings south of Skippers Island to Landmere. With the ebb I left the Backwaters and worked my way round the Naze to reach and run down the coast to Brightlingsea. Monday was a heavy overcast day with little wind. I went up the River Colne as far as Wivenhoe with the flood and returned on the ebb to take the evening flood into the River Blackwater. In pitch darkness (no street lights in those days & no brilliantly lit power station) I got lost somewhere off the tail of Northey Island so I anchored for the night. Next day, Tuesday, in warm sunshine I sailed up to my mooring and so ended my first cruise. Looking back over fifty years later, I realise that it was the most important sailing experience of my life. Sailing day in and day out, one gets the feel of the boat and the problems of winds and tides and learns far more than can ever be learnt in years of day and weekend sailing. I sailed well over three hundred miles in five and a half weeks which is not much by my standards today but it had given me a working knowledge of the whole estuary on which to build for the future. Of course far too little time had been spent actually sailing, far too much time was spent ashore but some good passages had been made. I settled back into the routine of weekend sailing, a very different chap from the one who battled home from Brightlingsea a year before. Zephyr was improved with a larger jib with reef points, which would be useful when running without the mainsail in heavy weather. Little did I realise that it would be twenty-four years before I used it for that purpose.

Chapter 4

A Winter on the Broads

The glorious of summer of 1949 inevitably drew to a close. The sun set earlier each weekend and the first signs of autumn were appearing on the Blackwater Estuary. I had been lucky enough to secure a years training at the agricultural institute at Woodbastwick Hall in Norfolk on the River Bure opposite Horning Ferry and I planned to be the first student to arrive by water. The coast beyond Orfordness was unknown to me but friends advised that it was much easier to enter the Broads through Lowestoft than through Yarmouth although the latter is handier for the North Broads. I would have to pick my weather carefully. The trip was planned for the first week in October. Just how long it would take was difficult to estimate. If I left Maldon at high water with a fair wind, I knew from experience that the ebb would carry me as far as the Naze. Dependant on conditions, I could then put into Harwich or press on north if things looked settled. There is a very bare stretch of coast north of Orfordness. Both Cooke and Griffiths write of it with respect and it is no place to be caught out in a small boat if the wind pipes up from the east. High water on Saturday was at 2000 hrs so I planned to cover the coast I knew in darkness and do the rest in daylight. The morning was fine and when the bus dropped me near my moorings at Heybridge, the tide was already ebbing but I still had a long wait until I could wade out to Zephyr for at the time I did not own a dinghy. In any case I felt in no hurry to leave such a pleasant spot, so I settled down on the seawall to admire the view. The retreating tide sparkled with the blue of the sky and only the chill in the breeze reminded me that it was October. One or two local craft had already been laid up but most of them still swung to their moorings. Eventually I waded out and climbed on board, dropping down to Osea where I anchored to wait for the evening ebb. At 1900 hrs there wasnt the slightest sign of a breeze so I settled down for a good nights sleep. Sunday morning dawned fine and clear. After a light breakfast I sailed at 0815 hrs over the last of the flood. The wind came and went in a carefree fashion oblivious to my need to put some sea miles behind me. To dodge the flood I cut across Thirslet Spit to Tollesbury Pier at 1000 hrs by which time the Parita Bay, a wartime liberty ship laid up in the river for most of the summer, was beginning to swing with the first of the ebb. It was very hot indeed and I began to worry about sunstroke. The wind just couldnt make up its mind. At times the foresail would fill for a few moments, only to sag back in the lee of the mainsail again. I tried bearing it out with a boathook but it wouldnt stand properly as it is rather a heavy sail. Sales Point drew abeam at 1205 hrs. I am no stranger to natural beauty but the scene off Mersea Island that morning will live in my memory forever. At first, progress was poor, almost alarmingly so, and it was 1350 hrs when I reached Clacton Pier, but a fine breeze came in from the southwest and soon Zephyr began to roll along. The tide turned before I reached Walton Pier but she made fine progress over the flood

tide and I began to wonder if I should have to reef. She only had single shrouds and I am always cautious when running before strong winds. Dovercourt Bay opened out to the west and I set the bows on the pylons behind Woodbridge Haven. Felixtowe Pier seemed to take a long time to pass onto the port quarter and I began to think about a night passage. The breeze looked settled so I decided to press on and swung the bowsprit towards the lighthouse at Orfordness whose regular white flash every five seconds beckoned me on. The coastline drew dim and I began to feel very, very lonely. A light shone temptingly from what must have been the mouth of the Ore. My original two pound piece of fruit cake was getting rather small so I halved it to leave some for midnight. It was out of the question to cook anything at all underway so I had a tin of scotch broth cold. Then I put on all my sweaters, topped them off with a duffle coat and covered the lot with an army gas cape. (Oilskins were far too dear in those days). It takes a lot of cold to get through that lot! There were no navigation lights but I kept a torch handy to shine on the sails. In any case I kept well inshore out of the way of steamers (famous last words?). The moon rose out of the sea to guide me and there was no dew that night to damp everything down. The wind was easier now but still sufficient to keep her rolling along. I settled back on the stern seat with the tiller under my arm and let my thoughts wander where they fancied. They ran over the many wrecks that must have taken place on this coast and the souls of those who perished. I rather pride myself on my contempt for the supernatural but out there alone with the wind, the waves and the moonlight, I couldnt suppress a few cold shudders down my spine. Suddenly a great galleon loomed out of the night on the starboard bow. It was a red and white striped spherical buoy marking the Whiting Bank. I sailed close in to Orfordness but seemed to take a long, long time to pass it. The tides must run very strongly here. It was difficult to estimate the distance from the shore but the noise of the breaking waves on the shingle beach was very loud, far too loud for my liking so I eased of a little but in fact I need not have worried with an offshore wind for the shingle is very steep and I could probably have sailed within a few feet of the land. Now I steered north by the compass until I could use the lights of Aldeburgh to judge my distance and direction. The town was abeam at 2245 hrs and I picked up a red light which bore due north and must I assumed be Southwold. Now the tide was in my favour again and the miles slipped away astern. The moon sank behind the shore but the stars shone all the brighter for it. At 0045 hrs I was able to pick out the dim framework of the harbour entrance at Southwold and I toyed with the idea of going in. Thank heaven I decided to press on for I realised when I came back this way in daylight that it was merely the town pier and that the harbour was at Walberswick half a mile south. Once more I steered north by compass until a very bright light appeared due north which I guessed to be Lowestoft. Gradually a maze of lights opened up ahead of me. A dull blade of phosphorescence fanned out from the rudder blade and the night sailing seemed great fun. A small boat seems to be so much bigger at night. An orange light and a blue light stood out boldly from the rest and I found the harbour entrance between them. Once inside the pier heads, I was met by an awful

stench of fish, the steady throb of an engine somewhere in the middle distance and a strange atmosphere of captivity. Almost without thinking, I turned back out to sea and set off up the coast to Yarmouth. There was no obvious entrance so closed the high coast, steering on a likely light but found myself in shallow water and anchored at 0530hrs for the rest of the night, crawling under the tent over the bunk to drop off to sleep in seconds. It was daylight when I woke to find cold hard clouds racing overhead and the harbour entrance about five hundred yards away to the north. The light on which I had been steering must have been on top of Gorleston cliffs. Up sails and into Yarmouth. The tide certainly runs hard through the three-mile long harbour. There was little wind among the wharves and warehouses but the strong tide soon carried me to the first bridge and I rounded up alongside to take down the mast, which was stepped on the keel. This was the first time that I had done it and it did not take as long as I expected. Within a year I would be passing under bridges in less than fifteen minutes. I moved on upstream under the bridges, paddling with one oar and steering with my knee against the tiller. The clouds rolled away and the sun shone down once more. Yarmouth Yacht Station looked a very uncomfortable place at which to stay so I pressed on to the first waterside village at Stokesby, which meant a hard beat but it was good to be among the reed beds of the Broads again. The tide turned against me for the last few miles but I moored up at 1315 hrs, hurrying ashore for some bread to find the shops closed for the dinner hour and I had a long hungry wait. Once fed, I slept the clock round. Tuesday brought a typical autumn morning on the Broads, thick mist with a suggestion of blue sky above, the sure promise of a fine day. Of course there was not a drop of wind but the tide was flooding so I left the tent erect and paddled along gondola fashion, making steady progress to Acle bridge where of course the mast had to come down again. A chap I had met at Stokesby waved me alongside for a cup of tea and by the time we had finished chatting, the mist had gone and there was already enough wind to give me steerage-way when I hoisted the sails. This stretch of the Broads from Acle to St Bennets Abbey is one of the best sailing areas on the North Broads these days. At Horning Hall dyke a couple of people recognised my Little Ship Club burgee and waved to me. They were Roy Pike on Dawn Wind and Mrs Saunders on Butterfly, both veteran Broads sailors with whom I became firm friends over the years. They recommended a yard at Horning at which to leave the boat and I pressed on to make the most of the flood tide. The banks along the last few miles to Horning are very thickly wooded and sailing craft must have a fair tide. It was just 1500 hrs when I reached the yard near Horning staithe. Some weeks later I moved her round to Decoy Broad for the winter where I nearly lost her over the Christmas holiday. She was left against a tiny wooden jetty under which the bank seemed to shelve gradually and I assumed that it continued at the same slope so that she was almost aground. In fact it was eight or ten feet deep and when I returned in the New Year she was only just afloat. Some years later a book was published proving that these broads were made by peat cutting in the middle ages and Decoy Broad was mentioned as one of the deepest.

With the first signs of spring I got busy on the boat with the intention of sailing the first week in March. In fact it came in so fine that I sailed for a few hours the week before. On the following Saturday I left the Broad after lunch and sailed down the River Bure and up the River Thurne to Hickling Broad where I anchored out in the middle of the Broad for the night returning to Decoy Broad next day. Apart from a few frost-biting dinghies, I had the Broads to myself, which I found much to my liking and well worth the discomfort of the cold nights. Friday the tenth of March dawned dull and cloudy and the weather forecast was not encouraging. I had three and a half days holiday for half term so I planned to sail from Horning to Yarmouth, thence down the coast to Lowestoft and back via the rivers Waveney and Yare. Food was a problem, for strict rationing was still in force but a young lady sailing enthusiast in the village managed to get me a week,s rations. I polled Zephyr out of the narrow duke at 1340 hrs and the northwest wind blew me slowly over the flood tide down to Thurne Mouth by the time the ebb started, which improved progress no end. The gold of the reed beds made up most of the colour along the banks. Ducking the mast got easier each time I did it. Below Acle the wind took off as the light faded and I continued on through Stokesby and past the Stracey Arms public house, the last accepted mooring above Yarmouth. The heavy tanned mainsail hung limp but the little boat just answered the tiller and I was able to keep her in midstream to take advantage of the rest of the ebb tide, which runs hard along here. It was a dark night but the lonely wind pumps stood out boldly on the skyline. Occasionally they sprang to life as the lights of passing cars on the main road illuminated them. The lights of Yarmouth glowed ahead, but I gave up somewhere near the five mile house. There is little traffic so early in the year and I moored to a single anchor in midstream with an anchor light. Next morning, it was 0545 hrs when I got the stove going. Away half an hour later with a light breeze from the west that soon hardened to take me into Yarmouth at 0715 hrs. It seemed a long journey through the harbour and I wondered if the flood might set in before I got out to sea but luck was with me. At 0835 hrs I glided out through the tall piers and found a light sea with more wind than I needed. The little lady heeled over as I passed out of the shelter of Gorleston cliffs and gleaming white fingers of icy water began to reach up over the starboard bow and run across the foredeck. Presently Lowestoft loomed cold and grey out of the morning haze and ninetyfive minutes after leaving Yarmouth I entered the wide spacious harbour. To my surprise the locals wanted my name and port of departure! Then my problems began. There was too much wind for me to take down the mast and paddle through the bridge even with the aid of the little tide that flows here. It was impossible to sit down and row with both oars when the mast was down. Eventually a steamer came through and the chaps on the swing bridge gave me a tow through while it was open. Once into Lake Lothing, I got the mast up, close reefed the sails and beat steadily to Mutfort lock through which I could enter Oulton Broad. In those days the lock opened on demand and I was soon beating across the Broad to the shelter of the trees over on the western side where I had a meal and a nap.

In the warmth of the tent I suddenly felt very tired and weary. The sky was still dull and the wind seemed to be blowing even harder. It was quite struggle to suppress my more lethargic instincts and get under way again. Once out of the tail of the broad I found a fine breeze down the dyke connecting the Broad with the River Waveney. This was of course dug by hand dead straight. Originally all the Broads rivers drained out through Yarmouth which gave that port a monopoly of all the waterborne trade to and from this extensive area. What is now Oulton Broad was merely the head of Lake Lothing and not connected to the Broads navigation at all. The lock at Mutford was built to hold back the water in Oulton Broad, which together with the dyke to the Waveney, meant that trade would be carried on through Lowestoft as far as Norwich and Beccles. The water of the dyke was like a mirror that day, the reed beds on either side protecting it from the strong cross wind. One of the joys of the Broads is the thrill of sailing very hard and fast in still water, watching the wake rippling into the reeds on either hand astern. Once in the River Waveney, it was a hard beat all the way. For the first hour the last of the flood tide was with me but once the ebb set in progress was reduced to a few yards on each tack. I battled on until 1645 hrs when I moored in the shelter of some trees hard against the bank, assuming that the rise and fall here was as negligible as on the upper River Bure(six to nine inches). As the light faded the sky cleared for a few moments and the countryside was lit with a rich golden flush. I had a stroll along the bank to stretch my legs and then got back to find her aground with the tide already fallen over six inches. She would dry out completely and must topple outwards into the channel. A line from the masthead to a tree solved this problem but it was a rather worrying nights sleep after the lapping of the waves on the bottom on the hull died away completely. My bunk was on the outside and the wind shook both trees and the boat viciously all night. On Sunday I left with the first of the ebb at 0545 hrs for one of the finest days sailing of my life. The sun appeared bold and clear over the reed beds as I ran past Burgh St Peter church and soon the world began to look very good. There were only the smallest of clouds in the sky bobbing along merrily in much the same happy carefree fashion as myself. The wind had more north in it and I had to beat most of the way to Breydon Water after the first few miles. At St Olaves fixed bridge I reefed and snatched a couple of slices of bread and cheese while lowering the mast to pass under the low structure. The two swinging railway bridges were open for me for which I was thankful for I was worried about saving my tide across Breydon Water. At that time there was a great iron bridge where the new bypass bridge now stands. If I could not make it by the midday low waster, it would have to be done twelve hours later just after midnight. This was my first trip across Breydon Water and I found the channel well marked. The wind was free now and Zephyr made a record passage of fourtyfive minutes although she creaked and groaned in protest as the spray leaped up from the lee bow to be blown away in a fine mist and I looked at the rudder, tiller and rigging and wondered what, if anything, would go first. The gigantic swing bridge was open and I rounded into the River Bure to get the gear down again for the three fixed bridges. Once clear of Yarmouth I found that I could

just lay the east/west stretches and reached Acle at 1700hrs. The wind was dying now and after shaking out the reefs, I moored in Upton Dyke as the sun went down. A fine days sailing by any standards. Monday the 13th of March could be an anti climax. There was frost on the tent and the yellow sun rapidly disappeared behind heavy cloud. A wind built up from the west during the morning and I went up to Potter Heigham see Roy Pike at his boat shed where he kept Dawn Wind. In the afternoon I beat back to Horning in bitter cold that seemed to penetrate my very bones. It was 1830 hrs when I moored in Decoy Broad after a round trip of ninety miles in seventy hours. Many coastal types laugh at the idea of Broads sailing but it is a real art. Of course there is not the element of danger that one finds in the open sea but there is a tendency to carry on when the sheer size of the waves would force one to reef at sea and I am sure that the strain on gear must be greater. There are times in gusts when one would normally luff up to ease the load on the sails but in the river this often cannot be done for it would mean ramming the bank. Another point that bewildered me at first was that, at times the boat came about easily and at other times she was distinctly reluctant to oblige. It all depends on the tides, which flow much faster in midstream than in close to the banks. Thus the boat beating with a fair tide should stay well clear of the banks, for if put about close to the reeds in slack water, the blow will be pushed back to leeward as it turns out into the stream. There is a temptation when doing long and short boards to carry on to the last possible moment on the long leg but this must never be done with a fair tide for you will end up blown beam on into the reeds. On the other hand when beating against the tide, carry on as long as you can, for you make most progress in slack water. When the boat has all but stopped, put the helm over, reach out for a handful of reeds and help her round if necessary. As the bow comes out into the faster water it will be helped round and you will soon be off on the other tack. There is another phenomenon here called bouncing off the lee bank. Somehow the wind seems to change near the far bank and having started a board at about fifty degrees across the river, one gradually points higher as you cross and just off the lee bank can sometimes carry on for many yards seemingly pointing almost into the eye of the wind. Perhaps it is a case of the water between the hull and the bank pushing the boat to windward. I understand that the wherries, the traditional trading craft on these waters, could do this for hundreds of yards at a time.

Chapter 5

Cold Cruising at Easter 1949

Just before eleven oclock I looked across the crowded dance floor where the students at Woodbastwick Agricultural Institute were finishing off the winter term before dispersing next day for a couple of weeks holiday and nodded to `Texas` Ted. Together we slipped out into the darkness and a few minutes later had changed into sailing gear preparatory to hurrying down the lane to Horning Ferry where Zephyr lay ready to go. It was just ten minutes to midnight as we glided out from the little dyke where I kept her onto the smooth water of the River Bure. Ted was bubbling over with enthusiasm for this was his first trip. He had learnt to sail in a prisoner of war camp where they spent days and days sitting in an imaginary boat pulling halyards, sheets etc and steering with a make believe tiller. It was a glorious night with a fine moon but there was little wind, so we were unable to get out of Yarmouth on the morning tide as planned. (I have since realised that this trip is nearly impossible anyway due to the three hours time lag between high water at Yarmouth and Horning). Rather than waste the day, we decided to go to Lowestoft through the inland waterways, largely on the promise that Ted, an ex R.A.F. type had had from some of his meteorological pals that the wind would come in from the northwest. It was an interesting trip in those days with three rail bridges to negotiate. The flood gave us a good start but the wind headed us and when it eased at sunset we were barely able to stem the young ebb tide in the River Waveney. A splatter of rain a few miles short of Oulton Broad drove us to moor up quickly and rig the boom tent before the inside of the boat got wet. Thus we settled down to sleep early. I looked out at 0230 hrs next morning to find brilliant moonlight with a fine breeze from the northwest. I made two cups of cocoa and woke Ted with the news that we had to get underway at once. We made short work of the last miles to Oulton Broad and arrived outside the lock gates at 0400 hrs where we put up the tent for some more sleep. We had breakfast while waiting for the lock keeper to arrive at 0700 hrs. The wind was now westerly and plenty of it. At the Lowestoft bridge we lowered the mast and Ted steered while I stood on the foredeck with my gas cape open which gave us plenty of steerage-way. We left the harbour soon after 0800 hrs after a careful check on all the gear and set off down the coast. Much of the flood tide had already been wasted but we carried it to Orfordness, covering the twenty-seven miles in four and a quarter hours. My! It was cold and the spray seemed like solid ice. We put Vaseline on the starboard side of our faces to prevent chapping, and kept fairly close inshore to find smoother water. As we rounded the Ness my heart rose as the pylons at Bawdseyhaven came into view but to our dismay the wind backed and dropped off, leaving us steering south in very irregular waves. Ted began to feel sick and worried as the ebb tide swept us eastward and gradually the whole coastline up to Aldeburgh came into view again. I stood on starboard tack until 1800 hrs when I came about and stood in towards the coast. The only relief to the tedium of the long, lonely afternoon was the

sight of the barge Alaric of London running north. As the light faded the last of the ebb swept us north again, so that after six hours sailing we ended up about three miles nearer the River Deben. Then the tide just had to turn in our favour and we crept into the haven to anchor south of the Horse Sand at 2215 hrs. Ted went straight to sleep without waiting for food or drink but I had a good meal. The weather repented on Thursday and gave us a perfect spring morning. Ted was in high spirits and had bailed out by the time I stirred. We dropped out of the river on the last of the ebb at about 0700 hrs. There was no wind at all but the tumble of water on the bar threw us about so much that we both had to hang onto the boat for all we were worth. In the faintest of airs from the north we drifted out towards the Cork light vessel where a breeze grew out of the southeast. After a couple of boards to take us round Walton pier it was all plain sailing, I dropped Ted off at Holland where he lived. As he waded ashore he declared that it was the best bit of sport that he had ever experienced although he admitted next term that he spent the rest of the Easter holiday in bed. Now it was just a question of squaring away for the River Blackwater as the coast swung westerly. The tide turned against me off the Bench Head but with a fine breeze, I made steady progress up the river to run onto the mud at Heybridge at 1900 hrs. After snuggling down and a good meal, I put on my water boots and had a walk round the boat as she lay on the mud, looking large and cosy in the frosty starlight. My feet left a luminous trail in the black mud, ashore a few lights twinkled and a dog barked somewhere out in the night. Zephyr was home again. When the tide came in on Good Friday the traditional Easter gales set in from the southwest and I spent the holiday helping the crew of Corrie to fit out in the Basin of the Chelmer and Blackwater Canal which enters the sea at Heybridge. After all the farewells on Easter Monday, my friends disappeared to their homes and work on the morrow. I strolled slowly along the seawall from the Basin to the Ballast Hole where Zephyr lay on the mud under a blaze of stars. The roar of the primus stove drowned the howls of the westerly winds that had been blowing over the holiday and I was alone with my little ship once more. Tuesday dawned cold and bleak. I left on the morning tide for Harwich, reefing off Osea and later dropped the mainsail completely. Off Bradwell I wondered if it was wise to carry on but at least it was a run and Zephyr runs very well indeed. Off the Naze I dropped the jib and ran up the mainsail for the reach across Dovercourt Bay. Now the spray began to come over the bow and it was icy cold as I raced through Harwich harbour and into the welcome shelter of the wooded slopes of the River Orwell. Off Colimer Point I put up the jib and at Buttermans Bay the sun came out to welcome me, the prelude to a fine evening. The wind died for the first time for several days. Wednesday was all that a spring morning should be when I left at 0700hrs. In the lee of Harwich I took down a reef but it proved over cautious and I shook it out again off Bawdsey. There was plenty of ebb left so I pressed on for Southwold. The wind fell away as I rounded Orefordness at 1115 hrs and to my amazement along came the barge Alaric of London that I had met in the same spot a week earlier bound north. I noted that she carried no topsail. There were squally patches about in the sky and I had to reef before reaching Aldeburgh. What a lovely little fairy tale town

it looks from seaward! The storm passed over and the sun dried things out again. Progress was slow but I managed to get into Southwold just after1545 hrs. This was my first visit and there didnt seem to be much flood tide left between the piers but then I noticed that the tide was pouring in through a gap halfway along the southern wall which produced some very confusing currents so that I had to hand off the hard concrete of the northern wall. Southwold is an interesting place and I noted it for further exploration. Thursday brought flukey winds with storms and I was told later that they had snow at Beccles. Zephyr made a steady trip into Lowestoft and onto Oulton Broad where I met a torrential thunderstorm. In the local shop I found a fine supply of condensed milk in which I invested most of my remaining cash (the weekly grant for students at this time was thirty eight shillings a week). Then I sailed slowly on towards Beccles to moor for the night near Boaters Hill. Next morning the tent was frozen stiff and I made a late start into Beccles from where I dropped back as far as Oulton Dyke for the night, there being little wind and plenty of rain. A very dull day was enlivened by the sight of a survey party below Beccles who were walking along the bank sounding every few yards. As I passed them they found a cruiser under the water, apparently not the first. With time running out I set off back down the River Waveney on Saturday and was about to go through the New Cut when I noticed that it cost two shillings to have the bridge raised so I soon whipped my mast down for there was only three shillings and eight pence left in the ships kitty. This, like most `New Cuts` is nearly two hundred years old and enables craft with fixed masts to pass from the River Waveney to the River Yare and reach Norwich without passing through Yarmouth. Passage for such craft down the River Waveney to the junction of the rivers is blocked by the fixed bridge at St Olaves. Once into the River Yare, I sailed up as far as Hartley Cross, ancient boundary between the ports authorities of Yarmouth and Norwich, where I was tempted into the four winding miles of the river Chet to which wherries once traded. At that time it had not been dredged for navigation by hire boats. It was a dead run in and Zephyr found enough water unlike true Broads boats most of which draw two and a half to three feet. Once there I was faced with the problem of getting out again. I did not fancy the row and it was too narrow to beat so I started to tow from the bank by tying the tiller towards the shore to set her out into the stream and walking along the bank with as long a line as possible. Once she is moving, the rudder keeps her away from the towing bank while the line to the Sampson post prevents her going into the far bank. So far so good, but there were many bushes in the way to prevent a steady tow. On reaching an obstruction, I stood still and coiled up the line as the boat came up to me, pulling her near enough so that I could jump on board without stopping her. I dropped the line onto the foredeck while the rudder carried her away from the obstruction until I rushed aft and grabbed the tiller to steer her back into the shore beyond the bushes or trees. Then I jumped ashore again, pushed the boat out and ran forward to take up the tow once more. (Many years later I did the thirty miles of London` canals from Brentford to Bow in this manner in two days). Once that I had worked out the right amount of helm to lash on the tiller it all

went smoothly. Of course if there is someone to steer while you tow from the bank, it makes it much easier to tow from the mast, needing less rudder and thus less power to pull her along. Some people even advocate towing from the shrouds but mine are not made for this purpose and I am far too fussy about my chainplates on which so much depends to consider this sort of thing. Sunday was warm and sunny. Zephyr beat slowly up the wide river Yare past the sugar beet factory at Cantley, which of course was sited there to enable waterside farms to deliver their crop by sailing wherry. As the flood died and a heron dealt with a large eel completely oblivious to my presence, I turned back to take the ebb across Breydon Water to the North Broads. The wind died beyond Stokesby so I dropped the sails and erected the tent, keeping the boat in mid-stream with one oar to drift with the flood tide, while a roast dinner cooked in the patent roaster on the wick stove. The essential item was an asbestos mat between the stove and the roaster. It could also be used to make toast but alas they are no longer obtainable. When the meal was ready, I moored up for the night. Small boat life was becoming organised. Now the hire boats were getting about on the Broads Rivers and my solitude was vanishing as a bright green flush of new growth began to climb up through the reed beds.

Chapter 6

Norfolks Sandy Havens

A bleak, bitterly cold day in January 1950 was spent harvesting carrots on a farm at Stifkey on the north coast of Norfolk. The wind was coming straight from the Northpole (and felt like it) but nevertheless, as a sailing man, I was fascinated by the sight of the tide flooding over the extensive sands into Blakeney harbour during the short winter afternoon. The tortured mass of white horses looked terrifying but on a warm summer day it would be a very different matter. There was a fortnights holiday due early in June and I drew up a plan to sail Zephyr from the Broads as far as the Wash. Saturday the third of June was warm and sunny but with little wind. I moved slowly down from Horning and anchored for the night just above Yarmouth when I met the evening flood. My watch was in for repair; so all times are approximate. I slept later than intended on Sunday morning but got out of the harbour before the flood tide began at about 0600hrs. The sun rose warm and strong but the breeze was light from the south east and once the flood gathered strength I had to kedge to avoid being swept back southwards. My! How the tide roars down the coast here, at least a knot faster than I was used to in the Thames Estuary. The weather seemed settled so I had few worries as I dozed in the sun. Towards noon the roar of the tide past the clinker planking eased a little and it was time to get under way. This was my first trip along this coast and for pilotage I depended on Reeds Almanac and the one-inch O.S. map. The wild sand dunes looked very different from the coast of the Thames Estuary. Today they were quiet and peaceful but I have stood on them in a northeasterly gale when there is a rare old surf on the beaches which would break up any boat in minutes. Winterton Ness and Happisburgh soon passed astern once the tide set in and a school of porpoise joined me for a mile or two off Mundersley but by this time the wind was easing off. The last airs faded away as the dying ebb carried me past Cromer Pier soon after which I anchored and snuggled down for a few hours sleep. Next day, Monday, the weather was as settled as ever but the wind was late. I got the anchor as soon as the ebb set in at first light and drifted past Sherringham on a glassy sea as the sun scorched down. The boat seemed to be making reasonable progress as features inshore accompanied me past points on the coastline. Low haze obscured the sandy coast in the west and Blakeney church tower seemed to be floating in the air. There is a popular but apparently untrue story that the tiny tower at the other end of the building was used for keeping a lookout for ships in the offing. On that fine sunny morning I was willing to believe it. Somehow the ebb tide grew into the flood into Blakeney Harbour for I am convinced I was moving in the right direction all the time. Off the point I decided that I needed a dip so I paddled slowly inshore and waded round the point, pushing the boat along while my thoughts went to that surf in January. The shore was so obviously deserted that I did not worry about putting on trunks. An hour or so later I was to meet a boat load of young lady bird

watchers weighed down with binoculars, on their way out to the point! Suddenly a breeze appeared from the east and I beat across the lovely harbour to the narrow channel leading to the village. The local clock told me that it was just 1030 hrs, the top of the tide. After exploring the little creek that winds beyond the staithe I ran back some hundred yards and beached so that she lay with her bows watching the ebb tide racing out to the sea. Zephyr has a slight keel so that she lays over a little on hard flat sand. When I heeled her towards the shore, the gentle slope of the beach kept her almost upright. To prevent her falling outwards I rigged a halyard to the anchor dug into the beach and this caused some interest ashore. In the local pub I found a photograph, taken about 1900, showing the quay lined with sailing craft, two and three deep. Before the arrival of the railways most of the corn grown in north Norfolk was exported from here or from Wells further along the coast. Now trade has gone forever, and the place is silting up fast as craft no longer take away sand for ballast. There were few cruising craft but the place was obviously popular with the International Fourteen Foot dinghies. The afternoon was passed pleasantly enough trying to find out from the locals how to work the tides to Kings Lynn but nobody seemed to know. The best plan seemed to be to move out on the night tide and anchor in the Pit, a deep hole near the entrance so that I could leave just before low water. To my shame I slept through the night tide but it came back for me the next day. Such is the joy of small boat cruising! There is a lovely little green hill at the eastern end of the quay with a view over the harbour. After shopping for fresh bread rolls, tomatoes and a morning paper, I settled myself on the seat to enjoy the warm sunshine and watch the sparking tide spreading in over the sand and mud until the whole bay was a sheet of dancing blue water beckoning me westward. I was a little worried whether the boat would float for, as far as I could see, she had not done so on the night tide. A longshoreman told me not to worry, for the night tides are always lower that the daylight ones. Sure enough she floated half an hour before high water and I was soon on my way to Kings Lynn. The wind was still easterly but very much stronger today. The sand flats off the coast are well over a mile wide in most places but I decided that I could cut straight across them as far as Wells by which time the falling tide would drive me out into deeper water. My eight-foot sounding pole failed to find the bottom anywhere. The sun was so hot it seemed to throw an amber haze into the sky above the sand dunes. Off the entrance to Wells I decided to reef down. It is so easy to just go on when running until the seas get up and one is just too frightened to round up and reef. The sprit of a Thames barge poked up above the dunes protecting Burnham Overy but I was able to pick out the tricky entrance. It may well have been the barge yacht Thoma ll built by Howard of Maldon at the turn of the century. She was back at Maldon for a major refit in the mid seventies and is now renamed Moon Lady. The entrance to Brancaster was marked by the wreck of a small coaster on the western extremity of the great pile of sand dunes know as Scolt Head. The village of Tichwell marked the end of my one-inch O.S. maps and from now on I was

navigating with the quarter inch sheet of East Anglia. It showed the Roaring Middle light vessel in the entrance to the Wash but I couldnt find it. The wind was easier now and the shallow water was very difficult to distinguish from the drying sand banks all round me. I got in rare old pickle and almost decided to set off back for Brancaster when dusk fell and the light buoys began to stand out boldly. (I had no binoculars at this time). In the absence of a chart, I used Reeds Almanac, which listed the buoys in sequence sailing with the flood tide. The one that flashed rapidly was the obvious one to go for and from there it was easy to follow the rest into Kings Lynn. Just after sunset I had a sudden scare when I heard a bark. Turning my head towards the red glow of sky and water, I found a `red setter` staring at me. This seemed impossible, perhaps it was a human face, a body in the water? Then it dived off, my first ever seal. (Looking back after fifty years it seems extraordinary that I had not seen a seal before in two years sailing for today they are everywhere. This summer one even climbed onto my boat on the mooring and left his calling card). Night closed in cold and damp as I worked my way from one buoy to the next. The tide must have been nearly full by the time I reached the last buoy as two steamers came down the channel from Kings Lynn. I anchored between the buoy and a post inshore topped with a cage. So to bed, leaving the dagger plate half down to warn me if she was in danger of going aground in order that I could check the bottom before she settled. Next morning my little ship lay quietly in smooth water just off the end of the training wall with its cage topmarked pole, ready to take full advantage of the flood tide, which must start soon. This was my first visit (and last), but if I had known it like the back of my hand I couldnt have found a better place to anchor. I washed and shaved and had a leisurely breakfast while the last of the ebb slunk away, heavy with brown fenland mud. On the way up to Kings Lynn with the young flood I hailed the first boat to find out the result of last nights world heavyweight fight between Bruce Woodcock and Joe Baski and learned that England was still without a champion. It seemed a pity to waste the rest of the flood so I pressed on up the river Ouse until high water. The shorter mast resultant from the gunter rig is useful for getting under bridges but it is difficult to judge the headroom. I certainly misjudged the one at Stowbridge and tried to pass through with the mast up. It was built with two massive steel girders, one at either side. Zephyr hit it hard going much faster with the tide than I had realised. The top of the mast dragged under the first girder but could not clear the second, causing the hull to heel over so far that water lapped over the coamings. The hull swung back and forth madly in the swirling tide. I cursed myself for being too damned lazy. It was a nasty situation and she must fill as the rising tide caused her to heel even further and fill. The only situation seemed to be to release the shrouds and let the mast break rather than let the boat sink for the water here must be very deep. The mast bent at a crazy angle, far more than I would have believed possible, but showed no sings of breaking. I even got my saw out and started to help it but lost my nerve when it occurred to me that anyone close by when it snapped might loose some front teeth. Raising and lowering the daggerplate suddenly solved the problem and with a final heart rendering, harsh scrape, she dragged clear and swept on with the flood tide. I sat and recovered for a few minutes

before lowering the mast to clear up the mess and setting sail again, but fortunately there was no serious damage. The sailing hereabouts is totally uninteresting for the river runs low down between the high banks built to cope with winter floods and nothing can be seen of the surrounding countryside, even at high water. After posting a letter at Downham Market, ten miles above Kings Lynn, I waited for the ebb to take me down stream again. It was overcast now and very hot and sultry. Thunder was inevitable and towards the end of the afternoon I took down the sails and let her drift with the tide while I erected the tent to keep the inside of the boat dry and comfortable when the storm arrived. It was too hot to wear my gas cape so I just wore bathing trunks as I stood at the helm, keeping her in midstream with a single oar, feeling fresh and cool once more. There had been no sign of a comfortable drying mooring by the town as I came up, so I anchored for the night just below the first bridge and turned in early. Next morning the ferryman put me ashore for the essential shopping before I left at noon under an overcast sky with wind from the south for the first time for days. Off Hunstanton it began to veer northwest and blow harder. This made the tricky entrance to Brancaster a dead lee shore but there was nowhere else to go. As Zephyr neared the maze of shingle banks, I dressed in `shoal water rig`; shirt, trunks and a gas cape to keep out the cold wind. The idea was that I could hop over the side immediately she touched and push her off again without getting my nether garments wet. In fact she grounded several times but I managed to walk and sail her round the first bend in the channel so that she could dry in the lee of a shingle bank, sheltered from the rising surf that was building up rapidly. I reckoned that there must be at least an hour of ebb to run. Dry and fully dressed, complete with water boots and a hand bearing compass, I tramped along the main channel, splashing through shallow pools and rippling tributaries to explore the place, ready to enter safely when the tide returned. There seemed to be a deep pool that would be suitable for an overnight anchorage at the junction of the channels to Brancaster and Burnham Overy Staithes. After noting bearings so that I could identify the spot when the water returned, I strode back into the teeth of the wind as the last trickle of water raced to the sea. Near Zephyr I built a little heap of stones to tell me when there would be enough water to proceed and then strode over to the wrecked coaster on the point. It must have been used for target practice and the setting sun glowed through holes in the rusty iron hull giving the scene an eerie atmosphere. The wind was blowing really hard now and I thanked my lucky stars that I was not still outside. Suddenly I realised that the water was rising around my boots and it was time to get back on board. An old sheet of canvas that came with the boat, made a temporary shelter on board while I brewed a cup of tea and laced it well with rum that I had brought back from the Hook of Holland race a fortnight before. Then I sat back and watched the tide return to overwhelm the surrounding sand and shingle while the sky cleared completely as the wind grew colder. It was a very wild and lonely place to be but I wouldnt have changed places with anyone else in the world! Once the water began to surge round the boat, I busied myself putting two reefs into the mainsail before sailing off in the moonlight along the winding channel. By

the time I reached the anchorage, things were getting very lively indeed as the banks covered and I had a few minutes sport fitting the tent. Then I lay back on the bunk fully dressed and realised just how tired I was. An occasional look out into the night showed a brilliant moon, nearly full, receding sand dunes and a very wild seascape. Even the wreck was now in full view. The anchor held firm. Once the tide began to fall I got into my pyjamas and slept like a log. I woke on Friday to find brilliant sunlight and my, Good morning to a passing boat returned with a, , Good afternoon Over the roar of the outboard motor I heard one chap comment, Fancy wearing pyjamas on a boat as small as that! The wild scene of the previous night had vanished. Zephyr lay in a little pool of water in as snug an anchorage as one could imagine. The flood had already started and after a quick shopping trip in Brancaster, I set sail and worked my way through the marshes and sand dunes to Burnham Overy. The twin drying harbours are sheltered from the North Sea by a three-mile long sand dune island called Scolt Head. Each harbour has its own entrance but at high tide it is possible for a shoal draft boat to pass from one to the other behind the sand dunes. More by luck than judgement, I was at the watershed on the top of the tide and scraped over into Burnham Overy. It looked a delightful spot but I couldnt spare the time to stay and explore it Out at sea things looked very wild and tricky. There were no buoys or withies at all but I knew that the channel must run out northeast, roughly close hauled on the port tack. This would mean the seas coming in almost on the beam and breaking on the shore in a wild old tumble that would smash the boat in seconds once she touched. A bank of surf ran out from the island to port and gradually dived into the sea. There was no need for a sounding pole to see where deep water lay. I hung on to port tack until I judged that there was enough water to port to put in a tack safely but not enough sea running yet to prevent her coming round when I put the helm down. She came round fine and then again onto the port tack to sail clear of the shallows as I gradually eased the sheets to race along the coast for the next harbour at Wells. Assuming that the tide was against me, I kept inshore over the extensive flats as much as possible but, of course, she must not touch. Off Wells I turned in along the line of buoys that I had spotted on the trip westward a few days before but could see only a complete wall of breaking surf ahead of me as the boat raced in towards the shore. It was a tense few moments before I realised that one of the buoys was outside the surf and that from there the channel must turn to starboard to the next buoy which was inside the line of surf. All went fine and the water smoothed rapidly, giving me a fine sail into one of the most attractive a harbours anywhere. Those buoys had saved my craft and probably my life. I learnt later that they had been laid a month earlier for the first timber ship to visit Wells since the war! Wells is an almost perfect rural port. Once the incoming craft crosses the one and a half miles of sand and reaches solid land, there is thick woodland to starboard and sand dunes to port with a few scattered trees. The channel runs due south for half a mile with a road alongside it to the wharf at the edge of the town where it turns

eastward and divides up into a number of channels winding away into the saltings towards Blakeney. The town is delightful and it was here that I found my first self service supermarket, albeit a small one. A sobering sight was the monument to the crew of the Wells lifeboat that was lost on the bar with all hands many years before. My thoughts were dominated with the problem of getting back to Yarmouth. The fresh wind was still blowing from the northwest, which was certainly the right direction. I decided to leave at noon, prepared for a lively start followed by a reach and run to Yarmouth in smoother water under a weather shore. The forenoon flood was spent exploring the saltings with one of the local sea cadets as a pilot. After dropping him at 1230 hrs I put two reefs in the mainsail and left. You can never tell with sailing. Over the bar the wind dropped right off and the reefs had to be shaken out in a hurry to keep the boat moving in the heavy swell left by the blow. During my stay, I had walked over the bar and knew the way now. The tide off the coast was foul and with the wind gone completely, there was nothing to be done but anchor off the flats and get some sleep. On this sort of hard sailing, rest stored up is like money in the bank. You never know when you will need to draw on it as I was going to find out over the weekend. Later I moved on with a ghost of a breeze from the west but lost track of my progress and anchored until first light. At dawn the Blakeney entrance buoy was a few hundred yards away but that was the last of my luck. There was still no wind when the tide set easterly so I just let her drift along while I dozed. The breeze eventually came in from the southeast and I was soon enjoying the first serious windward work of the trip. Off Sheringham I realised that the favourable flood tide was done and anchored to sunbathe while the ebb roared away northwest. The coast had already begun to fall away to starboard and the last stretch to Yarmouth is due south. The chances of my getting there before nightfall looked remote unless I could make enough progress on the afternoon flood to be able to point the last ten miles or so but even then it would be impossible to enter Yarmouth over the ebb and Lowestoft was another six miles further on. Anyway it was a glorious day and I was reluctant to run back to Blakeney. The wind seemed to be a little east of southeast when the flood set in around midday and with the help of the tide, Zephyr enjoyed a wonderful afternoons windward sailing. Gradually the port tacks became encouragingly longer as the coast eased away southwards but when the ebb set in off Sea Palling, I still could not point straight down to Yarmouth. I anchored for a meal but it was too rough for comfort. The tin of soup I picked up was mulagatawny, the first time I have had this variety, and as I opened the tin, one thought ran through my mind, tinned seasickness! I lobbed it over this side and hung over the gunwale after it. This was the first time I had been sick on my own boat. I settled for a cup of coffee and got underway again. At dusk I reefed, the first time I had ever done so underway, and was pleased to see that I made a much better job of it than when reefing the mainsail before hoisting. It was going to be a long night beating over the ebb tide. On the port tack reasonable progress could be made down the coast but gradually the roar of the breakers got too close. Then I had to put about onto starboard tack pointing straight out to sea where the northbound tide swept me back level with the tower of Sea

Palling church. At least I wasnt loosing anything! It was a fine night, in fact the finest of that I can ever remember. Happisburgh light winked astern of me; there was a red light somewhere over Winterton, while the sky above was like a soft dark blue velvet mantle. It was nearly midsummer and the glow left by the setting sun never really faded away. It just moved slowly round in the sky to the east. A crescent moon and then the sun climbed out of it as the ebb began to ease. I was sick again at dawn, probably due to the constant pumping. During the long night I consoled myself with the thought that at least if the worst came I could always run the boat up the beach and wade shore. Of course if the wind had been offshore I should have been consoling myself with the thought that at least I hadnt a lee shore under me. One has to be an optimist to sail far in small boat. At dawn I shook the reefs out of the mainsail and began to make even better progress on port tack and lose much less on starboard. Suddenly the sand dunes ashore were clear under the starboard bow and the bowsprit was pointing into the sparkling sea. From then on it was just a case of gradually easing the sheets until Yarmouth pierheads came in sight. There were some heavy seas rolling in on the beam but Zephyr took them grandly. I decided to stop bailing and to get into Yarmouth as quickly as possible by taking all but the biggest of the seas without luffing into them. She went down the coast like a train. Caister water tower passed astern and the next problem was the dead run into Yarmouth harbour. A heavy gybe in the entrance could conceivably mean a capsize, for a lot of water has to run into the Broads in a very little time and any sort of current or counter current could be expected. The boom was topped up and the peak eased to scandalise the mainsail and take the vice out of the inevitable gybe. All went well. The harbour walls closed round me and in a few moments I had turned north in smooth water with barely steerage way. The rush of water past the hull stopped for the first time for many hours and I was able to take stock of things, in particular, the bilge water two inches above the floor boards.. By the time that I had bailed out, made a cup of tea, the three miles of busy wharves had swept by and I got the mast down for Southtown bridge. At the entrance to the River Bure I accepted a tow from an elderly boatman with a sturdy rowing boat for I was very tired and had little idea how much flood tide was left. (At this time few of the sailing hire fleet had engines and several such boatmen made a bob or two helping them between the rivers once they had their masts down). I dislike Yarmouth as a place to lay in a small boat so I decided to press on to Stokesby, a lovely village clustered round a ruined windpump. It was a hectic sail and I drove her hard with the last of the flood to moor alongside a grass bank, lay out all my wet gear and get a little sleep. Then I had a big meal, a walk to stretch my legs and a long nights sleep, which I felt I well deserved. The wind went back into the west to take me back through Yarmouth on Tuesday and while I was drifting down the harbour setting the rigging up for sea, it went northeast to take me to Lowestoft. After another good nights sleep I left at 1230hrs on Wednesday in spite of steady rain for the wind was still northeast. Fair winds are few and far between for the journey back from the Broads to the Thames Estuary and a wet shirt is a small price to pay. The steady passage was enlivened off

Aldeburgh by the sight of Bob Roberts mighty barge Greenhithe, anchored over the flood in time honoured fashion en route north. The light breeze picked up as the evening wore on and by dusk I could pick out the flash of the Cork light vessel. It had been my intention to stop at Harwich but by this time I was very wet and decided that I might as well carry straight on to Heybridge. A chap on the stern of the light vessel seemed surprise to see me loom out of the night (no navigation lights!). The illuminations at Dovercourt went out, leaving a few solitary lights as I stared out into the dark ahead of me for the Naze. Suddenly there was a very heavy rain squall and the wind went southwest in minutes. I turned back for Harwich. Zephyr was travelling fast now and I wanted to keep clear of the main shipping channel on the eastern side of the wide entrance but had no idea how to tell that I was clear of the breakwater that reaches out from the western side for it was not lit at this time. I remember reading that it covers completely at spring tides and was terrified of running onto it for it was nearing high water. In fact there is plenty of room and I never saw the iron post on the end. It must have been well past midnight when I rounded up into the southwestern corner of the harbour, put up the tent and dropped my sodden clothes into a heap in the sternsheets. Dry pyjamas and blankets felt very good indeed. Next morning I was almost scared to lift the tent to see what sort of a day it was for wet clothing is a depressing sight indeed. I need not have worried for the sun shone and there was a cheerful breeze from the southwest calling me to get weaving and take the last of the flood down the coast. At the top of the tide I anchored close inshore off Frinton and dried my gear while the ebb ran north for six hours. Then in light westerly airs I beat slowly south in the evening to anchor off Mersea Flats at dusk as the wind died for the night. Next day I completed the voyage and most of my sailing for 1950. I had been very lucky indeed and picked the best weather in a very poor year covering well over 500 nautical miles.

Chapter 7

Target Isle of Wight

By now I was feeling increasingly confident of my boat and my own ability. It was time to take up again where I left off that day at Herne Bay in May 1949 and try to reach the Isle of Wight. The lifting cabin tops on the Norfolk Broads boats inspired me to make a similar fitting to Zephyr and it proved a great success but also made me realise that altering a boat is an expensive game and that if one is going to spend much money, make certain that you are working on a sound hull in the first place. The speed with which a gross of brass screws vanished into such a small structure amazed me. One big snag was that the mast was inside the cockpit and thus it would be difficult to make a watertight fitting between the moveable cabin top and the mast. In practice the difficulty does not arise for any water that came in ran down the mast into the bilges and all that I had to do was to make certain that my blankets did not touch the mast when it was raining. In practice, being round the mast was an advantage in that it made the cabintop much more stable when raised. At the time some W.D. pontoons were being overhauled at Sadd`s yard at Maldon and I acquired some discarded plywood out of which I cut all that I needed. The other problem was the sail plan for I found the long yard of the gunter rig was a constant source of worry. It was out of the question to have a new sail made, but by cutting the bulge out at the throat, I was able to make it into a Bermudian sail, which was all the rage at that time. To make the mast longer, I joined the boom onto the top of the mast with a two-foot length of copper heating piping into which I scarped the two pieces of wood and glued them. Performance in light airs was a worry, particularly the failure to make progress over the tide in the light following winds the previous year off Caister. I bought three sections of parachute nylon, which made a fine spinnaker come reaching jib. All in all, Zephyr was better equipped than ever before when she was finally ready on the 16th of July. Friends swore that she was a plank lower in the water and there may have been something in it for when I beached at Poole some weeks later, a chap came running out from the local boatyard thinking that I had put her ashore because she was sinking! The Sunday evening tide picked her up off the mud in the Ballast Hole at 2000hrs and I worked my way slowly down stream to anchor off Stone at 0100 hrs in flat calm, cancelling my plans for a night passage. In fact I needed some sleep for I had danced until midnight with the Witham Young farmers club on Saturday night. By a strange coincidence I had danced with a girl who had sailed on Zephyr before I bought her and had been at Rosneath after my time and was a friend of Anne, my original sailing companion. Its a small world! The ships purse stood at about thirty pounds and I had all the time that I could afford to take. Rationing was easier by this time except for tinned milk. I had a good store of Christmas puddings. On Monday I slept until noon and then left with the afternoon ebb in brilliant sunlight. There was a light easterly breeze, which veered round to give me a beat

down the Ray Sand Channel to the mouth of the river Crouch. One long tack took me right over to the Buxey Beacon for the first time and the sheer massive bulk of it surprised me. At one time it marked the route north between the Buxey Sands and the mudflats extending out from the shore but today it is usually left well to the east. The wind continued to veer and I decided to take the outside passage (as distinct from passing inside Foulness Island and out via Havengore) across the Thames in the hope that it would go right round into the west. By 2000 hrs I was sounding my way across the tip of Foulness sands, which extend seven miles out from the nearest seawall, in light southerly airs. There was little water under my keel but it didnt matter if I did touch as it was so calm. I use an eight-foot garden cane for sounding, which can be swung regularly for hours as easy as one uses a walking stick. Once into deep water again, the tide was with me and as the sun set, I tried to identify the buoys around me. I took number Three West Swin unlit buoy for the Notice Buoy east of it on the Maplins Sands, due I think, to the fact that plain buoys dont show up very well against the dark blue sea on Stanford`s charts when viewed by torchlight. From here I mistook number Fifteen Barrow for the West Barrow buoy and then bore away southeast for Margate. Over on the Kent shore the lights of towns stood out boldly but I did not appreciate the basic shape and size of the mighty London River, assuming that the outer or easternmost lights must be those of Herne Bay, whereas, they were in fact those of Margate. I just hadnt done my homework for I was expecting to see the North Foreland light on the northeast corner of the Kent coast but a careful look at the chart would have shown me that it is blanketed off to the west. Eventually my course, such as it was, took me near a red flashing buoy and I sailed right up to it and used my torch to read the name. I got the shock of my life; number Four Edinburgh! This was progress beyond my wildest dreams but of course I was too far north and altered course more southerly, which soon brought me into the red sector of the North Foreland light. The first signs of dawn appeared as I passed into the lee of white cliffs, dimly visible to the west. The ebb sets in southbound here three hours after high water at Sheerness so in fact I had worked things brilliantly and there was fair tide aplenty to carry me on past Deal. In the mistaken belief that it would soon set northwards, I anchored in the mouth of the River Stour just south of Ramsgate, to get some sleep with a view to taking the ebb tide south at high water. The wind remained a steady southwesterly for the rest of the day and throughout the afternoon I sailed steadily southwards past Deal, where I had spent the first three months of my time with the Royal Marines, to enter Dover Harbour at 1700 hrs and anchor near some other moored craft. Sitting there in the shadow of the mighty castle, I was a very happy fellow. For some reason, which I cannot remember, I made no effort to get ashore although I did write some letters in the hope that a passing dinghy could post them for me. By the time I had finished writing them, all the small craft had gone. Wednesday started with a fine breeze from the northwest as I left the harbour at 0445 hrs but it soon died away, leaving a calm sea under an overcast sky. In order to be able to kedge East Coast fashion if the wind failed, I kept inside the five-fathom line, which was clearly marked on my half-inch road map. Off Hythe at 0830 hrs the sea was like a millpool and the wind had gone

completely. When the anchor went down I found that the tide was flowing strongly to the east. Some sporadic fire from the shore came in my direction and a look at the map showed that I was to seaward of some rifle ranges. I weighed the choice of a stray bullet or a tide borne trip to Ostend and stayed put. After an hour or so, the firing died away, to be replaced by a plague of tiny flies, which smothered everything for the rest of that sultry day. Gradually I grew to hate the hooter of what must have been the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch railway as I busied myself with jobs about the boat for I carried a full set of tools and some spare wood. New Romney gave me the first hint of the very ugly appearance of some south coast seaside town when viewed from the sea. Dark clouds came racing in from the east at teatime and I got the anchor up and set the sails ready for wind. Then I took a second look and started to reef down. The wind hit me before I could tie in the reef points, but as I was going down wind, the sail set well enough. When the time came for a new mainsail I decided that it would have to be loose footed. After the first few vicious gusts, the wind settled down to a good blow from the northeast. Once round the flat shingle headland of Dungeness at 1800hrs Zephyr was into the smooth water in the lee of the land and began to look for the entrance to Rye which was not covered by my map of East Kent. Suddenly she was in shallow water. A furious bout of sounding across the entrance failed to find any sign of a channel, so I anchored as close to the harbour training-wall as seemed prudent. Of course the tide was rising and by anchoring so that I could see water all the way into the harbour, irrespective of depth, I can sail in after making and drinking a cup of tea for during that time, the water will have risen by more than my draft. As it happened, a local boat appeared and I followed her in. It must be a grim place indeed when the wind blows hard onshore and of course that means the southwesterly, the prevailing wind here. Once into the narrow channel, the high banks on either hand took all the wind and I kept her in mid channel with an oar while the swift tide swept her along. The banks were very steep and I looked in vain for safe shallow mudflats on which to moor for the night. Just below the town, which stands on an island rising above the marshes, the main channel leads off to port but I didnt realise this and swept on by. Suddenly the channel swung round to starboard with a low bridge ahead so I anchored at once in midstream. The boat swung and tugged about her anchor like a mad thing, so strong was the flood tide in the River Rother. Over on the western bank against the town were a number of fishing smacks moored to rough wood jetties and I was tempted to tie up alongside one of them but thought better of it. As the tide rose quickly I could see that the steep mud slopes flattened out for a few feet inside the cant of the saltings. At High water I moved over to the eastern bank, moored up with a line ashore from the masthead to an anchor in the saltings so that she could not fall outwards when the tide left. It was 0130 hrs before she settled down on the firm mud. The wind was now blowing hard and I was glad to be in somewhere safe. Thursday was fine and I awoke to find a trickle of water left in the channel a long way below me. The fishing smacks were all moored fore and aft without springs. The slack necessary for the big rise and fall meant that they took the bottom

well down stream of the jetties. Rye turned out to be a charming little town very much after the style of Maldon and among my purchases was another half-inch map to take me on as far as Bognor Regis (the one inch series would have been too expensive). As the early afternoon tide came racing in, one of the smacks awoke from its slumbers and swung upstream with a sharp jerk on her mooring lines. The bowline broke with a sharp crack, letting the boat swing round through one hundred and eighty degrees to round up alongside the next boat upstream with a sickening crunch whereupon its stern line snapped. Released into the mercy of the strong tide, she drifted towards the bridge. A deckhand on another moored smack lassoed her stempost and took a turn on his own craft to stop her but she had a mind of her own that day. The stempost just tore out and she disappeared under the bridge as I watched with horrified amusement and thankful that I had not moored alongside her last night. Apart from the damage to Zephyr, I might well have been blamed for the whole sorry episode and I had no insurance cover. The wind was blowing as hard as ever at midday high water so I decided to stay for another twelve hours. It was flat calm under a full moon when the tide returned at midnight. I left with the ebb, paddling with one oar to keep her in the middle of the channel. The chimes of Rye town clock rang out for miles over the open marshes in the cool night air. When I noticed that patches of mist seemed to be moving steadily past me, I hoisted the sails and found steerage-way to the entrance. It was 0230 hrs by the time I was clear of the long harbour and Zephyr settled down to make the best of the steady northwesterly breeze, bowling along merrily with the track of the moon between the shrouds as I lay back across the stern seat wrapped up in my greatcoat. (my beloved duffle coat was lost when I took it of, laid it on top of our van and forgot it when we drove off.) I even managed to get the end of the tiller into my pocket to keep my hands warm. The cliffs of Hastings loomed out of a golden sunrise at 0530hrs but the sun soon killed off the wind to leave a flat calm by the time the tide turned against me at 0830 hrs. The morning was spent kedged while I caught up on sleep. A gentle breeze appeared with the afternoon ebb to help me to beat slowly round Beachy Head. Visibility was poor as Zephyr crept slowly level with Cuckmere Haven where the tide turned against me once more. When I anchored, a large motor yacht came over and offered me a tow but I declined for there is a terrible strain on a small boat towed above her normal speed. Nevertheless it was a nasty spot and I reefed down before squeezing into my bunk with the cabin top still down, ready to clear out in a hurry. A cool breeze on my face woke me after what seemed a mere few minutes. Surely the tide couldnt have turned already to let a southwesterly wind blow straight into the open end of the tiny cabin! By torchlight my watch showed that it was only 0230 hrs; the wind must be coming from the east! In a matter of minutes the reefs were shaken out, the anchor was aboard and the little boat was on her way once more. The wind hardened steadily and I soon reefed again but I was being over cautious for the wind began to ease almost at once. By keeping the reef in too long I lost several miles but it came out at first light off Shoreham and the spinnaker went up for a fine run past Worthing at 0630 hrs. Once more the tide turned against me so I kept close

inshore. Every detail on the bottom showed up clearly through the shallow waster. The beach shelved gently and I took the liberty of assuming that it continued the same under water. I couldnt sound as the sounding pole is also the spinnaker boom on the principle that one should not be carrying that sail when there is a danger of running aground. The wind built up again as the sun rose higher for another perfect day. Little Hampton slipped by at 0900 hrs. I had planned to put in there but pressed on in view of the fair wind. The haze made things difficult and my map ended at Selsey Bill. Off Bognor I steered out to sea to avoid Bognor rocks, which sounded dangerous to an east coast man used only to mud banks, so I unshipped the spinnaker boom, taking the tack of the sail to the bowsprit as a reaching jib. Gradually the Bill came into view and I began to look for the Looe Channel, navigating with Reed`s Almanac which gives a very good description of the Mixon Beacon. In fact it was easy to find for it stands out boldly. A lucky glimpse of the white cliffs at St Catherines Point beyond the Nab Tower at 1215 hrs gave me a course to steer for the Isle of Wight, lucky because it was another hour before I saw the island again. The wind increased steadily as the working jib and then the reef points came into play on the glorious triumphant broad reach to Bembridge which I entered on the top of the tide at 1530 hrs with an escort of the famous Redwings. It looked very good indeed as I had a leisurely meal before beaching on the western shore to call on a friend from the Broads who had watched my arrival while umpiring a cricket match at Bembridge school. Something attempted, something achieved, remains the best formula for contentment and happiness; I was a very happy and contented fellow that afternoon! Sunday was spent in lazy contemplation of my new cruising ground, the Solent. In some ways exploratory sailing of this sort is harder to organise than longer trips with a limited objective. It is not just good enough to get in good days sailing; one must end up in a good spot to repeat the performance next day. Over the next three weeks Zephyr found her way into almost every creek and inlet between Chichester and Poole Harbour. The weather remained unsettled but all the trips were short ones with plenty of shelter to hand and once that the sun came out, the rain was soon forgotten. A bunch of heather gathered from one of the islands in Poole Harbour decorated the cabin for the rest of the season. After watching the first few days of Cowes Week, I returned to Bembridge to carry out my last social calls in the Solent area. The weather brightened up on Friday while I collected some mail, checked the topmast rigging at low water from the old railway jetty in the northwest corner of the harbour and left at noon to carry the spinnaker to the Looe Channel at 1515hrs. In sharp contrast to the trip down to the Solent, visibility was good all the way. At this stage I had not realised that this often means strong winds to come. As the wind increased I shifted to working jib and got a lucky slant to take me over the ebb into Littlehampton at 1845 hrs. This was one of the few spots where I was charged for a mooring, costing I believe one shilling, but it is pleasant spot It was calm enough inside the harbour on Saturday morning but once outside, I decided to reef the jib, which I like to do early before things get too lively. While doing so I decided to close reef the mainsail and eventually got going at 0745 under

mainsail only. It was going to blow and there were no wide estuaries for me to run into. The only harbours were Shoreham, Newhaven or Rye. Shoreham wasnt very far but the entrance looked awkward and the wind seemed to ease as I got there, encouraging me to press on but by the time I reached Worthing it really came on to blow and the seas mounted such as I had never seen before from a small boat. The coastline was obscured by rain and low cloud and of course I had covered this part of the journey by night on the way down so it was terra nova to me. Zephyr was wonderful, dropping back behind the waves until I was in a lonely little world of my own, then climbing slowly up again as the next one overtook her until the white foam boiled round her and I could peer ahead for Newhaven Harbour and safety. While reaching for a scarf, I let her gybe and she went down the face of a wave broadside on while I sat in the lee side of the cockpit. It was very lucky that this happened early rather than later on the passage. As I said in an earlier chapter, Zephyr is a boat that suffers fools gladly and patiently, otherwise I would not be writing this today. Eventually I made out the hazy shape of what must be the harbour walls and then, to my relief, a channel ferry came out to confirm it. The next problem was that it would be a gybe to get round into the harbour. I had enough sense not to get too close to the harbour pierheads and the turmoil of the rebounding waves. It was a tense moment and I trembled as I watched for a smoothish spot. The chance came, the boom went across sweetly and suddenly I was in smooth water as the wind seemed to scream even harder outside. I drifted up between the piers and wharves, a very quiet, subdued and thoughtful little boy. The Harbour Master directed me alongside the R.N.S.A. yacht Jutta and quickly came over with his assistant to charge me seven pence farthing to moor for the week. I was surprised that they were in such a hurry but they explained that they had to collect quickly in case I slipped out to sea again! Things soon dried out under the tent with both stoves going and plenty of ventilation but it was an uncomfortable berth with a heavy swell coming into the harbour. I was disgusted with the gear on Jutta; sisal rope and ungalvanized shackle, which they told me was now standard naval gear. She was bound the same way as Zephyr and left for Chatham on Sunday evening. The wind still blew strongly and a walk to the pierhead in warm sunshine convinced me that the Channel was not yet a suitable place for a leaky old centreboard boat and that I was in the best place. The wind was obviously lighter on Monday but there was a long swell running and I hung on until noon to confirm that there were no gale warnings about before leaving under close-reefed mainsail. Off the harbour mouth I tangled with the northern pier and scraped badly before realising that the topping lift has caught on a projecting bolt. Half an hour later I was settling down to one of the finest and most thrilling sails that I have ever had. The wind was strong enough to keep the boat going well but the seas, in spite of their size, were smooth except for a few feet of gleaming white foam on the crests. This was the nearest that I am ever likely to get to trade wind sailing. Once my first fears were calmed. I found it exhilarating. Hastings faded astern into a golden sunset as the lighthouse on Dungeness came up bold and clear. The jib went up and the reefs came out as I neared Dover, which seemed to take a long time to pass astern in the darkness. Eventually the breeze died

altogether off Deal and I anchored at 0300 hrs. In return for the loan of some tools to enable them to reef the mainsail, the crew of Jutta had given me a tin of plums, a real luxury in those days of rationing and I had set to work on them during the night. The first pound or two were delicious but it was a seven pound tin and I was almost glad to finish the last of them and chuck the tin over the side before getting into my bunk for some overdue kip. Later on Tuesday I explored the Stour as far as Richborough in light airs and visited Ramsgate. Margate and Faversham over the next three days. The wind had settled in the southwest by Friday afternoon and I decided to try a night passage across the Thames, leaving Faversham at 1400hrs, rounding Shellhaven at 1600hrs, the West Middle at 1700hrs and across into the West Swin. It was a grand evening but the wind grew light as the two-knot tide carried Zephyr downwind and she was obviously not going to reach the Whitaker beacon off the northeastern tip of Foulness Sands by low water. The parachute jib helped get her round over the first of the flood at 2300hrs. Now came an interesting lesson in night navigation in shoal water. It was a dead beat down the Whitaker Channel to the entrance to the River Crouch and the only light was on the South West Buxey bouy four miles on. I tacked across to the Buxey Sand on the far side until my sounding pole touched bottom in about six feet where upon I came about onto starboard tack and repeated the trick on the Foulness side. You really cannot go wrong! After reaching the S.W. Buxey bouy I turned north up the Raysn with a fair wind into a wider, less well defined channel and was soon lost as there was no lighted compass to guide me. When the water ran out and she slid to a halt on soft mud, heaven knows where, there was nothing to do but put the anchor over and get some sleep. It was my intention to sail on again at high water in the brilliant moonlight but I slept too well and found the boat high and dry on the mud just off the southern end of the railway target piers next morning. The sun was warm and I busied myself collecting a bucket full of aircraft cannon shell cases but threw them away for I collect far too much junk anyway. When the range was closed a year or two later I read that collecting this brass for recycling during the Korean war became a profitable trade for a time. I looked for signs of the Hoo Outfall from which barges carried stacks of hay ten feet high on the decks to feed Londons horses but could find no sign of the large inlet in the mud flats shown on the O.S. map. (A shallow inlet through the saltings to the sea wall remains). The returning tide brought a fine breeze from the southeast to carry me home to Maldon at high water feeling on top of the world!

Chapter 8

Zephyrs Last Year

Early in l952 I secured a job as a farm bailiff in the lovely little Essex village of High Easter and Zephyr languished on the quay at Maldon. There were enough problems on land without going to sea to find them. I eventually fitted out very hurriedly in late May and spent a few weekends in the river. In September I set out with a friend one Saturday evening at high water to make a twenty-four hour round passage to Havengore, returning on Sunday evening, a trip of sixty miles in just over twenty-four hours. It was a portent of things to come but it would be a long, long time before I could follow it up. Easter week 1953 found me dressed in the inevitable morning suit at Chelmsford Cathedral and sailing took second place for a while. Joy and I had been friends for several years and when I found her crewing a Snipe racing at the Maldon Y.C. of which I was now a member, the rest followed the normal pattern. She came on her first cruise with me in Zephyr in June that year and we had an idyllic trip to Walton, Pin Mill, Woodbridge, Battlesbridge, Bradwell and return to Maldon, sleeping ashore when possible. Unfortunately she suffered from sea sickness which fortunately never seemed to affect in her in the rivers. 1954 brought a new and very successful gadget, the Halmatic foot pump. This meant that I could steer the boat with one hand, sound with the cane with the other and keep a steady jet of bilge water over the gunwale with one foot. The constant bailing had always been a limiting factor in the endurance of cruises in Zephyr and this pump increased my range by at least twenty five per cent. At the end of May, Her Majesty the Queen was due to return from her first Royal tour of Australia and New Zealand in the brand new Royal Yacht Britainia and a big welcome was planned for her in the Thames. I got away from Maldon at 1000hrs on the Friday and beat steadily out through the Spitway and the Barrow Swatch to the Shingles Patch where I hoped to lay overnight for the light easterly wind, which had dominated the area had been dying away each night. I was a day too late, for at dusk it blew up briskly from the northeast and I ran for Whistable to anchor on the mudflats outside the harbour long after dark. At first light I got under way and beat across the estuary, failing by half a mile to get really close to the Royal Yacht which was escorted by two cruisers and then settled down to a long cold beat to get into Havengore Creek before the Broomway dried out. After a little sleep in the shelter of the River Crouch, I carried on beating out of the river into one of the blackest nights I have ever known, to reach Maldon early on the Sunday morning tide. It was a good trip, but as a wise friend said to me, She is too old a boat for that sort of thing. I took the hint and never left the river for many years. Priscilla, our firstborn arrived that July. Joy was sleeping on the boat three weeks before the great day but the weather was far from kind to us this time. By now we had a car and I was able to join the boat on Saturday while Joy came down

on Sunday. With the growing family and the demands of work on the land, I got less and less sailing each year. In the poor summer of 1956 Zephyr sat on a stake near her mooring and we floated her onto the saltings at the Ballast Hole near the Blackwater S.C. The time had come to give up sailing. I varnished the anchor and hung it on the wall of our sitting room as a reminder of some gloriously happy times. In 1957 we set out for some proper family seaside excursions. After sitting on the sands at Felixstowe and Clacton twiddling our thumbs, we went back to Zephyr at Whitsun and decided to fit her out again. The dagger plate would have to go for she leaked so badly when it was used and I knew she sailed tolerably well without it. A new mainsail was essential. Joy bought me some unbleached calico as a birthday present and we set about making it up. I decided on gaff rig this time, one of the most important decisions of my life. A friend from the Blackwater S.C. gave me a mast from an eighteen foot national which I cut down to size. Part of Zephyr`s old mast became a fine new bowsprit and the upper part which had once been the boom, now became the gaff. In view of the limited time that I had for sailing, the sail was made loose footed with toggles to the mast so that I could take it home each time that I left the boat which would increase its life. Her windward performance would be poor now and make it even more difficult to get back to Maldon once the ebb set in with the prevailing westerly winds so I reluctantly left the Maldon Y.C. and joined the Blackwater S.C. a mile down river in open marshland which I found much to my liking. This enabled me to return to my mooring in clear sailing water untroubled by buildings and high ground. 0ver the next five years I spent a few hours afloat when possible but the old tub was deserted for weeks on end and often sunk at her moorings. I moved her close inshore near the club jetty where she dried for longer than she floated to give the water that leaked in time to leak out again. All the gear had to be tied in when I left her. It occurred to me that the rudder, painted green like the rest of the boat, when tied to the end of the mainsheet, would float when the boat sank to become an instant wreck buoy! During this period racing the dinghy-racing craze hit the Blackwater and the club spent over a thousand pounds on a ramp so that the ever-lighter craft, no longer stable enough to leave out on moorings, could be launched and recovered from the yard. Together with the rest of the cruising types in the club, I considered this a scandalous waste of money for `pyramid building`, as we contemptuously described the dinghy types toiling up and down the ramp. It took several years for us to realise that the same ramp could be used to take the increasingly lighter cruisers over the sea wall to lay up for the winter instead of leaving them in mud berths round the edge of the Ballast Hole. The long-term effect of this would be to establish the Blackwater S.C. as the leading small cruiser club in the area with over a hundred boats of more than forty standard designs as well as many one offs. 1962 was a momentous year but it stared off quietly enough. Good Friday was cold and I stayed home. On Saturday I went down to the club and got Zephyr off the saltings where she had wintered as usual, for short trips on the tide over the rest of the holiday. It was the week before Whitsun when I got down to her again. The club steward suggested that I got her out of the water on one of the sturdy club trollies `to

see what we could do with her`. On her way up the ramp she looked a sorry sight indeed compared with the gleaming `Albacore` dinghies which were the main club racing class at that time and I endured a barrage of witty and not so witty remarks. It was hopeless to tell them of her glorious past but found myself wondering if she could still show them a thing or two. The surprising thing was that although she leaked like a sieve when afloat, water refused to run out of her on the trolley and we had to bail out the water we hosed inside to wash her out. It was a fine week and I took two afternoons off which, together with long light evenings, gave me plenty of time to complete a refit including a lot of hot tar inside and out. Her keel was almost rotted through in two places and the patches were too many to count for my piece of mind. In spite of my efforts, she leaked just as much when I floated her off the trolley at the weekend and I had to go back to caulking her from the inside with good stiff clay from the saltings. Of course I still had the halmatic foot pump. On Sunday I set out to sleep on board again. The cabin top had been removed to make room for the family when day sailing and the bunk had been stolen when she was left off Maldon promenade but I had a tent bought for my young son and a tiny Gaz stove. Anyway, I decided to give it a try and left the club at 0945 hrs with a northerly wind, which soon carried me down a very changed river. Tollesbury pier and the target railway on the Dengie Flats had vanished while a massive power station had been built at Bradwell. At Mersea Island I waited to see how things looked when the flood tide turned before I set off for the River Crouch. This was before the days of cheap transistor radios of course, so I had no regular forecasts. At the turn of the tide the sun came out to give me a scorching hot afternoon. I left at 1230 hrs, reaching the Bench Head buoy an hour later and turned south down the Ray Sand Channel past my old friend the Buxey Beacon to the River Crouch at 1500 hrs. It was too pleasant at sea to dive off into the river so I worked my way seaward until I could find enough water to cross Foulness Sands for a glorious run over the shallows with a rising tide to Havengore, reaching the Broomway at 1700hrs. The old magic of cruising captured me once more. Visibility was very good indeed and the Isle of Sheppey stood out clear and bold, so different from my first crossing of the Thames thirteen years ago. It occurred to me that at this sort of progress I could reach there by high water. Not today of course, but it set my thoughts working along the right lines. A number of motor craft were at anchor outside Havengore, presumable waiting for enough water over the old road which is the watershed. Almost on the road itself, a large sailing cruiser was aground and must have been there for ten or twelve hours. This was the first time that I had approached the entrance from the north and I was tickled pink to see all the other boats follow me in. It was a beat of course but the flood tide disguised my leeway. A chap on the grounded cruiser looked in amazement. How the hell much do you draw? He exclaimed as I swept by. There couldnt have been more than a foot. Once in the channel, I beat to the Crouch and went up on the mud under the north shore. The tent wouldnt fit over the boom anyway but it didnt rain so all was well. On Monday I had an uneventful but satisfying trip home

after my first cruise for years. Zephyr had covered over fifty miles in about thirtysix hours off the mooring. On the drive home my thoughts turned to a Harwich run. A fortnight later I took a half-day on Friday to get away from the club at 1450 hrs (H.W. 1630 hrs) with the wind in the southwest. By high water I was off the power station at Bradwell and had a lively trip up the coast with the ebb. Over the Colne Bar there was the usual rough and tumble. As I sat back at the tiller, leaning partly on the side coaming and partly on the stern locker, I could feel the whole boat flexing as she bucked and twisted through the writhing water over the mile long shingle spit. I beached below Pin Mill for the night and this time I tried camping ashore. It was more comfortable but lugging my gear ashore and back to the boat next morning once the ebb had set in was a struggle. Back at the club, the local blacksmith made a metal rod for me to put across the boat level with the mast in order to strengthen her. While I stood knee deep in mud fitting this important item an old chap came along the sea wall and commenting on the gooey mud. I explained that the mud was kind to her hull for she was probably as old as I was. Old as you are! he exclaimed, taking out his pipe and spitting over the sea wall, she is as old as the two of us put together! More food for thought. On the seventh of July 1962 the first race for sailing barges on the River Blackwater since 1936 was sailed. The last annual Thames race had been run the previous year and the famous racing barges Sara, Dreadnaught and Veronica were deliberately broken up to signify the end of the era of sail on the east Coast. Other minds differed and turned to the long forgotton local races. The last working sailing barges had been sold off to private owners and several had been restored to some extent. The first that I remember was a barge with the appropriate name of Memory, which moored near me at Heybridge. Eight barges entered for the Blackwater Race and excitement locally was high. It was an early start, almost calm in the warm light of early morning. As we drifted down to the starting line off Osea pier, tanned topsails climbed lofty topmasts and mainsails dropped as the brails were eased to the slow clink, clink of anchor windlasses. It was like an old Dutch masters painting come to life. The course was down river with the ebb tide, round a buoy beyond the river mouth and return to finish off Maldon Quay with the flood. In fact the wind was far too light for racing and shortly before high water that afternoon the first of them were still slowly beating past Osea pier, four miles from the finishing line. Watching from the Blackwater S.C., the chances of any of them finishing before the ebb set in looked very slim indeed but the barges had no such fears for their rigging was covered with gossamer silk cobwebs and that means one thing and one thing only on this coast; wind from the southeast. I sailed from the club towards them in a light air from the northwest. Suddenly something was different! I snapped up my glasses and was thrilled to see the barges racing home, each with a bone in its teeth. As the fine afternoon onshore breeze reached Zephyr I turned up Colliers Reach for Maldon. By the time I drew level with the lock into the basin of the Chelmsford canal, the first three hulls came into view round the corner of Northey Island; Memory, Spinnaway C. and Marjory. The sheer grandeur of it all sent tears of nostalgia running down my cheeks as Zephyr

crossed the finishing line just behind Marjory the winner, and anchored over on the north shore to watch the rest come home in the next seventeen minutes, still the best finish ever. Everyone agreed that it had been a great success and together with the first East Coast Old Gaffers race a year later, proved to be the catalyst to launch a growing interest in old craft and the need to restore and preserve both them and the knack of handling them. Later on in the month we took a bungalow at West Mersea for a week and I sailed on the tide each day with any of the family that wanted to come along to explore the maze of local creeks. The plan was to take the boat back to the club on Friday evening but it rained hard when the tide flooded so I decided to leave it until Saturday. That morning we all went home by car and I planned to return to Mersea after a trade union meeting in Chelmsford with our organiser who lived near Colchester. Unfortunately the wind had blown almost gale force from the southwest during the afternoon and we found her high and dry on the beach. She had taken a terrible pounding for the keel had been forced up into the hull and the ribs pulled out from the keel. There was nothing to be done there and then so I returned home with Trevor for a meal and to get a little sleep ready for the next high water. As I lay trying to get to sleep my thoughts wandered to the yachting writer Francis B. Cooke, who in his younger days, had stepped the sound gear from one boat with a rotten hull into the sound hull of another similar craft whose gear had been swept overboard during the night by a passing barge. Had the time come to step the gear from Zephyr in another hull? Anyway the first step was to get back to her when the tide reached her at 0330 hrs. It was still blowing hard but less than gale force when we got there. My plan was to sail her off the beach and anchor her so that she would settle well out on the extensive mudflats. This would give me time to do a little work on her next day and the water would not be so rough when it reached her as well as giving me a couple of hours flood to help her round into the harbour. I left all the gear on the beach except the jib and an oar with which we steered. It was Trevors first sail but he gamely insisted in coming along. The anchor failed to hold and we drove ashore again so the second time we got well off the beach and then tried to sink her. Over the years I had often wondered just how much water she could hold before she sank. When the gunwale was well under we released her but she struggled up again and we had to tip her once more before she finally went down. Then we swam ashore and ran back along the beach to our clothes, home and to bed. Next morning I was horrified when I returned to see a crowd from the local holiday camp round the boat, which they had tipped on its side to empty it by pulling down on one of the halyards. The idea apparently was to carry her ashore! I shouted to them as I approached at a run but in fact they must have sprung out the keel and popped all the ribs back in place. I plugged the gaps with clay (carried in then truly modern style in a polythene bag for I never ignore modern scientific advances). She was far tighter than I had dreamed possible (comparatively speaking) and instead of creeping along the shore, I was able to put in a couple of boards right across the mile wide river to the Bradwell shore before roaring through West Mersea like a scalded cat to the Strood where I left her on an anchor and caught the bus home. The

following weekend I brought Zephyr home to Heybridge none the worst, and none the better, for her ordeal. My search for another hull quickly alighted on the sturdy sixteen and a half foot Fairey Falcon dinghy sold as a Bermudian halfdecker, although I continued to examine all possibilities until the end of the year. Over August Bank Holiday, Jim and I sailed down to the mouth of the Crouch and back up the Colne to Wivenhoe where we camped on the saltings near the old ferry site. Off West Mersea next day I met my first Falcon dinghy under way and was very impressed. That evening, camped near the picturesquely named `Old Mersea City, we watched the sun set in a blaze of glory over Tiptree Heath. It was also setting over the reign of dear old Zephyr. Later that month she made her last trip round to Maldon quay and was then hauled up into the club yard where I took off all the useful bits including the keel and moved her over into the long grass ready for the cadets bonfire next summer. R.I.P! The detailed story of the building of Shoal Waters was told in my last book `Sailing Just for fun` so I will merely summarise it here. For the rest of the year 1962 I studied other hulls on the market into which I could step the gear from Zephyr. The Silhouette was selling like mad at this time with kits at 200 and we went to see a chap who was completing one at Leigh on Sea. Another vessel available as a kit was the Firecreast. Posibilities available as plans were the Yachting Monthly Senior and the Small Craft Lysander. At this time there were at least two firms completing Fairey Falcon hulls with tiny cabins, the Bristol Venturer and the Sea Hawk. All things considered, it had to be the Falcon and the bare hull complete with transom and centreboard case and plate was ordered at the 1963 Boat Show. The cost including delivery was 137. 10 and she was delivered to the farm in the first week in February. She was completed for just another 60 and launched the week before Whitsun. Willing hands transferred her from the lorry to a trailer and into the water. She was obviously a winner from the start even without the ballast which I recast into 28lb pigs and fitted a few weeks later. By sheer chance she was launched just in time for the first East Coast Old Gaffers Race in which she took part. The course was an ambitious one from Osea pier to Harwich. Light airs meant that the smaller boats had to give up, not because they couldnt have reached Harwich but because they would not have been back home in time for work on Monday. In mid July she competed the trip she was designed for, rounding the Isle of Sheppey over a weekend, a distance of nearly a hundred miles. Fairey Albacore dinghies were raced at the club and out dated sails were going cheap or even for free so there was a temptation to go Bermudian but an August Bank Holiday trip to the Ore and return convinced me that unfashionable as it was at that time, gaff rig was the best for my type of sailing. At the end of that first season I took her round to Arthur Taylor, the sailmaker at Maldon who measure the hole, drew it out in his book and after a few adjustments on the principle that what looks right is right, we agreed the new sailplan. I also ordered Whykam Martin furling gear for the headsail (she was still a sloop at this time). When a Sprite class dinghy was dismasted at the club I was given the broken mast and used part of it for a longer bowsprit to make her a cutter. This improved her performance, including

easing the heavy weather helm. Later I added a homemade topsail from an old Albacore jib and soon realised why they call light weather on the east coast `topsail weather`. As soon as I could afford it, I had a new one made. A proper drop rudder was made for her similar to those supplied with the Falcon Dayboat. Over the years iron fittings have been replaced by gunmetal and bronze as funds came to hand. An article in Yachting World brought me a Sestrel hand-bearing compass and another in the new Practical Boat owner provided proper bunk cushions. The initial internal arrangements were altered several times over the first few years and the primus stove replaced by Gaz together with a Gaz radiant heater. No engine was fitted but paddles are kept on either side deck to help her head round when beating in very narrow waters. A tow -rope for canal work and a quant for the Norfolk Broads completed the most important item in my life except my wife and family.

Chapter 9

Coals from Newcastle

Two hundred years ago they opened a canal from Heybridge on the River Blackwater to Chelmsford, the county town of Essex. The main cargo was coal, black diamonds brought south from the Yorkshire and Durham coalfields into the broad estuary by plodding colliers under sail. The railways long ago took over the coal trade from the colliers and by the nineteen seventies even the Baltic timber ships forsook the sea lock at Heybridge, preferring to unload at Wivenhoe on the River Colne and send their cargo to Chelmsford down the A12 thus killing the last commercial freight on the canal. The canal is still a private company and the proprietors decided to make the canal available for limited use by pleasure craft. To celebrate, the Inland Waterways Association organised a rally at Chelmsford over Whitsun 1973 with a prize for the most interesting voyage to the rally. What better way to win that prize than by sailing north to Newcastle and fetching a few lumps of coal? It meant a journey of about three hundred and fifty nautical miles. Time was the enemy. All I had was a three week holiday before the rally which would have to be used on the well tried and trusted cruising basis of one week outward bound and two bound home irrespective of how far along the coast I reached. To help things along, I decided to try to get the boat round to the North Norfolk coast at Easter, which was late that year. Prospects looked grim as I waded out through the mud to my mooring with load after load of gear on the evening before Good Friday. There was a gale warning out for most sea areas and an icy wind was screaming out of the north, just the way I wanted to go. Long experience has taught me that it is always worth a try and I bedded down in the hope of better things with the 0030 hrs forecast. No joy there! High tide was at 0300hrs so the boat would be dry by 0600hrs. All I could do was to drop down to the rivermouth and see how things developed during the day so I left the mooring close reefed at 0450 hrs with the first signs of dawn. Close reefed, Shoal Waters made fine progress to Osea half an hour later to find a barge at anchor and a few yachts moored east of the pier, an ideal spot when the wind is in the north. The wind was so cold that there ought to a law against it and I thought enviously of them snug and warm in their bunks. As I passed the tired old Thirslet Beacon at 0540 hrs large patches of shingle were already high out of the water and a few grateful seabirds were stretching their legs. Forty minutes later Shoal Waters sailed into smooth water in the lee of the Long Nass Spit off Mersea to anchor for breakfast. The 0630 hrs forecast gave northerly 5/7 locally 8. Towards low water I beached on the hard at Old Mersea City to refill the water cans and change the Gaz cylinder. It was by no means empty but this was no time to be caught without hot food and drink. I also bought a packet of paper hankerchiefs in case I developed the streaming cold brought into the office that week by a colleague but fortunately this proved unnecessary. Any germs I might have been carrying must have frozen to

death! When the boat refloated, I sailed through the Besom fleet and along the edge of Mersea Flats to Brightlingsea in the first sunshine of the holiday to await the 1400 hrs forecast. There was no gale warning but the northerly wind force 6/7 was still forecast veering northeast 5/6. It was worth a try. With wind just west of north, I had a fine passage along the coast reaching Walton Pier at 1640 hrs before coming hard on the wind. The only other craft in company was the Ocean Youth clubs seventy-two foot ketch Master Builder and her companionship was rather shortlived. On the dead run down to Colne Point she didnt take much out of me but once round the Colne Bar buoy and onto a reach, she went off like a scalded cat, assisted by the first of the regular rain-squalls of the afternoon. At 1750 hrs I was off the Stonebanks buoy and facing a long beat into Harwich over the last of the spring ebb; why not carry on to the River Deben? It was another five miles in the right direction and at the present rate of progress I would be over the dangerous shifting shingle bar well before dark. The 1800 hrs forecast gave north 5/6 and seven locally. Who but a hardened sailor would have believed that in twenty minutes time I would be shaking out the reefs and setting the big jib (she was still a sloop at this time) as the wind died and the sea smoothed out rapidly in the shelter of the Suffolk coast? I ended up sitting to leeward as darkness closed in and the little craft glided through the smooth water over the first of the flood tide, working her way inshore and watching progress by lining the Martelleo Towers on the shore against the woods on the skyline. Suddenly I was moving swiftly towards the entrance, the skyline dropped below the coast, and the roar of the surf increased for there was still a heavy ground swell. Now I was in a pretty pickle! My first trip into the Deben this year and I had no idea how the entrance had changed over the winter. My glasses (Canadian 7 x 50 ex WD), picked out the surf on the northern banks but no sign of the entrance buoy which as I noted next day, stands above the water at least fifteen inches. I went inshore and approached over the southern bar where there was no swell, only a low line of surf ahead. Suddenly she scraped on the shingle. I tried to push her head round with the idea of sailing out again into deeper water but the tide was racing in and the oar that I had driven into the shingle thumped me hard in the ribs as the boat swung round. There was only one answer, off shoes, socks and trousers and over the side. After a few moments pushing and tugging, she swept over into the low line of surf, which was caused by smooth water rushing over the bank meeting the rougher water racing into the river along the main channel. Then it was just a case of beating back and forth as the tide bore me northwest through the narrows by the ferry hard. There was no time to dry and dress. The seat, where I had climbed back in was too wet to sit on so I stood at the helm with my shirt tails flapping. Strangely, I felt warmer than I had all day and the expression `a picture of rude health` flashed across my mind. Half an hour later Shoal Waters was anchored on the southern edge of the Horse Sand and her owner, well topped up with Horlicks and biscuits, was snuggling down into his sleeping bag. Unfortunately the pain in my ribs prevented the sound sleep I needed and I was late getting out next morning. The 0030 hrs forecast was N 4/5. The tide ebbed from

0300 hrs and I ought to have left then but it was 0525 hrs before I looked out to find a light wind west of northwest. Twenty minutes later I was under way, crossing the bar at 0555hrs and heading for the flash of Orfordness lighthouse just visible in the cold grey light of a reluctant dawn. The sea had smoothed out and the wind was about the top of force two. She went like a train under full working sail and I toyed with the idea of setting the topsail but guessed, correctly, that there would soon be more. The sky was half cloud but no sun found its way through. The 0630 hrs forecast gave N 4/5, veering NE. I made a thick cup of Horlicks and settled back to enjoy some fine sailing. By 0650 hrs the entrance leading marks to the river Ore were in line and Orfordness was abeam just over an hour later. To my delight, I found that I could point the course along past Aldeburgh. The water was smooth here in spite of the rising wind but of course the tide would soon turn against me. At 0845 hrs the large Martello tower south of the town drew abeam and off Thorpness at 0945 hrs a warm sun came out for a spell lightening up a charming little hamlet. In the shelter of the buildings I brewed up and had another snack. It is very shallow north of the hamlet and I had to get well offshore, meeting more tide but having more wind with which to sail over it. This was the pattern up the coast, light airs in the shelter of the crumbling cliffs driving me out into the tide while the marshy coastline at Minsmere and north of Dunwhich enabled me to close the shore to dodge the tide and make better progress. The power station at Sizewell went by at 1010 hrs during a rainstorm while determined holiday makers sat on the beach making the best of it. By Dunwich at 1125 hrs, the entrance to Southwold harbour was clearly visible and the sheets could be freed as the coast swung more easterly. I considered pressing on to Lowestoft while the wind served but was anxious for a hot meal and welcomed a chance to visit Southwold again after so many years. It is a fearsome place and as the entrance drew near I almost changed my mind when I saw the white surf breaking on the north pierhead. The first section of the southern pierhead is merely piles with the tide sweeping through them and across the narrow channel towards the north pier. Further in where it becomes solid, a shingle bank has formed. Add a head wind, several knots of tide, a fisherman who expects boats to go round his line and you have all the ingredients for a few exciting moments. The river widens out among mudflats and saltings lined with mooring stages. The obvious place for lunch was one of the line of mooring buoys in mid stream. For this I use a `grabbit` boat hook from the cockpit attached to a line leading through a bow fairlead to the Sampson post. In this strong tide it would need smart work with the hook as the buoy flashed by. I furled the jib, got the plate up and lunged for the first buoy; missed, lowered the plate, unrolled the jib and tried for the next buoy. This time I furled the jib but forgot the plate, clipped onto the buoy but was late chucking helm over to make the vessel swing away from the line. The result was that the line from the bow passed under the boat behind the plate making it impossible to raise. Shoal Waters heeled beam on to the racing tide, swung back and forth madly as I stowed the mainsail. Help arrived in the shape of the harbour master in his little clinker motorboat. He tried to push the stern round and after several attempts go the line jammed between his transom and his rudder, leaving the two vessels dancing in the strong current locked together in an

embrace, which was positively indecent. It goes to prove my theory that while newcomers can get into some amusing scrapes, it takes long experience to get into a real mess and that two experts can always do better than one on his own. Fortunately no camera was to hand onshore! Eventually I got a rolling hitch onto the buoy line for a stopper to take the strain while we sorted things out in time for lunch and the 1400hrs forecast; NW 4/5 going NE. In fact the afternoon was a mixture of sunny calms and violent rainstorms. By 1905 hrs I was moored up in Lowestoft and bedding down for some sleep. I was now at the easternmost part of England. The wind had my permission to go easterly as long as there wasnt too much of it. The 0030 hrs forecast gave Humber NE 4/5. Bearing in mind the calms of the previous afternoon and subsequent smooth seas, it should be possible to slip round to Blakeney. To take advantage of the ebb tide I would have to leave at 0200 or 1400 hrs. I am always in favour of an early start as this would meaning passing a well lit coast in the dark and having plenty of daylight for the tricky sandy havens ahead. If I waited for the afternoon ebb, I would arrive on the dangerous North Norfolk coast in the dark so I turned out at 0120 hrs feeling strangely enthusiastic. As I changed the jib and close reefed the mainsail (it is so easy to shake out a reef if it is not needed), a steady drizzle was falling through a light breeze from due east. Beyond the red and green lights on the harbour entrance, the night looked black and frightening. Nothing stirred in the harbour except an occasional seagull swooping through the beams of light thrown by the lights on top of the silent wharves. It was just 0200hrs as I slipped the buoy and glided to the entrance. Ten minutes later I passed between the pierheads and out into the night for a few minutes on port tack steering southeast and then round onto starboard tack as the town lights opened out north beyond the high harbour walls. Then I freed the sheets a little and she began to hurry along. The revolving light on Lowestoft lighthouse lit me up regularly every fifteen seconds, in one instance catching a wave shattering into spray several feet above the bows. Then came rain and more rain. The necklace of lights along the shore rose a little along the cliffs of Gorleston, dipped down to the red and green lights of Yarmouth harbour entrance (0330 hrs), carried on level for the town and then turned deep yellow for Caister. Eastwards a line of red flashing buoys kept me off the Scroby Sands. It was just getting light at 0500hrs as I reached the Whistle buoy at the seaward end of the inshore channel and a few moments later caught my first sight of Haisborough light struggling through the haze. Now the coast was falling away to leeward and I could free the sheets progressively. The wind gradually hardened and sent the little boat boiling along flat out for Blakeney. At six in the morning a red sun came up behind a bank of mist and I noted that the sky above had faint traces of blue, the hint of a warm sunny day at last. The wind seemed to have settled just north of east but was rising too much for my peace of mind. There was no point in getting the 0630 hrs forecast for there was nothing that I could do now but press on. She was clearly running too fast, becoming hard to steer and causing some waves to break alarmingly. I considered running under jib only, but that would slow her too much. High water at Blakeney was a ten oclock and I hoped to be there by noon before the tide over the sands dropped too

much. Bacton of North Sea Gas fame passed at 0700 hrs and an hour later the question was solved for me when she sheered to windward on the face of a wave and several buckets of water poured into the cockpit over the lee coamings. I hardened the topping lift, which is led aft to the after end of the cabintop, lowered the gaff jaws onto the boom and ran on like that. It was much more comfortable but my speed was gone and the fair tide was almost done. Soon there would be two knots against me. It was a long slow trip past Cromer, dull and gloomy in the haze at 0845 hrs and Sherringham seemed that it would never come abeam. In fact the three and a half miles only took an hour! Then progress seemed to improve, perhaps more wind or perhaps just the cheering effect of the sun breaking through. The cliffs gave way to sand dunes and I began to wonder about the surf on Blakeney Bar. My three charts each showed different plans of the entrance. The seas were bad enough out here. Visions of what would happen when they started to break in shallow water kept me well offshore. By this time my course was nearly due west and she steered much easier on this bearing. I looked in vain for the entrance buoy but it was hopeless for it was somewhere towards the strong sunlight and is a green wreck buoy so it doesnt show up at all well. The end of the sand dunes drew abeam and began to drop astern. When should I begin to turn in? At least with these high waves I got a good view of the coast when I was on top of one! About a mile beyond the sand dunes I tried to come about twice but failed so I gybed and found that the tiny mainsail came over easily, enabling me to steer south into sunny seas. Away to port, surf at least twelve feet high rolled inshore but it looked smoother ahead to starboard. I gybed back and headed more westerly and then decided that the best water seemed to be just east of south and gybed again to try my luck. Gleaming yellow sand ahead and surf fringed sands on either hand. Suddenly the boat seemed to stop dead, thinking she was aground, I pulled the up the plate, assuming that the lifting rudder had looked after itself and glanced astern to see an advancing wall of gleaming white surf with several others in support. I expected that the boat would fill in a moment but at least I could walk ashore to safety. Shoal Waters lifted and surged forward, seemingly jet propelled for seconds or minutes (who looks at a watch in these circumstances?), but not a drop of water came on board. Suddenly I was in smooth clear water some four feet deep. The drop rudder was still right down showing that I couldnt have touched the sand. Presumably the sensation of stopping must have been caused by the boat meeting the tide pouring off the sand together with the recoil from the wave. I raised the gaff jaws of the reefed mainsail and rippled happily along in the narrowing bight of water with brilliantly yellow sands closing in on either hand. Away to port, the main entrance channel gleamed in the sunlight. Could I find my way through to join it? Suddenly it occurred to me that I had no wish to do so and rounded up into the wind letting the bows slide into the soft sand. The sail rattled down, the kettle went on and I bailed with the sponge. Only my feet were wet. Gosh, that gleaming golden sand looked lovely! I was soon over the side paddling and digging my toes into the soft sand oblivious of the cold. By 1330 hrs bacon was cackling in the pan as the last of the crystal clear water left the boat and went

gurgling away towards the line of blue sea beyond the thundering surf. From the chart I appeared to be at spot called `Hammonds Wreck` and the falling tide revealed some wreckage nearby. Eastward, towards the sand dunes, the main channel gleamed jade green with flecks of white. A hundred and fifty yards away, a dozen seals basked in the sun with a much bigger herd nearer the entrance. Birds of all sorts scoured the sand and pools as eager for lunch as I was. The radio churned out family favourites. With the boat head to wind, the cabin was warm and snug. It was a very happy moment. Later on, after a nap, I donned a duffle coat and walked to the entrance. It is a wild spot with a few bones of the wreck just visible at low water. At dusk when Shoal Waters floated I moved into the sheltered pool called The Pit to anchor for the night ready to go up to Blakeney Quay at high water on Monday to arrange to leave the boat for three weeks.

Chapter 10

The Northern Isles

On a dreary wet Saturday three weeks later while Sunderland were winning the F.A. cup, Shoal Waters made her way slowly along the Norfolk coast, reaching Brancaster by low water. The 1800 hrs forecast gave Humber W 5/6 later S 6/7. I toyed with the idea of a night passage but thought better of it and swept into Brancaster with the young flood to anchor in The Hole for the night. Sunday came in with strong winds from the south bringing bright sunshine and showers. I spent the day aground near the old staithe. The 1800 hrs forecast gave a gale warning for Humber and Thames, SW 5/7 later but the telephone forecast for the Lincolnshire coast was westerly force four with clear skies overnight. I liked the look of the sunset and decided on a night passage. The boat floated at 2210 hrs and as the last splatter of rain swept over, I got the sails up for a swift journey out of the harbour under a clearing sky. Once into the main channel, I steered on the regular flash of the Lynn Well light vessel to make certain of avoiding the wrecked steamer on the point. By 2300 hrs I reckoned I must be well clear and altered course northwest, steering on the star Capella for the first half an hour or so. The moon was a few days old and a warm glow of phosphorescence blazed astern of the rudder. I guessed that the loom of light ahead into which the moon was sinking was Skegness and a necklace of inshore lights confirmed this fifty minutes later. The 0030 hrs forecast gave SW 5/6-7-8. By 0200hrs the lights of Hunstanton, and the Lynn Well light vessel had dropped below the horizon and rapidly smoothing water showed that I must be closing the coast. Sutton on Sea appeared with the dawn at 0400 hrs while the Dowsing light, a tower, not the light vessel I had expected, flashed somewhere out to sea. After a cup of tea I shook out the reefs and settled down to make the best possible progress. Mablethorpe swept by at 0515 hrs. The forecast at 0630 hrs gave Thames SW 4/5 as I sped along the seemingly endless, featureless Lincolnshire flats, almost glad of the bombing range target piers as bench marks. A white tower puzzled me at first but turned out to be the bridge structure of a large tanker, which could only be in the mouth of the River Humber. By 0745 hrs I could pick out Spurn Point lighthouse . The day was young and I had no hesitation in deciding to press on to Bridlington. By 0900 hrs I was creeping round Spurn Point close inshore, just off the edge of the groins, to dodge the last of the flood. The Admiralty Pocket Tidal Atlas at this time was smaller than today`s editions but still far too large to go into the average pocket and I often wondered why it was so called. I found the answer in a second hand shop with the discovery of a 1923 edition, which was four and a half inches by five and a half. Unlike tide tables and almanacs, tidal atlases go on forever. My Thames estuary edition has the price, four shillings and sixpence, on the cover and the 1923 edition served me on this trip north. Planes were roaring over a bombing range ahead and as I thought that they were aiming for the conspicuous target a mile offshore, I crept along coast to the beach. In fact they were dropping their goodies on the top of the low cliffs, kicking up great clouds of dust and thundering low overhead as I passed

by. I expected to get a visit from the guardship when I got through but they didnt take any notice of me. Perhaps they were all asleep! Suddenly I could see Flamborough Head but my joy was killed by the 1400 hrs forecast; Humber SW 4/5 going variable when N 6! Damn! By 1715 hrs Shoal Waters was moored up inside the walls of Bridlington harbour, marvelling at the sheer numbers of tightly packed yachts and fishing boats. It was the first time that I had come across keel boats in a drying harbour moored between the four legs of a sort of oversized inverted dining room table. It certainly increased the capacity of the harbour and I wondered if they towed the lot out to sea and started their races after the style of greyhound racing? Little did I realise that my luck had run out. Strong winds became the rule for the rest of the week. Shoal Waters made two attempts before reaching Scarborough where she was held up for a full day by gales before reaching Whitby late on Saturday afternoon at the second attempt, just ahead of another gale warning. I found sailing in the lee of cliffs backed by higher land completely different from sailing in the lee of lowland Essex. Unlike the steady winds in Essex, here vicious gusts swept down from every undulation along the clifftop making it very uncomfortable for a small boat under sail. This was obviously as far north as I was going to get but I was determined to see something of the place before leaving. Sunday came in wet and little town filled up with despondent day-trippers and frustrated fishing parties marooned onshore by the gales. My first target was the ruins of the old abbey on the cliff top, the route to which took me up through the steep streets of the old town once trodden by Captain Cook. The view from the top is well worth the climb. At first I was bewildered by the gaps in the harbour defences but it was explained to me that any solid structure would be gone by the end of the first winter. Apparently all yachts in the outer harbour have to withdraw above the bridge by October in readiness for the winter onslaught. It obviously breeds some tough sailors and I remember reading that in its heyday as a whaling port, young men went to sea straight from school and never saw corn growing in the field until they came ashore for good. I looked at little Shoal Waters and thought of Captains Scotts words at the South Pole, God, this is an awful place. Let me emphasise to any Yorkshire reader that I use the word awful in its true meaning from the viewpoint of a small boat sailor. It certainly filled me awe to think what it must be like in a northeasterly gale. I thought of just how many skippers over the years, who in a rising gale, have had to decide between riding it out at sea and risking the harbour entrance for the comfort of home. Whitby with its historic old town and modern holiday resort is clearly a place worth a visit BY CAR! It reaffirmed my growing feeling that we were out of our area and it was time to head for home. With the midday flood tide I ducked the mast under the swing bridge that joins the old town from the new and explored upstream as far as the mighty rail viaduct. As I passed one large motor cruiser in the rain, a deckhouse window slide open, two hands reached out to uncork a bottle of something which popped loudly and promptly vanished whence it had come. `Yachting` is a broad church! The sun came through as I passed back, under the harbour bridge and I noted

that the flag on the cliff top church hung limp, sending my spirits rising in spite of the gale warning still in force at 1400 hrs. The harbour master was convinced that it would blow overnight but the local weather telephone forecast spoke of lighter winds and clearing skies. After a leisurely walk to the pierhead eating fish and chips, I decided to go. The church clock struck five as I got under way with a small jib but full mainsail to get out between the tall harbour walls. Outside, the tide was against me and the seas were still lively but my spirits were high for somehow things looked good. Forty minutes later the lighthouse was abeam and I had a last look at Whitby and the attractive ruins of the old abbey standing out boldly against the evening sunlight. No wonder it was a prime attraction for Viking raiders! The 1800 hrs forecast still had a gale warning for Tyne and Humber NW 6/8 decreasing 4/5. Robin Hood bay closed behind me, and Flamborough Head came into view as I had a meal and set up the paraffin navigation lights. It was a perfect evening to be at sea, particularly when Max Jaffa came over the radio playing the theme from Sparticus, which was used for the T.V. series about life seafaring in Victorian times, the Onedin Line. The bright single light on Flamborough Head began to flash steadily as the blaze of lights at Scarborough appeared, followed by those of Filey an hour later while the sea continued to smooth out. The 0030 hrs forecast gave no gales anywhere with Humber variable, going north later. The tide was going my way now and the great bulk of Famborough Head was abeam by 0200hrs and then the lights of Bridlington opened up. It would have been nice to duck in for some sleep but this fair wind was too good to miss. The sun came up at 0500 hrs to herald a scorching day but it gradually killed the wind so that I had to kedge over the rest of the ebb. A long swell prevented any real sleep but I dozed and thought of the thousand of southbound colliers that must have anchored here in the same circumstances when `sea coal` was king on this coast. The tide turned at 1215 hours and finicky airs took Shoal Waters round Spurn point by mid afternoon to anchor off the old coastguard cottages while her skipper slept the sleep of the just. That evening when the tide left her on the wide firm sand, I went for a stroll to watch the sunset over the point. Calm as conditions were, even the last few inches of water still carried spiteful wavelets that raced across the water and slammed into the stranded hull hard enough to break onto the deck. This was obviously not a place in which to linger! In my log I noted a very good nights sleep, probably because the soreness in the rib cracked during my struggle on the Deben bar a month earlier was easing at last. I woke at 0430 hrs to find a lively breeze from the north, a pink glow over the sand dunes in the east and most important of all, no fog, my main fear for the crossing of the Humber Estuary. The dawn was absolute perfection, the sun peeping over the dunes as I got the anchor at 0505 hrs and headed for the Bull light vessel and the Lincolnshire coast. The Humber had been kind to me again. In view of the forecast wind shift, northerly two going easterly three I decided to head straight for Wells rather than hug the coast. The lack of regular buoys such as I am used to in the Thames Estuary added a touch of spice to the trip but the tall Dowsing Tower which I reached at noon was a great help. Gradually the sky glazed over as first the Burnham

Flats buoy and later the Bridgirdle Buoy cheered me on my way. At 1750 hrs towards high water, I spotted the Wells entrance buoy to port and linked up the leading marks for the one and a half mile trip across the sands. To my surprise, I found heavy surf in one spot and took a lot of solid water into the cockpit in spite of the calm sea. By the 1800 hrs forecast, Humber variable 3/4 going easterly 4/5, I was safely beached on firm sand near the lifeboat house where a monument to a complete crew drowned while crossing the bar, reminded me that this was a dangerous coast. The wind blew hard from the east for the rest of the week, trapping me in Wells but there are worse places in which to be caught. The warm sunny day passed pleasantly enough exploring the extensive creeks among the saltings above the little town on the morning and evening high water and walking the adjacent countryside midday. One day I walked out over the sands almost to the entrance buoy at low water and realised how the sands move. Whenever they dry in strong winds, the fine sand drifts in long fingers much the same as winter snow. Water boots left at the edge of the dunes were half buried when I returned a couple of hours later. One such ridge had drifted across the line of the leading marks and had been the cause of my fright among the surf when entering. I mentioned this to the harbour Master come local pilot who agreed with me, Yes! They (the leading marks) want moving! A study of the local history revealed that the inhabitants of Wells were once known as the `Bite fingers ` in view of the highly efficient way they removed the rings from bodies washed ashore after ship wrecks. For some time I had realised that electricity is here to stay and purchased two smart bronze side lights that I had noted languishing in the dusty window of an Essex boatyard shed for many years. Eventually I was flush enough to try to buy them. The proprietor almost resented having to dig out the catalogue to discover the price of 7. Fitting them was a problem in view of all the screws, wiring and other gear needed together with a car battery to power them. This seemed the perfect chance to fit them with all the shops to hand and nothing better to do anyway. The steady easterly wind was obviously changing by the weekend when my son James (aged sixteen) joined me for the final week. On Monday we had to turn back off Sherringham in rising head winds as thunderstorms swept the southeast of the country but our hectic run back to Blakeney ended up as a beat in fading evening airs. One straw of comfort was reports of flooding in Essex, which meant that there would be no shortage of water for the locks on the canal to Chelmsford. Wind from the northwest and an early start on Tuesday got the little vessel as far as Caister where she was forced to kedge all afternoon over the ebb. When the tide started to flood at dusk a light breeze from the east sent her chuckling on her way. Somewhere in the long line of lights that was Yarmouth a bingo caller plied his trade as darkness closed in. The red light at Southwold came into view, turned white and passed astern as my attention focused on the five second white flash that I knew to be Orfordness. The wind was already veering. If only I could get round the low shingle spit before the ebb set in again! It was not to be. During a heavy rain-squall, the wind swung south and rose sharply. Eventually I anchored over the Sizewell bank until dawn.

With the morning flood Shoal Waters, now close reefed, struggled south almost to Thorpness but the wind rose further and it was time to admit defeat. The choice of a refuge was difficult; Southwold with its difficult, dangerous entrance close at hand to leeward but still an easy leap from the dreaded Orfordness, or safe, easy to enter but distant Lowestoft. I decided to have a look at the former and told Jim to put on a life jacket. It looked bad but not impossible and in we went, keeping well away from the waves recoiling from the south pier until I judged it prudent to push the tiller down to start the dramatic dive into the white water filling the narrow entrance. For a terrifying moment it seemed that she would not answer to the rudder as she hurtled down the face of a wave towards the solid north pier. Then the pressure on the tiller eased, the bowsprit swung away quickly to port and we were gliding swiftly between the piers as I worked the tiller furiously to counter the swirling effect of the racing tide and keep her clear of the high walls. The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough but even the rural delights of Southwold could not relieve my gloom at the prospect of missing the rally at Chelmsford. The canal company were proceeding cautiously for most of their income these days is the sale of water to the Southend waterworks. To conserve water, passage up the canal had to be made in groups of four vessels. We were booked in for Friday. Tomorrow, Thursday, would be our last chance and the forecast at 1800hrs was SW 5/7 4/5, right on the nose! After a stroll to the harbour mouth at low tide to examine the remains of earlier wooden harbour defences, we bedded down early to make the most of the morrow. The sky looked more settled. Thursday was overcast for a start but the light wind looked more westerly. The bar was still rough but the first of the ebb chucked us out in grand style at 0630 hrs as the forecast gave W 4. In fact the wind was a little north of west and Shoal Waters settled down to enjoy the luxury of a beam wind along the exquisite Suffolk coast as the sky cleared and my spirits rose. It was all over now bar the shouting. Orfordness abeam at 1015 hrs, the Cork light vessel in view by 1210 hrs and the Naze, the first sight of Essex, rose above the horizon at 1300hrs. I was so happy with life and the world in general that I even allowed my son to tune into radio One. The wind died in the afternoon but the onshore breeze came in from the southeast to carry us into the River Blackwater over the early evening flood as far as Steeple Stone where we anchored for the night. I left at 0235 hrs with the flood to complete the last five miles as the old moon rose and hundreds of sea birds squabbled over the shrinking mudflats. For a time I steered on the bright star Arcturus in the constellation of Bootes, the Herdsman; an omen that the little ships lonely journey was over for the next few days as she recovered among the butter cup splattered water meadows of the lovely Chelmer and Blackwater Canal.

Chapter 11

Admiralty Instructions
For hundred of years, orders from the impressive Admiralty building in Whitehall have sent sailing craft about all manner of business throughout the world. 1979 was the year in which the little gaff cutter Shoal Waters joined that illustrious company. It started off early in that year when I received a letter from Cdr. J.S.N. Pryor, Superintendent of Sailing Directions at the Hydrographic Department in Taunton, Somerset, asking if they might use some of my photographs, that have appeared in the yachting press, for the new edition of the Dover Pilot (which includes the Thames Estuary). He carefully explained what the `pilots` were, but I already knew them well for during the Pacific war years as a very junior clerk in the Admiralty, I followed the Pacific war by getting the appropriate charts and pilots each time that the island hopping American Marines made a new landing. I fully appreciated the long tradition of excellence and the endless hours of patient surveying and observation behind them over hundreds of years. This was brought home to me on a wartime evening in a blacked out railway carriage while discussing the area of a recent landing in the Pacific when an elderly chap spoke up from the gloom in the far corner. He knew the area and had taken part in the survey of it before the First World War. He told how they steamed up and down the coast taking soundings while two officers took horizontal sextant angles to fix each position on special marks set up onshore. Later he and two companions were put ashore with three weeks grub and a measured pole to record the height of the water every half hour so that tidal details could be worked out for the area. He named the ship and I confirmed it on the chart next day. The thought of little Shoal Waters following this tradition delighted me. I agreed at once and offered to take pictures of any other features in the area that they required. The first list of twentyone shots arrived in May and was followed by a settled sunny weekend. After dropping down river to Brightlinsea on Friday evening, Shoal Waters set out under full sail as the sun rose to take the ebb tide down the Wallet to get some shots of Clacton and Walton from seaward and have a look at the ruins of the old Gunfleet Beacon marked on the charts as awash at high tide. In warm sunshine with the last of the overnight offshore breeze, I took numerous shots of the low coastline while Joy jotted down the bearings. As the breeze followed the sun round, we drifted out on the last of the ebb tide to the ruins of the beacon and found an alarming sight. A loop of iron, rather thicker than railway line, curved up out of the water about six feet with a shaft some fifteen feet long at fourtyfive degrees to the water pointing in the direction of Frinton. By high tide it would all be covered and a menace to any craft dodging over the sands. Joy became a little concerned as I sailed in close for a definitive shot but the sea was calm with no swell and little more than steerage-way on the boat. After all, this was official business! Then we took advantage of the little ladies twelve-inch draft to creep across the sand to the Old

Light Tower before anchoring for lunch. The breeze grew steadily from the southeast (the onshore breeze in this area) and tiny wavelets began to lead the advancing tide onto the gleaming islands of golden sand around me. Away to the north a host of spinnakers loomed over the horizon, hesitated for a while as the East Anglian Offshore fleet racing from Burnham to West Mersea, crossed between the North East Gunfleet and the Medusa buoys and then began to advance up the Wallet with the young flood tide. What better escort for Shoal Waters on her way home! In fact the shoreline shots turned out disappointing but we learned a few lessons for the next outing. The four days of the Spring Bank Holiday brought a rich variety of weather. As a civil servant (having left farming) I was entitled to a day off for the birthday of Her Majesty the Queen so was able to get away on Friday. After work on Thursday I walked my gear out to the boat through the mud and settled down to get a little sleep before the early morning visit of the tide. A fine westerly breeze and spring ebb took Shoal Waters swiftly out onto the broad estuary. By first light I was off the NW Shingles beacon to get some shots of the new inverted topmark (many of the beacons had been altered over the winter to bring them into line with the new I.L.Y.A. buoyage system), and then set off due south for the Pan Sand with white surf on the Shingles Patch to leeward reminding me that the topsail ought really to come down. I kept it up as the course from the Pan Sand Beacon to the Margate Hook Beacon was down wind over the flood tide and I would need all the help I could get. The Kent shore quickly came into view and I set the bowsprit on the cliffs towards Margate. Thanks to the superb visibility, the cooling towers at Richborough stood out boldly above the cliffs along the Kent shore and I was able to photograph the Margate Hook Beacon in Transit. Now the topsail came down, I snatched a cup of tea and a sandwich and then began to beat back along the Kent coast with the last of the flood tide. Be the time I reached Herne Bay, the next target for my camera, a fair old lop had built up and I pulled down two reefs. Protecting the camera from spray became a priority problem. The old pier, now in three pieces after the 1979 winter gales, looked a sorry sight. At the top of the tide I worked inshore in the lee of Whitstable Street, (a mile long finger of drying shingle), and settled down for lunch and an afternoon nap for I had no intention of beating over the ebb tide. It was a bit lively at anchor for a start but the wind was obviously backing and by early evening went southwest to give me a reach along the north shore of the Isle of Sheppey. They wanted some shots of the entrance to Whitstable but I just couldnt use the camera for fear of getting it soaked with spray from the short seas until I reached the lee of the extensive mudflats off Sheppey by which time I was to far away to get anything useful. There was plenty of shelter further west as I took some pictures of the coastguard station on the high cliffs to windward. By the time I reached Sheerness the sun was well round into the west and lit up the forts and power station with a warm evening light, perfect for photography.

As the sun finally went down at the end of a perfect day, a dying breeze carried Shoal Waters across the shipping lanes and over Southends famous sands to moor for the night off the tail of Canvey Island. Several shots were required of this area and I planned to get them on the next afternoon high water. What a hope! Saturday brought heavy rain hour after hour with arising wind from the southeast. In this area we dont often get rain with the wind in the southeast but when we do, there is always plenty of it. When the flood tide drove the last of the seemingly weatherproof bait diggers back off the mudflats and began to slap under the bilges of Shoal Waters with sufficient force to shake the whole boat, I realised that this was no place to be at high water when the ebb set in against the wind. I skinned up, got the anchor and sailed through the Two Tree Island moorings under the traditional Broads rig of jib and tent, deep into Benfleet Creek where the weary little boat dried out gently for the night as the rains eased at last. Sunday was as different again. Wind from the south and a clear sky full of stars. Shoal Waters left with the ebb and I looked in vain for any sign of the leading lights into Leigh on Sea as she tore along towards the lights of Southend Pier. Progress with the spring ebb was so good that I feared that I might reach the West Barrow Beacon before there was enough daylight for me to take pictures. A fierce red sky gave me a lurid colour slide of the West Barrow buoy and I found just enough light for the beacon with its new east sector topmark at 0500hr. It is a poor replacement for the hourglass topmark we have known all our lives. After a shot of the Little Sunk Beacon near low water, the flood tide set in to take me across the northern edge of the East Barrow sand in smooth water on route back to Heybridge. I judged (correctly) that the Bank Holiday Monday had little to offer to small boat sailors and went home to my dark room. A useful package was on its way to Taunton before the week was out and I was particularly pleased with the shoreline shots. So great was my enthusiasm for the `task` that I suggested cancelling our planned holiday cruise on the Norfolk Broads but Joy soon squashed that idea. In any case, the run north to get there and the return journey (fair winds each way this year), gave us a good chance to take the required shoreline shots as far as Orfordness. With the club regatta and a couple of weddings in the family (why do people get married during the sailing season?), it was August before we got back to `Official business`. The Sunk and the Longsand Beacons were next targets and are a little further offshore than I normally sail. The first attempt met a strong blow from the northeast that sent me scurrying for the shelter of Colne Point to laze in scorching sunshine and watch other small cruisers that had set off for Harwich that morning come running back one after the other. The second attempt found better conditions, real Shoal Waters weather. After dropping down the river overnight in the lightest of airs, we set out on Saturday morning to reach the Sunk beacon as the offshore breeze died away and wind came in from the Southeast to give her a beam wind down the Black deep between the Little Sunk beacon and the Longsand Beacon on route for the Great Sunk. Actually, all these beacons are the same triangular type. The only one that has a personality of its own is the great Sunk, which heels over towards the land

ten miles away northwest. Burnham lay twentyfive miles away towards the sun and we had memorable trip there as the onshore breeze built up, to moor for the night just above the town. With a fine day and a southerly breeze on Sunday, we went up river to Fambridge and then home through the Spitway as the wind backed southeast to give us a hundred mile weekend trip with a fair wind all the way. There was another weeks holiday to come at the end of August and we sorted out the remaining tasks. A request came along for a shot of the new radio mast on the coastguard lookout west of Shoeburyness so we started off with an overnight trip to the mouth of the Thames. Varying weather enabled us to make four visits to Whitstable to get some acceptable shots and as a sort of bonus, some better ones of the Sheerness entrance to the Medway. The leading lights into old Leigh continued to elude us but when we explored the steep grassy slope ashore on foot we found two defunct old fashioned gas lamp standards among the trees which contrasted sharply with the tall electric street lights of this busy area. They seem to be on the correct bearings for the Leigh Gut. While anchored near TwoTtree Island for lunch the tragic news of the death of Earl Mountbatten came over the radio. The first boat to which I passed on the sad news flew the burgee of the Royal Naval Sailing Association. A visit to the Girdler beacon and a trip round Sheppey completed our business in the south and after a call in on Burnham Week, we went north to get more shots of the Deben and Harwich area. Landguard Point proved very difficult but eventually we used a white ferry boat entering the harbour as a backdrop to make the point, with its old wooden jetty, stand out from the Harwich shoreline. By the end of the season Shoal Waters had covered some six hundred miles on `official business` and later some forty pictures eventually appeared in the 1981 edition of the Dover Pilot.

Chapter 12

Stand By to Repel Boarders

There is always a copy of `Riddle of the Sands` in the packed bookshelf on Shoal Waters. Just before midnight on the 28th of July1977, I crouched against the starboard bulkhead at the after end of the cabin. My thoughts flitted from the book with its tense account of Carruthers`s encounter with a nocturnal intruder to the bearded figure passing slowly towards me in an inflatable dinghy. I t was hardly believable, almost a dream or even a nightmare, but in a few moments I would know if I was going to have an intruder of my own. Sure enough, I felt the slight thud as he came alongside port side forward and grasped the gunwale. It was the side away from the shore and the inquisitive searchight of the Porchester Sailing Club on whose moorings I was laying. My heart jumped for a second and then settled down. After all this was no worse than many of the adventures that Shoal Waters and I had encountered over the previous fourteen years and twentyone thousand miles of cruising together. I long ago lost count of the sailing tips that I have picked up from Erskin Childers` grand novel. Now I recalled how Carruthers had accidentally knocked over the cabin lamp and startled the visitor so he never got to grips with him I wanted this chap wormed, parcelled and served, ready to hand over to the police, and sat as quiet as a mouse with a Sestrel hand bearing compass ready but hidden under my right knee to conceal the luminous glow from the betalight cell. The tiny vessel curtsied as Herr Grimm (his real name is unpronounceable), clambered on board. He seemed to fiddle about for a long time near the mast. I realised that he was securing the dinghy to the shrouds so that it was not visible from the shore as it would have been if tied astern in the normal fashion. Every sound echoed through the boat in the silence of the warm summer night. The boom tent covers the cockpit, reaching forward of the sliding hatch and is fastened to the toe rail each side. This restricts movement for anyone outside the tent to careful toe-holds and a firm gip on the boom under the peak of the tent. Slowly he squeezed into the after end of the cockpit without untying the tent at all, a thing I have never attempted. Suddenly he was actually in the cockpit, less than six feet from me. Only the previous week at the office we had discussed the question of tackling intruders in our home and whether we would have the nerve and determination to have a go, if and when the time came. `Herr Grimm` might be a tough customer and I might come off worse but I had the advantage of surprise and hoped that the compass would make up for my typical flabby fifty year old, office worker, physique. Furthermore, a barge horn near at hand would alert Peter, the local auxiliary coastguard who lives in a houseboat on the foreshore to phone the police right away. Herr Grimm seemed satisfied that all was as he had left it the previous night, the top washboard out and the hatch moved forward just a little. I guessed that he had had to leave in a hurry to get away before the tide left him high and dry for Shoal Waters only floated for three or four hours and the tides were only just moving into darkness. Suddenly his bearded face came into view. I could see him clearly as my eyes were

used to the faint light inside the cabin. The red glow from Portsmouth harbour gave him a fearsome appearance as he blinked his way into the deep gloom of the tiny cabin. Our faces couldnt have been more than twelve or fifteen inches apart. He moved so slowly. It was a mystery to me that he didnt lift out the bottom washboard. He must see or sense me at any moment. I dare not leave it any longer and swung the compass as best I could in the camped cabin and added a flick wrist action as I brought it down hard on his head just above the hairline. He gave a scream rather like the `EEEEEEEEK` balloons of strip cartoons and reeled back. As I leaped to follow, I called out. Grab him Bill! to give the impression that I was not alone. Getting out over the bottom washboard delayed me a second or two and although I grabbed him before he got to the stern, he had recovered from his surprise and in the struggle in which he lost his glasses, pressed a hand into my face, one finger touched my eyeball and stalled me for a moment. In a flash his head and shoulders were under the boom crutch and over the transom, leaving me just a waving mass of legs to tackle. Then he was gone. I untied the cover, blew as hard as I could on the barge horn and waved the compass over his head as he hung onto the stern. He got the message, let go and trod water for some moments seemingly bewildered by the sudden rush of events. Peter appeared on the shore with his spotlight and said that the police were on their way. I cannot think how he did it so quickly. I got my one oar which I used for occasional sculling, indicated the shore and used his dinghy to follow him as he did a steady breast stroke with my oar waving above his head. Then he was able to stand and wade slowly through the deep mud. I watched warily in case he turned to capsize the dinghy but there was little fight left in him. Good Heavens! Cried Peter as Herr Grimm came within range of his spotlight, I recognise this young man. I was hungry he replied and for a moment I had a pang of sympathy for him. Apparently he was a German who had arrived in the area about ten days ago in a smart white steel centreboard yacht which was now moored about three hundred yards above the club hard close to the sea wall. He seemed subdued enough once on the foreshore, almost a pathetic figure, as the water dripped out of his clothes. We walked towards his boat where he wanted to go aboard and change. Peter was inclined to let him but I said no, preferring to let the police be the first on board. Two constables arrived with a charming young policewoman with a midland accent. I briefly explained the history of the incident, my arrival just before dusk a day earlier than expected to find Shoal Waters apparently safe and sound on the mooring where she had rested since the Jubilee Fleet review, ready to watch Cowes Week. Peter lent me a dinghy to get out to her, suggesting that I left it on the mooring when I sailed to pick up my family at Gosport on Friday evening. I clambered aboard to find that the lock had been broken, the top washboard has been removed and the bunk board lifted to reveal the bilge. The tackle had been unhooked from the centreboard and the line from the board tied to the mast support. The significance of this was not apparent until later. Most of my tinned food had gone together with tea, coffee and biscuits. A rubber waterproof torch and a clasp knife were missing but the radio and

the compass were still there although the latter had been unbolted. I had a hunch that he would be back. It was no use leaving the dinghy astern so I paddled Shoal Waters back to the shore to leave the dinghy and returned to the mooring to wait. Peter suggested that I sounded the barge horn if anyone turned up. We had expected youngsters from seaward but in fact Herr Grimm appeared from the landward side at 2315 hrs just after the majority of the shore lights went out. The police needed the rubber duck to get to his boat and when I came to paddle it round with his gear I realised that he was using standard dinghy oars instead of paddles, a sure sign that it had been stolen. While he changed into dry clothing, they searched the boat and found most of my gear but of course it had to be kept as evidence. Then they took him off and the young lady came on board Peters houseboat to make my statement over a cup of tea. By 0200 hrs I was back on board well pleased with the nights sport and changing into my pyjamas but still mystified at the tampering with the centreboard. It never occurred to me that he was trying to STEAL THE PLATE!. My foot touched the centreboard bolt or at least where it should have been, and water started to spurt into the cabin. He had taken out the bolt and replaced it with a paper plug each side. The hull is a Fairey Marine Falcon and the bolt merely supports a large stainless steel washer, which is jammed between the sides of the case. Thus although the bolt had been removed, the plate didnt drop out. In a few moments I had her on the hard to dry out for the rest of the night. My thoughts reeled at what might have happened. On my last visit with my wife and teenage son, we had clambered on board in the dark and gone straight off to Chichester harbour to watch the last day of the ladies world dinghy championship. What a disaster that could have been if the paper plugs had held out just long enough to get us out to sea! I began to wish that I had hit him a lot harder. At first light I cut wooden plugs to fit the holes, then found a brass pintle in the mud, which I filed to fit. When a club member came down early to put his boat on the piles for a scrub, he found me a galvanised bolt. This was replaced with a stainless steel one at Cowes the next week. Peter told me later that Her Grimm had lost his plate and been using two pieces of steel sheet held in place with G clamps. At first he convinced the police that he owned the yacht and produced his bill of sale but later it came out that he had stolen it from Hamburgh and changed the name. Interpol came up with a string of robberies. He was sentenced at Fareham court to six months, deportation and handed over to the German police. Shoal Waters made a moonlight passage to Cowes, enjoyed the company of the Admirals Cup fleet for the week, took part in a Dinghy Cruising Association rally and then found a light breeze from the northwest to take her home to her mooring at Maldon.

Chapter 13

Barking Creek and the Port of Ilford

A fiery red sunset glowed among the tall chimneys of Barking power station as the little gaff cutter Shoal Waters dropped anchor on the edge of the mud-flats downstream. The easterly wind that had driven her up the River Thames during the day seemed as tired as I was. The bluster of early morning that had scared me into rigging the storm trysail had gradually given way to a gentle breeze that now called for my topsail, but this was far enough for today. Barking Creek, my objective for the cruise was just the other side of those chimneys. As I rigged the anchor light, I tried to visualise this place as it must have looked in medieval times when the Bishop of Barking ruled a prosperous abbey and was himself a power in the land. Francis Drake must have passed this way in the Pelican en route for the Pacific and again on his way back to Greenwich for a knighthood on the deck of the renamed Golden Hind above a hold full of treasure. The growth of the growing Empire continued to pass this way until it was finally stopped for good by the industrial actions of kamikaze dockworkers after the second world war. On a more modest level, Barking flourished with a fishing fleet to harvest the fish in a cleaner Thames than we know today and a tide mill to grind the corn harvested on the rich land higher up the River Roding valley. Growing London gave an increasingly attractive market for fish but the associated pollution drove the fish further away so bigger vessels made longer journeys. By the mid-nineteenth century over one hundred and fifty smacks sailed from the creek, many of them over fifty tons. Rather than each vessel worrying her way up the winding Thames with her own catch, special flyers setting clouds of canvas hurried the fish to London, while the rest of the fleet stayed at sea for weeks at a time. Then came the railways. The fish could be delivered faster from Lowestoft or Grimsby and the fleets stayed at the railhead bringing fame and prosperity to hitherto unknown coastal hamlets. All other commerce on the Thames palls almost to insignificance against the sheet volume of the trade in black diamonds from the Northern Indies. Some of these collier brigs slipped into Barking Creek and by the mid-l7th century lock gates had been built to maintain a navigable depth as far as growing Ilford, which became a port with a gas works, for 200 years. Yes indeed! The ghosts of a lot of ships and seamen must haunt this spot. Tomorrow Shoal Waters drawing less than a foot with the plate up, would find out where they went and how they got there, for, like them, she has no engine. Sunday dawned cold and overcast with a strong wind from the north. I prefer a head wind for exploration as it makes it easy to get out again if you dont like the place once you get inside. The creek entrance was blocked by the construction works for the new flood barrier but open marsh on the western edge has allowed a temporary bypass to be cut which I looked into at low tide. There didnt seem to be much water there and it was too narrow to beat in comfortably so I brought up and ate

a lazy breakfast. An hour later, with the first of the flood, Shoal Waters turned her bows towards Barking Mill. In days long gone I would have been crossing tacks with a mass of other craft all working in on the young flood though ranks of moored smacks, perhaps in company with hatch boats, peter boats, well smacks and maybe colliers. Today I was alone. A coaster lay dried out against one of the busy wharves dominating the eastern bank where new machinery contrasted with ancient buildings. The western banks were still open marsh fringed with Norfolk reed and lively with duck. Barking, I reflected, was once an isolated village two miles upstream. A place where artful fishermen had their nets burned publicly in l320 because the mesh was too small. The centreplate whispered as it touched the shallows each side and I pushed the helm down with one hand and lifted the plate a few inches with the other to bring her round on the other tack. The tide was running strongly now. The first of the bridges, the one carrying A13, came into view and although it marks the limit for coasters, being so early on the tide I was able to sail straight through, and on past crumbling buildings, modern office blocks, a few weathered motor cruisers being fitted out, and a small lighter being rigged as a spritsail barge. One thing was clear, busy as the area obviously was, the bricked up doorways along the riverside showed that they had all turned their backs on the river in favour of the motor lorry. Yet here was once the largest trawler station in the Kingdom if not in the world. Barking men claim to have been the first to make use of the trawl. Ship repair was once a thriving business here due to the eighteen-foot range of tide and the ease of careening but there was another industry less well regarded by the local inhabitants. The thousands of London horses meant hundreds of tons of manure and in the1850`s there was a public outcry over the unsavoury wagon loads that followed the streets to the dock, en route for market gardens. The creek narrowed and swung to starboard where it opened out into a wide millpool, dominated by the tall brick mill with a lock alongside it. On rising ground behind it was the parish church where Captain Cook of the Endeavour was married and where the cross of St George flew proudly, it being Easter Day. A crane jutted out from the mill, poised to hoist sacks of grain from the holds of vessels long since rotted and forgotten. I anchored to assess the chances of passing through the open lock, the gates of which, now high and dry, lay on the shore. Above the lock, the River Roding dries completely, but the flood tide had an air of urgency about it; an invitation I just couldnt resist . Down mast to pass through the lock chamber, crossing the sill as it covered to find myself among a blaze of cherry trees in full flower, paddling and poling now as others had done before me down the centuries. My quant has a small lump of wood on the end for the soft mud of the Broads where there is often no bottom as such, just the water gets thicker as you go down. It is fine until you hook a supermarket trolley and have a shoulder wrenching battle to stop the craft quickly in the swirling tide while you struggle to shake it clear. Now and again she lurched over underwater debris. On under the A124 road bridge and on to the railway bridge which is at an

oblique angle that must have made the mariners curse it. By this time there were houses along the eastern shore, most of whom seem to regard the river bank at the bottom of their gardens as a dumping ground for garden waste and a lot else! As the office blocks of modern Ilford loomed up to starboard a massive concrete jetty came into view to port with a gas holder behind it. Rusted bollards and graffiti showed where coal was unloaded when the streets were yellow with gaslights and a forest of spars and yards still dominated the wharves. A last bend and then the low A118 road bridge, with an old pumphouse beyond and a willow tree in new leaf marked the limit of navigation beyond which is Wanstead Park, near which I was born. This was one of the busiest road bridges into London. For a moment I watched it from the 18th century, then anchored and got the stove going for a cup of coffee. This was a far as I could go. In order to start back over the last of the flood I got the mast up and sailed back to the first bridge. Down mast again as the ebb set in, sailing now with the topsail on its yard held windsurfer fashion. Candidly I was scared of the open lock chamber for the ebb would be much faster than the young flood was when I came up. If I went straight through all would be well but if she slewed round in the current the bowsprit or the rudder (or both) would be stripped off her. As the mill with the gaping lock chamber rushed towards me I got the paddle going to get as much steerage way as possible. In fact all went well. My heart soared to be in the wide mill pool and the sun came out for the rest of the trip. Outside in the broad Thames the ebb running against the wind in Galleons Reach was kicking up a rare old popple, which carried round into Barking Reach. I settled for a quiet berth high and dry on the deep mud at Ripple Marsh, beyond the wash of passing ships and far enough from the sea wall to defy the efforts of stone throwing boys for ten hours of peace before the grim reality of a dawn start and a north-easterly thrash back to Maldon. In fact I waited for the afternoon tide next day for I felt I had earned a lay in.

Chapter 14

Lighters on the Sand

It was the day of the full moon and the spring ebb pouring out from the River Crouch left the entrance buoys struggling and swirling in the racing tide as it swept northeast towards the tall north sector, cardinal Sunken Buxey Buoy two miles away. The only boat in sight, the little green gaff cutter Shoal Waters, had enjoyed a swift trip down stream from Burnham, and now swung to port round the spherical yellow buoy marking the entrance to the notoriously shallow Ray Sand Channel (the Raysn), between the mile wide mudflats fringing the shore and the extensive Buxey Sand. I checked my watch, reached for the sounding cane and began to swing it like a walking stick, more as a ritual than in fear of grounding, for I have been making this trip regularly for over fifty of my seventy five years and knew that there would be water enough for another hour yet. One hundred years ago Frank Cowper found twelve feet here at low water springs for his book `Sailing Tours`. Shoal Waters, who only draws twelve inches with the plate up, could always get through when she was first launched in 1963. Now the southern end dries four or five feet and gets shallower each year as the tail of the Buxey Sand grows out southwest towards the coast at Shore Ends, leaving the famous great iron seamark, the Buxey Beacon, isolated in a lonely bay. For several minutes, less and less of the cane disappeared beneath the water at each plunge but then it began to go deeper again until suddenly, the bottom was comfortably out of reach. Now the cane could be stowed away for this is the watershed. The elaborate fleur-de-lis on the points card of the ridiculously large brass binnacle compass settled opposite the lubbers line. This was a chance to reach into the tiny cabin and set the kettle going for a brew up before it was time to look out for the next mark, a tall iron post topped with two large black cones base to base to indicate that it is on the eastern side of one of the four wrecks placed on the sands as targets when it was a wartime bombing range. If the eighty-pound iron plate, three quarters of the way down, whispered it would be just a case of lifting it a little and easing over to starboard into slightly deeper water. By the time the eastern sector beacon drew abeam, another on the northeasternmost wreck would be visible against the Mersea shore. All I needed to do was to log the time spent sailing between the two beacons. A similar time on the same bearing would bring me to the northern fringe of St Peters flats and the deep water of the outer River Blackwater, well inside the Bench Head buoy. Once there, I would alter course northwest to find a snug berth for the night among the creeks at West Mersea or Bradwell to catch up on the sleep lost when I left my drying mooring at Heybridge some fourteen hours before. This left me plenty of time to watch the late September sun set over the low seawall as flocks of seabirds forsook the wheat stubbles ashore to feed on the teeming invertebrates and crustacean that lived in the mud and sand exposed by the rapidly retreating tide. No villages grace the ten miles of wild coastline along the eastern edge of the Denghie Hundred. Even the local farms cower a mile or so inland, safe

from the winter fury of the southern North Sea. I swung the powerful glasses northeast and confirmed that the black triangle two miles away was the Buxey Beacon, now a cardinal mark instead of the bare pole with a T shaped topmark made famous by writers such as Cooke and Griffiths. Once it marked the western edge of the sand and was used by sailing barges cutting over the Ridge and up the Raysn instead of the longer route through the Spitway between the Buxey sands. Now it stands neglected except for an occasional adventurous yachtsman on a courtesy call. In the far distance could be seen the white sails of yachts taking the longer, deeper route between these two popular rivers. Gazing shorewards again I suddenly sat up with a start! A series of dark hard, oblong shapes broke the gentle line of the seawall shimmering in the golden autumn haze. Careful examination as they drew abeam showed them to be lighters, the sort once seen in hundreds on the London River. There were ten of them, parallel to the shore and several hundred yards out from the seawall. The jib of a crane loomed above the hull at the northern end. This was ridiculous! Nothing ever happened on this bit of the coast. The Roman legions left their fort at Orthona early in the fifth century and Bishop Cedd built the little chapel that still carries his name in the gateway two hundred years later. Sailing barges loaded stacks of hay ten feet high on deck for Londons hungry draft horses from lonely outfalls and just before the second world war the Royal Air Force established a firing and bombing range here of which the four wrecks are the only remnants. Lighters! A crane! This riddle of the sand called for further investigation as soon as time and tide served. On Friday morning a fortnight later, Shoal Waters was ready to leave her mooring at Heybridge as soon as the incoming tide lifted her at half flood. The lighters were twelve miles away and dried an hour or two after high water. With a good breeze it would have been possible to reach them before they dried but the wind stayed light and fickle. When the lighters came into view as I rounded Sales Point, they were already dry. The little gaff cutter worked her way south between the northern wrecks until she came to rest sitting comfortably on the mud like a large duck to wait for the night tide. At least it was a fine chance for an afternoon nap. When I woke it was already dark. A brilliant moon shone out of the clear sky, giving the mud and sand a magic lustre. The bones of the northeast wreck, standing out black against the loom of Clactons lights, invited me out for an evening stroll. I remembered to put up the anchor light before deserting the cosy warmth of the cabin for the eerie silence of the side sands. The steady thud of my seaboots on the firm sand was interrupted at times with cheerful splashes as they hit the shallow pools. Now and then a startled seabird fluttered up into the darkness. The inevitable cormorant sentries guarding the top of the beacon flapped away resentfully as I reached the wreck. All this had once been a wooden minesweeper. The hull had been recognisable into the sixties but was now rapidly disintegrating under the twicedaily assaults of the hungry sea. Shorewards, the black hulls of the lighters stood out against the grey of the seawall. Suddenly a soft `fru, fru` sound made me realised that the tide was already sweeping back in and I hurried back towards the lonely anchor light.

Just after midnight the voyage to the lighters was completed. In the moonlight they looked frightfully big and menacing. Working down from the north, the first seemed empty, the next nearly full of black material, almost certainly honest Essex mud, and the southernmost level full of a lighter coloured material with a strange sheen. Nothing would have tempted me to board them in the dark. That would have to wait for daylight so I anchored a hundred yards outside them to sleep away the rest of the night. A fine sunrise straight out of the sea brightened up the mudflats next morning as I tramped across the mud to the lighters. They were obviously here to stay, for small holes had been cut into the bow and stern buoyancy compartments, holes that it was not difficult to imagine as eyes, which made the great black hulls look even more like stranded whales. The crane was on dumb lighter, with another alongside it at the northern end of the line. Mud was obviously being brought here to fill the lighters as nothing was being dug locally. Further inspection southwards showed that they were being filled to the level of the decks with mud. This was covered with polythene sheeting and then the lighter was topped up brim full with shingle. A flimsy sheet of plastic netting completed the job. For a time at least! By high water, the waves were lapping the sidedecks and it was obvious to any seaman that the first easterly blow would lift most of the shingle out of the lighters onto the mud to leeward. All this was clearly an expensive game. Why? Who was paying for it? A wide fringe of saltmarsh protects most of the ten miles of coastal seawall between the Rivers Crouch and Blackwater from the direct assault by on-shore gales. In places these saltings are over half a mile wide. The tides cover them and reach the seawall for an hour or two on a few days each fortnight just after a full or new moon. Here alone, the smooth mud and sand runs right up to the foot of the seawall. Along the rest of the coast the waves will already have been partly tamed by the off-lying banks, which dry at low water. Only here is there open water all the way through the Wallet Channel between the holidaymakers beaches of the Tendring Hundred and the long Gunfleet sand northeast to Denmark. The worst gales come from the northeast. Just here the waves have three hundred miles of drift before hurling themselves at the fragile shield of concrete faced clay that protects the rich marshes of maritime Essex. Thus the protective role of the beached and ballasted lighter is clear but why the expensive shingle? In my wandering over the years I had noticed the growing concern of the Royal Society for the Protection of birds with the dearth of nesting sites for little terns. About a third of the north European population breeds in Great Britain giving us a population of something over two thousand pairs each summer. Well over half of them chose the southeast and nest in small colonies on shingle beaches along the shore, the very beaches so popular with the growing and increasingly leisured, human population. This area is very isolated and nests would be safe from people but I am afraid that the lighters would need to be at least four feet higher above chart datum to survive an easterly blow that coincided with a spring tide. This was a good idea but I am afraid it was not going to work. A second visit early next season was top priority. A good westerly breeze enabled me to make a night passage from the mooring to scrape onto the mud inshore

of the lighters just as the tide left. Once again a bright sunrise warmed me as I walked across the mud to see what the winter had done. The plastic nets were in shreds. Most of the shingle was heaped up against the stranded hulls on the landward side as I had anticipated. Even the polythene sheeting over the mud had been lifted in places. A tramp to the sea wall revealed a sign from the Anglian Water Authority proudly proclaiming their part in the scheme together with the R.S.P.B. As I had guessed, the aim was coastal protection and nesting sites for birds. Already the tides are redesigning the drainage pattern so that water can come and go through the gaps between the lighters. In places, channels have been scoured away in the mud to reveal a few wartime aerial cannon shell cases along the old target railway line, long since collapsed into the mud. The level of the mud is certainly building up between the lighters and the shore but the hulks themselves are taking a real battering. When I visited them in 2002 several had already had the coamings wrenched away. I visit the little creek running in towards the old chapel at the northern end of the flats most years and have been dismayed to see the erosion taking place year by year. I wonder if this is in any way due to a change in the method of gathering cockles. Looking from seaward, the edge of the saltings seem to be covered in patches of bright gold sand. Closer inspection shows that they are one hundred per cent cockle shells, mostly broken, washed up by the waves. Over ten years ago I found some sturdy stakes on the saltings and drove a line of them just on the landward edge of the strips of shingle. Today they are all on the seaward side. The cockle shells seem to take about a year or eighteen months to be washed over a given spot, during which time they smother and kill off all the rough grass that binds the saltings together. Once faced with bare mud, Father Neptune wades in tearing off great lumps and dashing them to pieces. Areas with no cockle cover stand out like miniature promontories. Once the cockle gatherers beached their craft and raked the sand to find the cockles at low tide. Now big powerful boats from as far afield as Kings Lynn and Boston sail over the sands as soon as there is enough water, with giant vacuum cleaners that suck up the top few inches of sand and mud to run it through a sieve which takes out the cockles but lets through the broken shells and other small stuff. Does this method mean more empty shells to be driven ashore by the next gale? Whatever the cause, the assault on dear old Essex is very sad but we are fighting back. Three brightly polished cannon shell cases stand on my mantelpiece as I write this, souvenirs of my own `Riddle of the Sands`.

Chapter 15

Retirement. Freedom at Last

February 1986 was disappointing in that the usual two fine weekends for fitting out Shoal Waters failed to materialise but this time there was no need to press the panic button. My employers over the last sixteen years, the Board of Inland Revenue, had agreed to my early retirement on the 26th of March, four months before my fiftyninth birthday. With leave due to me, freedom day was Monday the 3rd of March. Spring weather started a day later. Painting and varnishing went ahead in the crowded boatyard behind the Blackwater S.C. Hurried meal breaks were taken in the clubhouse overlooking the ten enticing miles of river, which sent me back to work even harder. In perfect weather on Tuesday 11th, the returning tide lifted her off the trailer where she had waited at the bottom of the club ramp and the 1986 sailing season began. For many years, when discussing retirement, I had joked that I only had one problem, whether to turn north or south once I reached the river mouth. Alas life is never so simple. My wife did not retire until the end of the month, my evening classes went on until the 1st of May, three of the younger generation in the wider family were insisting on summer weddings plus a twentyfirst birthday and to crown it all, I received a summons to serve on the jury in early May. A further major complication was that in order to protect my state pension at the age of sixtyfive, I had to sign on at the labour exchange on alternate Thursdays to help boost the unemployment figures. After examining my conscience and seeing my fellow claimants, I duly claimed the 31 a week subject to tax. Thus the dream of endless carefree days afloat in our snug little floating home dominated only by the fickle winds and the predictable ebb and flow of the ever-reliable tides, died an early death. Nevertheless, all was not gloom. Shoal Waters with her traditional generous gaff cutter rig and shallow draft, was designed to sail far and wide across the Thames Estuary within the confines of the normal two day weekend, often covering over eighty miles, sometimes completing the `ton`, with the best trip of 125 miles; a performance beyond the wildest dreams of most boat owners. Furthermore, no engine is used and tows are not normally accepted. The restrictions listed in the previous paragraph are small beer compared with the despotism of spending five days each week at the office desk. Money was tight. There would be few meals ashore in restaurants or even fast food, and fee charging marina moorings would have to be avoided in preference to muddy beaches and winding rills and guts among lonely saltings. It is expensive to leave the boat away from home and this had to be avoided as far as possible. Our only luxury would be colourslide film but this had already been bought in bulk over the winter. Most years bring an interesting crop of maritime events that set the pattern of sailing for the year. Every five years the Inland Waterways National Rally comes south and in 1986 it was to take place over the August Bank Holiday at Brentford where the Grand Union Canal joins the Thames. This is also the start of Burnham Week and we should be able to get back for the last few days. The great

nostalgia event is the river Colne Smack and Barge Match a week or two later. Evening class enrolment takes place in mid September and I find it essential to meet students to see that they know what they are taking on, particularly now that charges so high. For many years now, we have been on the Norfolk Broads to watch the Three Rivers Race, the only yacht race in which over a hundred yachts race overnight and lower their masts four times to pass under the bridges including the famous one at Potter Heigham. At the same time we can enjoy the prolific wild life and watch the delightful young chicks as they hatch out. We have a particular interest in Coots and Great Crested Grebes for no reason other than the sight of them continues to please us. My son and his wife were due to hire a yacht on the Broads for one week from the eighteenth of May and we planned to sail in company with them. A friend is pleased for us to leave either our boat in his dyke or our car in his yard at Womack Water. There was a water carnival at Norwich on the sixth of July organised in part by the I.W.A. Thus our plan was to explore the Thames Estuary until the end of April, sail to the Broads as early in May as weather permits, leave after the Norwich Water Festival for a leisurely cruise to the I.W.R. at Brentford exploring all ports to starboard with an eye on the prize for the best unpowered trip to the rally. The March weather turned cold and overcast with light winds. Joy prefers to stay at home until things warm up. Shoal Waters made a shakedown trip to the rivermouth and then enjoyed a run round to the river Crouch exploring as far as Battlesbridge and Rochford on the river Roach, the normal first trips of the season. Now I am the first to agree that anyone fool enough to sail at Easter deserves to freeze to death but every year since 1964 this little ship has left the Blackwater S.C. under the full moon in the early hours of Good Friday and found the effort well worth while (Note. high water at Maldon on the day of the full moon is 1215 hrs G.M.T. and Easter is normally the first Sunday after the full moon). Prospects looked grim as I tramped out over the mud in heavy rain and gales from the southwest. The rain eased just before the tide left and I tried to run down the river under jib only but it was just too rough so I sailed onto the mud to windward opposite Osea Island Pier and got back into my sleeping bags. When the tide returned just before noon, I tried to beat into Lawling Creek but was overwhelmed and gave up, returning to the shelter of the southern shore again. The river was a wild sight on the top of the tide when the sun came out between vicious squalls. As it left again I watched the waders invade the mud to feed. It was blowing so hard that they could only stand up head to wind and were blown over if they turned beam on. A small boat makes a superb bird hide complete with warmth and comfort, hot food and drink to hand together with a friendly radio. For warmth I use a Gaz radiant heater. The wind eased by 0310hrs on Saturday and I left for East Mersea. On the midday tide I sailed to the Strood, the causeway, which is the only way onto Mersea Island, to watch the Observer Round the Island Sailboard Race. A great crowd gathers to watch them carry their boards across the road while a policeman holds back the growing queues of traffic. Suddenly the tide laps over onto the road and in minutes there is not a soul to be seen except for one lonely policeman `faithful` even unto cold wet feet`.

On the ebb I dashed up to Harwich and anchored off Stone Heaps at 1930 hrs thinking back to that day in 1949, when I watched five barges sail in from London ready to go onto Ipswich next day. On Sunday I visited Ipswich and ran back to a rarely used snug berth in Walton Backwaters called the Dardanells for the night. On Monday I visited Ipswich again and on Tuesday sailed round to Manningtree in welcome warm sunshine as the squalls died out. A perfect sunset so I decided on a night passage down the coast to East Mersea, arriving at 0340 hrs. When I lifted out the top washboard next morning (I rarely put up the tent when I am on my own in fine weather), I was greeted with warm sunshine and the restored trading ketch Susannah Sylvanna drying on the shingle for a scrub preparatory to a trip round England. A glorious sight by any standards! I donned my waterboots and gave him a hand with a scrubber before leaving for home. 279 miles to date. April came in cold with strong winds from the northeast, but I made two trips across the Thames later in the month, one up the River Medway past Rochester and the other round the Isle of Sheppy, finding time to explore the wide marshes as far as the old brickworks jetty at Lower Halstow. One passage was made though Havengore Creek under the old lifting bridge between the mainland and Foulness Island and out over the three mile wide Maplin Sands where the watershed, the Broomway, was once the only road to the island. The River Colne was explored to Colchester. My evening classes ended at 2130 hrs on Thursday 1st of May. Within a few minutes my son was driving Joy and me down to the boat, which we joined over the mud in the dark (he was thus able to bring the car home). We left next morning, ready to slip into the Broads via Yarmouth as soon as conditions permitted. In 1985 we had left the clubhouse at dawn and reached the Broads by nightfall but this year was very different. Within the estuary between Orfordness and Ramsgate, there is always somewhere to run into if things get tricky. Once past Orfordness, the twentyfour miles of barren Suffolk coast only offers the delightful but dangerously dilapidated harbour at Southwold before Lowestoft six miles south of Yarmouth. Lowestoft is the obvious safe harbour through which to enter the Broads and in my younger days I used it regularly but there is a sea lock to pass through. Thanks to the disgraceful attitude of certain authorities, it only opens at 1400hrs on Wednesday afternoons and the charge for my little boat would be nearly ten pounds. At any other time, including weekends when many people are likely to want to use the lock; they require fortyeight hours` notice and there is a surcharge over and above the lock fee of eighty pounds. Bearing in mind the danger of coastal passages to and from Lowestoft in all but the best weather, this is ridiculous. Furthermore, waiting in Lowestoft either for the lock or better weather outside is very expensive. Thus the small boat is driven to use the busy tide race of Yarmouth harbour, which is very difficult without an engine. (Sanity has won, it is now run by the Broads Authority and back in use at a reasonable charge.) Over the next week we jilled about, visiting Walton Backwaters, the River Deben, the rivers Ore and Alde and after an abortive attempt to round Orfordness on Wednesday, reached Southwold at teatime Thursday. The heavy southerly swell had

made Joy sick and it seemed unlikely that we could reach Yarmouth before the tide began to run out which would mean five or six hours anchored or hove to outside after dark, dodging the procession of fishing, container and gas rig support vessels, so in we went. The southerly wind was suitable for the rest of the passage on Friday but the surf on the north wall of the harbour entrance deterred me from leaving as I had planned at noon. I spent the rest of the ebb tide studying the entrance and decided that the best time to leave was an hour or so before low water when the rough and tumble where the ebb from the river meets the ebb on the coast was well away from the crumbling pier heads and protected by a crescent of drying shingle. On Saturday morning I looked out at 0400hrs and found that the wind had eased. Joy readily agreed to `have a look at it`. This time we filled a hot water bottle and got a sleeping bag ready for her to crawl into as soon as she felt unwell. We cleared the harbour fifty minutes later and had an increasingly hectic sail to Yarmouth under a gloomy sky. The wind increased steadily. I should have reefed but knew that full sail would be useful inside the harbour walls at Yarmouth. Joy didnt show the slightest sign of seasickness. She often doesnt when its really exceptionally rough. I wonder how many of my fellow sailors have a wife who would accept such conditions uncomplainingly! At 0830hrs the harbour wall closed round us. I gave her a hug with the joyous words Weve done it! She dived into the cabin to put the kettle on while I steered past the three busy miles that Daniel Defoe described as the longest quay in England. Once the mast was down at the bridge, we rigged the cockpit cover on the sounding pole and I stood on the cabin top holding it aloft with the lower corners hooked to cockpit cleats; probable the first `bridge sail` seen in Yarmouth for many a year. By the time we had cleared the conurbation, the wind had really piped up, and we had a very hard beat along the six miles that lay due west, but Acle Bridge, complete with a loo and a small shop for fresh milk, came into view at midday. While Joy was shopping, Shoal Waters was narrowly missed by a monster `floating tea tray` plastic cruiser which was driven sideways across the river into the jetty by the beam wind. Joy was keen to stop and rest but I pressed on for it was a fair wind all the way now to my target. After a short stop to duck the mast and buy fish and chips at Potter Heigham, we raced on into the best of Broadland, the Candle Dyke, Heigham Sound and Whiteslea, relishing the golden reeds on either hand, excitedly spotting our first Heron, first Coot and first Grebe. Just below Hickling Broad, the narrow channel has been dredged and the spoil piled on the western side. Trees are already growing there and today it provided the perfect shelter. The sun appeared and we moored alongside the piled bank at 1340hrs to spread the cockpit cover on the grass, complete with cushions on which to relax and drink in the delightful scene. The following Wednesday we moored up at Womack Water and our son (the last remaining nestling of our four) drove up to take us home. I was due to `sign on` and, in practice, we found that 36 to 48 hours at home each fortnight to put the socks etc in the washing machine and deal with the mail seemed about right. This time we drove north and left the car at Womack for twelve or thirteen days.

Most of our time over the next nine weeks was spent on the North Broads, sailing back and forth at the whim of the winds and tides, watching and photographing the wild life and other sailing craft. Perhaps the event of the year was the finding and photographing the rare swallowtail butterfly. It is always a thrill to meet the wherry Albion and the two remaining wherry yachts, (today in 2005, there are at least five in commission). We visited the wherry Maud which was undergoing an eighteen year private restoration at the end of Upton Dyke (in 2002 we sailed on her twice). One weekend we encountered some fifty steam powered craft who rallied at How Hill on the River Ant and puffed their way down to Thurne Dyke on Sunday. Just about every corner of the area was visited including a hidden and largely forgotten public staithe on the eastern side of Barton Broad, Catfield Staithe. We made one trip through Yarmouth onto the South Broads as far as Geldiston on the River Waveney and another in late June to the Norwich Festival when we explored right up through the old warehouses, factories, breweries and waterside pubs wrapped round the magnificent cathedral to New Mills. The starting date for the qualifying voyages to the I.W.R. was the 12th of July. It did not have to be a continuous trip. At a previous rally at Mile End on the River Lee, we were beaten into second place by a chap who had rowed a Mirror dinghy some two hundred miles back and forth across the countries` canal system. This time we were determined to win and decided to start from the northeast corner of the Broads on the Brograve bridge, the present limit of navigation on the Waxham New Cut, visiting all heads of navigation to starboard. Briefly, we left Yarmouth on Tuesday to call at Southwold and explore the River Blyth to Blythburgh on Wednesday, sailed into the Ore/Alde to Snape on Thursday, Woodbridge on the River Deben on Friday, the Orwell to Ipswich on Saturday, Walton Backwaters on Sunday and the Stour to Manningtree on Monday. This latter port has a handy railway station and my crew jumped ship in order to make certain of being in front of the TV for a royal wedding. I pressed on to Colchester on Tuesday and picked up my mooring on Wednesday in time to join her to watch the wedding. We had a family wedding that weekend so it was Sunday afternoon before we sailed again. This time we entered the Chelmer and Blackwater Navigation, sailing when possible and bow hauling or quanting when not, for the fourteen miles to Chelmsford. On route I broke the bowsprit. Over the years I had got into the habit of stepping on it to reach the bank. This works well if the mast is up and the forestay supports the end of the bowsprit but if you try it when the mast is down it just snaps. Thus we live and learn. Back at the mooring, the local boat yard found me a broken topmast, five inches in diameter, which by sunset was down to three inches and had had its first coat of varnish. Off once more, we visited Battlesbridge at the head of the Crouch and Rochford on the Roach before slipping through Havengore to Leigh and Benfleet. We had time in hand on the Thames and visited Dartford Creek and All Hallows on the south shore as well as Pitsea at the head of Hole Haven Creek and then up Barking Creek to Ilford where we found the banks smothered with oceans of pink balsam. The seeds are like miniature pea pods and explode when touched, entertaining to all ages and we couldnt resist the temptation to indulge.

On Sunday evening we entered the tortuous Bow Creek early on the flood to be greeted by eleven herons wading in the shallow water. A local bird watcher told us that twentytwo was the record! That night found us on the mud outside the great mill at Bow ready to enter the Lee Navigation as early as possible next day before the water was deep enough for any lighter traffic to move. Then we began the long haul across London. I had two ways to join the Regents Canal, either through the four locks of the delightful Hertford Union or through the Limehouse Cut into the ten acre Limehouse Basin and the proper start to the Regents Canal (of course there are four locks up to the junction with the Hertford Union). This was the last time we would see this historic basin, once busy with craft from all over the world, for at our next visit we found half of it had been filled in for housing and the rest had become a marina. I chose the latter route, as I knew that there had been a cruise in company down the Regents Canal the previous weekend and the locks would be in smooth working order. That night we moored up among the private boats in the St Pancreas Basin, one of the relics of the halcyon days of canal traffic that are now used as private boat marinas. The canal foreman was intrigued by our efforts and visited us on his moped each day to check (an even admire) our progress over the twentyfive miles. This canal journey is amazingly quiet and peaceful in sharp contrast to the noise and mayhem visible if one peeps up onto the top of one of the endless road bridges. A viaduct carries the canal over the London North Circular road and we raised the mast to sail across, one of the few coastal craft ever to do so. A sad sight along the way, were the bricked up windows and doorways of endless buildings that have forsaken the canal boat for the motor lorry. The canal passes through the London Zoo and more open country than most people would expect with a large new country park at the western end where we stopped the second night. There are two tunnels on this canal and unpowered craft are not allowed to use them. The first, at Islington, is very quiet and we quanted through but the second, the Maida tunnel, leads into Little Venice and in view of the regular tripper traffic, we got a tow. Most of the locks on the system are at either end with a fourteen mile stretch beyond Camden on the same level. It is rather strange to sail along and look down at a church steeple half a mile away. Most important for us, the towpath was in first class order as part of a system of pleasant walks for the public. This left us with an `easy leap` to the rally site on Thursday including a flight of five locks which we shared with a canal maintenance tug in line with the official appeal to save water. It was one of my most frightening experiences in 70,000 miles of cruising for they only seemed to have one grotty bit of rope which they hooked over the lower gates and then roared the engine full speed astern to drag them open to let the water out as fast as possible. I watched in horror in case the rope broke, for the tug would surely hurtle astern and crush Shoal Waters to matchwood! It held and we arrived safely at the rally site at lunchtime. Now this was the second time we had been here. When we came in from the Brentford end a few years ago, we tied up for tea just above a lovely cast iron footbridge, one of the first ever made. At the rally, each of the four or five hundred craft is allocated a specific spot, just long enough to take them. Unbelievably, we were allocated to that same spot!

The days passed busily for there is always plenty to see and do. Perhaps the most delightful moments are visits from friends from the past and distant places who recognise the boat. There are two main problems. The first is disposal of boat `waste`. Emptying facilities are available along the canal system available for anyone with a special key and frequent enough to provide for normal demands. During rallies, craft cannot move off to the nearest sanitary site and things are made worse because many of them invite visitors to join them. The answer is the `Lavender boat` which tours the site each morning receiving toilets and buckets from each craft which are tipped with due ceremony and ribald incantations such as Not vindaloo again last night? and the containers duly handed back. The second problem is that while craft arrive over the previous ten or twelve days, nearly all want to leave as soon as the event is over for many have come long distances and holidays are coming to an end. The locks either side of the rally site have a limited capacity and are usually manned to speed the craft through. Booking lists for leaving are put up early during the rally and generally people keep to the places they have agreed. Fortunately for those of us bound into the Thames at Brentford, it was high tide next morning and they were able to open both ends of the lock for an hour or so to enable craft to pass straight through, which got a lot of craft moving out onto the tideway in a hurry. We stopped to pick blackberries along the high walls, some of the best we have ever found, before dropping down to what is now the Dome peninsular where we met the flood and anchored for some sleep as rain tumbled down hour after hour. Two days later Joy took my photo as I walked ashore through the mud at Heybridge with a large silver cup under each arm, one for the longest unpowered voyage and the other for the longest trip from salt water. By the end of our first season of retirement we had covered well over 2,000 nautical miles in over a hundred nights on board. As I write in late 2005, we have enjoyed another nineteen similar years.

Chapter 16

Shelter Amongst the Sands

`Thames, Dover, northwest 5/6, 7 later `. In spite of the dominating high, the 1355 hrs shipping forecast brought deep gloom aboard the little green cutter battling into the short, steep seas knocked up by the ebb tide in the outer Thames Estuary. It was a breath-takingly beautiful scene; clear blue sky tinting the writhing waters into a sparkling blend of greens and blues, topped by gleaming white crests. Worrying streaks of spent foam littered the faces of the waves. Three miles to the north-west, the low seawall of Essex fell away beyond the rapidly widening expense of the drying Maplin Sands, already edged by a line of yeasty surf. Steamers, waiting for their turn to go up into the Port of London, stood rock steady at anchor, making useful benchmarks with which to gauge the progress made good on each tack. Under a close-reefed mainsail and tiny staysail, the little boat could be nursed over the waves safely enough but progress was slow. It would improve beyond measure if the jib was unfurled but at the cost of showers of spray and some terrifying bumps when she sailed off the top of one wave to land in the trough before the next. It was nearly half ebb and the chances of beating the twelve miles to the Whittaker Beacon at the northeastern tip of the sands by low water, never very good unless the wind swung southeasterly, were now nil. The precious radio was switched off and stowed safety of the cabin. In a smooth patch she came round onto port tack once more and then I settled down to assess the options. I had long made a habit of taking a full weeks` holiday at Easter and this one had turned out to be a winner, with the sun rising out of the sea each morning and sinking below the seawall each evening. Four days in the Harwich area had been followed by a glorious nine hour run south to the Medway on Tuesday. There I spent a lazy day among the marshes near the river mouth and another upstream among the dilapidated wharves and the ship repair yards near the first bridge at old Rochester. By Friday it was time to head home to Heybridge but the wind stayed in the northeast and became more hostile. Not good; but, on the principle of sailors over the centuries, it was `worth a look`. And this is where it had got me! The first possibility was to run back to Leigh on Sea and shelter but that would do little to solve the problem of getting home. The second was to press on steadily and fight the young flood until the sands covered sufficiently to enable me to cross to the Outer Crouch. Cold and tired, with no chance of a hot food or drink, there would be a dangerous temptation to cut the corner on a dead lee shore. This sent my thoughts back to an incident on a Good Friday in the mid sixties when two larger craft left the Medway in the same circumstances and after rounding the Whitaker, drifted south over the sands during the run towards the Crouch. A lesson well worth noting from this incident was that finding themselves in shallow water, they both anchored, one with chain and one with a nylon warp. Both snubbed viciously but the elasticity of the nylon avoided any danger of breaking. The chain, normally so

superior in deep water, had no benefit from its` weight in shallow water and broke, leading to the loss the vessel, fortunately without loss of life. The crew got ashore in the rubber duck. I have used this route a number of times in light conditions but not today; no thank you! The third option was to run back a mile or so and creep into a hole in the sands near the old measured mile beacon in the lee of now drying Blacktail Spit. That would be safe enough and when the tide returned I could beat across the sands to Havengore Creek. But it would be dark by then and I would have to wait for water enough for me to use at least half of the plate (two feet), preferably a little more. The wind and tide would be against me and there are stakes eighteen inches high on the sand set out by the M.o D. for ranging purposes. Drop on top of one of those and fini! The fourth option was an old trick perfected over the years but not previously used in such strong winds as this. I could press on past the Blacktail Spit until the S.E. Maplin buoy came in sight. There is a gut running northwest into the sands here. If I could find my way in, there would be shelter in the lee of the drying patches for me to brew up, have a meal and a rest. It would take longer but once there, I could sail to Havengore under headsail with the plate right up when the tide returned. Finding the beginning of the channel is the problem and the sounding pole is the only sufficiently accurate aid. It is not just a case of finding a gap in the surf, for the tide runs off the sands so rapidly that deeper water is as tortured as shallow. The prospect of peace and quiet among the sands was irresistible. After a furious session with the sounding pole, including a frightening patch only two feet deep, there was no bottom at six feet and suddenly the little boat was steady for the first time since she left the River Medway at 1100 hrs. I settled back at the tiller as Shoal Waters, now with the sheets eased, raced through the smooth water followed by a long, lazy swell from the main. Visibility was superb; the chimney on the Isle of Grain power station, the tower blocks of modern Southend, the gasometer at Shoeburyness, the gun towers on the Shivering and Red Sands and most important of all, the buildings and structures of the defence establishment three miles across the sand on Foulness Island. A gleaming ridge of drying sand reached out beyond the Blacktail Beacon towards the buoy of the same name. Progress was slow, for the tide races off the sands but it was certain. At 1530 hrs the depth was down to three feet with a drying hump to windward. The bowsprit rounded up into the wind, the anchor and the sails went down and the kettle went on. It is said that Southerners in the United States have a method of catching porcupines by using a bathtub. You drop the tub over the animal, trapping it. The next move is up to you but at least you have something to sit on while you think it out! I felt rather the same about my present situation. The watershed between Havengore Creek which ebbs into the Crouch and the River Thames is some half a mile to seaward of the coastline. Until the lifting road and rail bridge was built in the twenties, it was the only road to Foulness Island and known as the Broomway because it was marked by a line of brooms or withies. High water was at 2346 hrs at Sheerness. The mean rise of six hours fifteen minutes gave low water at 1730 and the pocket tidal atlas shows the tide hereabouts is twenty minutes earlier. There should

be enough water over the Broomway at 2200hrs. The course was roughly due west but it would depend on slight channels revealed by the advancing flood tide, because the sands are not billiard table flat. As the passage could be made under headsail, I fitted the working staysail in place of the small jib. Shallow water is smooth water on these sands but as the tide rises, the snatching stress on the anchor chain becomes a problem, as the weight of the chain cannot offer any shock absorber effect as it does in deep water. I rove some thick shock cord through links of the chain to make a bight so that the strain was taken gradually by the cord. When the tide returned, it would just be a case of moving on as soon as the water got deep enough to be uncomfortable. Down plate six inches, up anchor, unroll the headsail and run in with the tide, taking care to keep upwind and up tide of the entrance to the creek. When the plate whispers (no danger with the wind dead aft), whip it up, round up, furl the sail and down anchor. Back into the warmth of the cabin for a brew up and to study the course of the advancing tide through the glasses, the boat lying head to wind. At no time would the hull touch the sand. In places the tide runs in as fast as man can walk. Several wildfowlers were trapped and drowned here in the early seventies. The best water over the Broomway is marked by a wooden post with a cross topmark and eight horizontal cross pieces at twenty inch intervals. It should be approached from the southeast and two plain posts mark this route. I knew that with luck, I should be able to find one of them in the dark. The Easter moon was old now and there would be no help there. It is not every yachtsmans idea of sailing but to this happy forty year old partnership of boat and owner builder with 70,000 miles of ditch crawling behind them, it is the very cream of the sport. By 1900 hrs the little cone of sand built on the dry bank as a tidemark had been overwhelmed and it was time for the first move. The bearing of the twin radar towers on Foulness increased from 346 degrees to 355. Now the 7 x 50 binoculars picked out the gaunt structure of the bridge (similar to the famous Pegasus Bridge of D Day fame) three and a half miles away. Next move, the towers came into transit, a sign that they were due north, and began to open again. The beacons leading into Havengore Creek could be picked out with the glasses as the sun set behind the sea wall at 2015 hrs, (today the new bridge is lit up like Piccadilly Circus). They would be lost again as darkness closed in, but it was comforting to get a bearing on them while the light lasted. The clear blue of the sky turned into a golden glow that seemed to go on for ever, while the wind, freed from the opposition of the sun, increased its` bite and the roar of the surf carried on it was a reminder that this was a deadly serious business with no room for mistakes. Under way once more, a stake slipped by to port, its` slimy green top just visible between the waves. By keeping in shallow water, at least I couldnt land on top of them! The problem now was to find those beacons again. Crouching low in the cockpit made them stand out in the night sky against the glare of Southend. Suddenly, one appeared a few hundred yards ahead and a sweep of the glasses showed the beacon on the Broomway to landward. It slipped by to port at 2200 hrs.

With just a few inches under her keel Shoal Waters headed up into the wind a little and glided into deepening water from the River Crouch as the saltings closed round protectively on either hand. When the sounding pole drew a blank and the red lights of the chimney on the Isle of Grain power station moved west of the hut on the tip of the mainland from which they fly the red warning flag, the anchor went down for the last time that day. The bridge doesnt open at night but there would be another high tide next day. An anchor light was an absurdity but I put it up as the seal of good seamanship on a deeply satisfying adventure. The Gaz heater and the stove roaring under the kettle for the last hot drink, soon warmed up the tiny cabin. I unrolled my sleeping bag and positioned my pillow to complete an atmosphere of cosy comfort in contrast to the bitter cold outside. One lingering look, leaning over the boom with a cup of Horlicks in my hand, I marvelled at the peace and quiet of the creek. The soft dark shape of the saltings and seawalls contrasted with the bright black of the swirling tide and overhead the stars were so prolific that it was difficult to pick out the constellations. A motor vehicle clattered over the old iron bridge and sent a harsh metallic rattle echoing across the open marshes. It would get lively here at high water and on the first of the ebb, but calm would return as soon as the Broomway uncovered. In fact I was hardly even aware of it. A routine look out just before dawn found the last of the ebb moving silently towards the bridge under a slim crescent moon. The sounding pole showed three feet over soft mud and I climbed contentedly back into the sleeping bag.

Chapter 17

The Great Gale

Joy thought that the streetlights had gone out for a second or two but I realised that a very strong gust had bent a tree in the corner of our garden across the light. Something exceptional was happening. The bedside clock showed ten past four. As I made a cup of tea, I checked the tide table. High water was due at 0727 hrs which meant that our boat Shoal Waters would lifting off the mud at Heybridge, twelve miles away at about now and it was already too late to get there in time to lay out another anchor over the mud. Nevertheless, go down to the sea I must. As I opened the garage doors the alarm went off on my neighbours` car as a volley of his ridge tiles landed on it. Small twigs and branches already littered the roads as I raced through Great Baddow to find the first tree almost blocking the highway. After that the road was covered with broken branches. I managed to find my way round most of them but had to stop to clear away a big one on the way up Danbury hill with the rest of the ancient trees leaning over me, creaking and groaning in the screaming wind. A voice in the dark advised me not to go any further as a cable, lying in the road, was sparking and obviously live. I chanced it and got through but once over the top of Danbury hill, the road was blocked solid with the fire brigade and police already at work. I dodged though a council estate and out onto the main road again. Fewer trees grow nearer the coast but one had fallen right across the road just outside Maldon. Luckily it was opposite a garage and I turned in one entrance, rounded the pumps and shot out the other side. So much for trees. Half a mile from the boat, I was stopped by floods. I parked the car, donned my water boots and waded through. As I struggled across the field to the seawall, the cross wind almost knocked me sideways. In the club yard the shredded roller jib of a parked boat Thumper, cracked furiously. Over the seawall all was blackness, lightened only by dark grey sheets of spume and the vague shapes of white horses hurling themselves onshore. A cruiser was bashing the club jetty but there was nothing to be done for the whole structure was shuddering as if it might collapse any moment. In fact it survived but only just and had to be replaced completely (It was built before the first world war). I could just make out Shoal Waters and was alarmed to see a white cruiser dragging his mooring some fifty yards to windward of her. I judged that the water was less than five feet deep. Rowing was out of the question. I dashed into the club lobby, stripped to my underpants and half swam, half waded out to her. As the surf rolled over my head it occurred to me that it was a damn silly thing to do, but the little lady had looked after me in nearly forty thousand miles of cruising over the last twentyfive years and I was not going to desert her now. If she went, we both went. It was a relief to get my fingers round her toe rail and heave myself on board. The main hatch had gone but otherwise she was fine and only a little spray had got inside. I packed up the flogging cockpit cover and got a hammock lashing on the mainsail. The lifting rudder was released ready to pull down if the mooring broke or

I had to slip. I judged that I could find a soft spot on the mud to leeward if the worst came to the worst. I fended off the white cruiser. Another large blue fellow was coming quickly having broken his mooring but I was able to grasp his pulpit and lessen the bump as he hit me before racing by and sinking. Something else large loomed to windward but I eventually realised that it was not getting any closer. In fact it was a lightweight cruiser, capsized but still afloat on her mooring. After satisfying myself that nothing else was threatening, I clambered inside, dried and put on dry clothing. I always keep a small kitbag containing one change of clothing ready for such emergencies. The radiant stove roared into life and brought a warm glow of comfort to the wild scene but with no hatch there was too much wind for the stove under the kettle. How could I fix a canvas cockpit cover to the beam at the front of the hatchway? Suddenly I remembered the two small G clamps that I had on board for small repair jobs. It was a job holding the kettle on the stove but it soon boiled and a hot cup of tea (no milk) in the snug warmth of the tiny cabin increased my confidence in the situation. Every few minutes I put my head out of the hatch into the maelstrom to peer up to windward and pulled it back again with my hair soaking wet. The radio reported devastation everywhere and the lowest barometer reading ever. Another hour to high water! Would everything hold? Gradually I realised that it was getting lighter. A pair of bright new oars had blown up on the beach and I noted that instead of surging back and forth with the waves, they were lying still. The tide must be falling already! That the tide was a very low one and turned early, saved a lot of damage to craft which blew ashore. On a normal high water they would have ended up crashing against the concrete sea wall but on this tide they merely drove up on the beach. The only one seriously stove in was a small cruiser who was unlucky enough to drive onto a concrete smack already there. Gradually the surf got easier and I lay back and relaxed until I could wade ashore. By this time the extent of the damage was becoming apparent. Most of the larger boats had gone. Many smaller ones still on their moorings had obviously been dismasted or even overturned by drifters. Several masts protruded from the water. Some forty boats of all sizes had piled up along the shore at Mill Beach. I walked round the seawall and found my undamaged hatch stranded in the pool of an old tide mill known as the graveyard! Apart from the few people who lived locally, no other members found their way through to the club until well after midday due to fallen trees, in particular a giant Oak on the Hatfield Peveral road. Strangely enough, although some places along my route were without power for ten or fourteen days, both power and the telephone were fine at our isolated clubhouse on the seawall across an open field. As the long day wore on, the wind eased under a warm October sun and club members drifted down to sort out their boats. Many of the smaller sunken and capsized boats were carried ashore. Enthusiasts swarmed round heavier capsized craft to right them with sickening crunches. Gear of all sorts was recovered from the marshes and beaches. Visitors galore, many with cameras clicking, wandered among the stranded boats which I christened the Mill Beach Boat Show to the mild irritation of some of the exhibitors. All in all, it was a stirring tribute to human optimism; totally

inadequate lightweight, badly designed moorings, grotty chain and cheap rope chafed through by stemhead fittings made of stainless steel sheet with sharp edges and no retaining pins. A new type of club bore emerged; the chap who corners any likely victim to give him a link by link account of the size and strength of his mooring as if to convince himself that his boat never broke adrift in spite of the clear evidence to the contrary. By the time darkness closed in, the tide was returning and a procession of rowing dinghies set out from the club jetty to inspect and tidy up those boats still on their moorings over deep mud. Suddenly engines began to roar to life over on Mill Beach. Navigation lights came on to compete with a sky filling with stars. Torches and spotlights flashed everywhere as the bend in the river off the club became a miniature Piccadilly Circus for an hour or so. Our club launch was busy with a towrope wherever necessary, and the club ladies manned the galley as a carnival atmosphere took over. I drove home singing happily, almost ashamed of myself to admit to having thoroughly enjoyed the days sport.

Chapter 18

Easter Cruise 1988

Let me be the first to admit that anyone fool enough to sail at Easter deserves to freeze to death and probably will sooner or later. Nevertheless, I find the lure of dropping down the river under a brilliant moon irresistible and Shoal Waters has never spent any of her forty Easters on her mooring. For over twenty years now I have made it a full weeks cruise. Two sleeping bags, each with a regularly refilled hotwater bottle so that they never cool, plus a Gaz radiant heater helps a lot. Thus the fading daylight of Wednesday 30th of March found me carrying my gear out to Shoal Waters over the mud and settling down for a nap before high water at 0100 hrs when the light northerly wind carried me down the drying Raysn Channel where I anchored for the rest of the night at 0400 hrs. The first objective was to have a look at the progress of the new bridge at Havengore, which I reached at noon. A lot had been done over the winter but there was left much to do and it did not look as though it would be open again in 1988. On route I noticed masses of driftwood on the southern shore of Wallasea Island and after rounding Rushley Island, beached there to spend the afternoon enjoying a grand bonfire. The wind persisted light northerly on Good Friday so Battlesbridge was the obvious place to visit on the afternoon high water, returning to Burnham for the night after a call into once lonely Eyot Creek to see the advancing buildings of the new town of South Woodham Ferrers. Easter Saturdays plans were dominated by an invitation to speak at the Crouch Yacht Clubs fitting out supper (why do so many clubs, including my own, persist on having this event during the middle of the sailing season?) but I managed to fit in two circumnavigations of Bridgemarsh Island over the high water before beaching near the recreation grounds wooden slipway for the night. Joy joined me at Burnham at that evening with all the slide gear for the talk and later returned home. My son brought her down again at 0800 hrs on Sunday and we took the last of the ebb to Key Reach and used the flood to Havengore where we lowered down and crept out over the Broomway with the first of the flood tide. The light northeasterly wind was dead astern on route to the Medway and for comfort and to get across the shipping lanes as quickly as possible, I filled the headsails from port which brought us to the Sheppey shore a couple of miles east of the river entrance. I gybed for a broad reach along the shore, watched by walkers on the beach enjoying the warm sunshine, to round the fort at Sheerness at 1600hrs for a steady trip over the spring ebb to a sheltered mooring in the Shalfleet. Monday brought gale force winds from the northeast. We looked out twice but thought better of it each time and beached near the old jetty for the rest of the day, contenting ourselves with lazy rambles over the extensive marshes. Tuesday was not much better but with food running low and knowing from sad experience that it was early closing day in Lower Halstow, we sailed to the shelter of Upnor where we got fresh water but no groceries or most important, Gaz. They

suggested the new Sun Pier at Chatham for shopping but I didnt fancy the beat back with the ebb so we laid on the mud adjacent to Hoo Marina for the night. I shopped early and well in Hoo village on Wednesday morning and we breakfasted on steak and crisp, new bread. While waiting for the tide, I had another bonfire on the beach burning both wood and litter, for almost anything dumped into the water off Gillingham or Chatham ends up here thanks to the prevailing wind. When the tide returned we visited Sun Pier, finding it a most impressive structure, renewed our cylinder of Gaz, and returned to the Shalfleet via the backdoor. The northeast wind persisted on Thursday and we worked our way round the Isle of Sheppey to Faversham, beaching just above the Hollow Shore for the night. A riding light is a debatable problem when drying for part of the night but we put one up for it would still be dark when we floated and large craft still use this creek at times. The forecast for Friday was northeast four to five. Having already won our easting by sailing through the Swale, we set sail confidently at high water to steer north which, with the help of the tide setting northeast, would carry us to the Whitaker Beacon by low water. In fact the wind was very light from due north and we ended up drifting in over the Maplin sands to Havengore at high water and Barling Creek for the night. Saturdays forecast was not encouraging; northeast 5/6. Bearing in mind the accuracy of the forecast for previous day, we decided to have a look at it in spite of the cold rain and left at 0530 hrs. There is no need to go to the mouth of the River Crouch to judge the conditions when the wind is from the northeast for the same conditions will be found in the bend of the Roach above Key Reach. It was horrible! A couple of motor boats from Wakering bound out for a days rod and line fishing took one look and turned back but I pressed on to the Crouch and ran up stream to beach in comparatively smooth water near Clark and Carters` yard. The contrast in the conditions when the afternoon flood tide reached her from those in which I beached her eight hours earlier could hardly have been greater. Then the whole River Crouch, except for a thin ribbon of sanity under the lee of the sea wall along the northern shore, was a writhing turmoil of tortured water as the ebb tide fought it out with a biting cold force six from the northeast, laced with a steady cold rain that the radio reported was falling as snow in London. With her ten or twelve inch draft, Shoal Waters sits up like a duck and after struggling for some ten minutes as the tide left her, she settled quietly on the mud while we erected the cockpit tent so that I could shed my wet gear and crawl into the cosy warmth of the cabin where Joy already had the kettle on the go. The flood returned as smooth as silk for the rain had cleared and the wind dropped to a zephyr. After a lazy afternoon watching racing yachts wooing the light airs, a hint of sun encouraged us to get underway and make slow progress seaward over the last of the flood as the breeze grew again. At 1700 hrs, just before high water, we anchored again to prepare ourselves for a night passage. By the time we had made and drunk a cup of tea, the last of the racing craft had disappeared towards Burnham. The last cruising yacht followed them and the river suddenly became a very lonely place but the sky was clearing from the east. After

rising rapidly, the wind seemed to settle down to E.N.E. force three to four. I resisted the temptation to take down a reef and found that she carried full sail in grand style pointing N.N.E. on starboard tack as we beat out with the first of the ebb. A few boards across the whole river soon brought the Crouch Red Can buoy at the mouth in sight as three large motor cruisers belted into the river in fine style. Visibility was extraordinary. Even features on the Clacton shore twelve miles away loomed above the hard line of the horizon. The proper route is to carry on another two miles and turn north at a spherical yellow buoy but as it was only an hour after high water Shoal Waters with her plate half down was able to cut the corner and allow the set of the tide off the extensive flats to make her easting into deeper water. It is always a pleasure to make this passage while the sun sets over the Dengie Hundred, that thinly populated ten mile peninsular between the rivers Blackwater and Crouch where even the farms cower a mile or more inshore from the fragile strip of sea wall that divides the windswept marshland from the mud and saltings outside. Back on land, these rivers are little more than streams and many have wondered why they have such broad valleys and estuaries. Excavations in distant inland gravel pits now suggest that each was once the mouth of the Thames. During the ice age the advancing glaciers cut off the river well inland and drove it to find its` way out to the sea further south. During the second world war an airfield was built at Bradwell and a bombing range established on the mud flats with a miniature railway along which the targets could be towed. Four hulls were stationed out on the mud and today the beacons marking them are the only navigation marks in this area. By the time that the first two came in line, halfway up the Ray, the sun was setting, making the string of lighters sunk there for coastal protection, stand out bold and black in sharp contrast to the hazy seawall half a mile further away. Gradually the shore lights began to appear but the afterglow put up a strong fight, enabling me to pick out the bold silhouette of St Peters Chapel at the northern edge of the flats. Now the sky was crystal clear save for a couple of gold streaks of cloud where the sun had gone down. Jupiter, seeming six inches across, already stood out boldly, high in the eastern sky. Two more wrecks dropped astern and I began to free the sheets as our course eased round into the River Blackwater. Once the threat of flying spray was over I shed my oilskin jacket and donned a duffle coat (ex Royal fleet Auxilary,- if only it could talk!) and gloves, for it was already cold and obviously going to get colder. Joy ducked into the cabin to make some cocoa and enjoy the warmth of the radiant heater and sensibly decided to stay there. The bright lights of the power station at Bradwell dominated the view ahead for the next hour. Everyone has their own definition of when they actually get into the River Backwater for Sales Point is a very blunt point anyway and made more so by the extensive drying mud flats. Two parallel roads at right angles to the beach in West Mersea point directly across the river towards St Peters Chapel so I use them as my benchmark. By now the sea astern was inky black as the sky filled with stars. Just below bright Jupiter I picked out the Seven Sisters which led me to Orion; not the Orion that dominates the high southern winter sky but an older tired version heeling over ready to duck below the western horizon. Now of course the rest of the ebb tide was against me until low water at about midnight

and it would obviously be a long slow tip up river but this was a night to savour and no warm bunk could lure me from it. Joy went to sleep and left me alone with the night. Gradually the wind eased and once I passed the power station, the headsails fell limp as my course brought the wind right astern. The forecast was for the wind to go southwest and I determined to make the most of this fair wind. Already the green light on Osea pier stood out bold and clear, beckoning me home. A mile short of the well-lit pub at Steeple Stone, the wind died completely. For some time I had been measuring my steadily faltering progress by watching the flashing light on Thirslet Spit buoy against dim features on the distant north shore. The moment I realised that Shoal Waters was drifting backwards I anchored and dived into the cabin for a warm. It was just one hour to midnight. The mainsail was left up for already a faint ripple could be made out on the dark water near the southern shore. Within ten minutes I was under way again but the wind never really made up its` mind. An unusual, brilliantly lit, motor vessel with her charging engines throbbing away, was anchored off Goldhanger Creek buoy. She swung to the first of the flood as we slipped past and progress improved as the river narrowed between Osea Island and the Stansgate shore. Once the two vertical green lights on the old pier swept by, I eased over onto the covering mudflats and anchored, as my drying mooring would not cover until 0430 hrs. The wind was steady from the southwest when I got under way at 0330 hrs but still very light. The night had lost its` magic. Jupiter had slipped below the shore but the green isophase light on the Blackwater S.C. grew larger as the silhouette of the clubhouse, once a cattle barn built into the seawall, grew firmer. A last glance astern showed a warm amber moon in its` last quarter, climbing out of the mist over the corner of Northey Island. In her full glory, ten days earlier, she had lighted my way down river at the start of this Easter cruise. I bid her adieu and concentrated on the club mooring buoys until my own came under the bow. As the sails came down my pally swan came alongside to welcome me home and help finish off the sliced bread. The sail seemed strangely crisp as I stowed it and the reason became clear when I got the cockpit tent up and tried to wipe away the dew on the afterdeck. It was frozen solid! By the time I had heated and eaten a tin of semolina (the fastest meal I know), and snuggled down into my sleeping bag, the first signs of dawn were evident through the port. I ducked my head into the warm pillow (Joy had kept the hot water bottle going) and woke later to find the boat high and dry in warm sunshine. The brilliantly lighted vessel I had passed down river turned out to be the ex Trinity House service vessel Winston Churchill going up to Sadds` timber yard for a refit for civil use.

The Old Gaffers 25th Anniversary Rally

As soon as the evening flood tide reached her on Friday the 22nd of July, Shoal Waters moved from her drying mooring to the club jetty at the Blackwater S.C. to be loaded for three O.G.A. events, the East Coast Race, the Twentyfifth Anniversary Rally at Ramsgate and the Swale Smack and Barge Match. Joy and I are more rally than racing oriented and after enjoying the build up and start of the East Coast Old Gaffers race off Steeple Stone, dropped out off Sales Point rather than face the lively beat from the Knoll to the North Buxey, and rejoined the fleet for the trip back up river. Events had been planned so that most of the hundred craft taking part would have an easy leap to Ramsgate for the Anniversary rally the following weekend. Boats from the south coast would join them there and a hundred and twentyfive craft were entered. Sadly Sundays` forecast was S.W. 6-8, no weather for the trip across to Ramsgate but the sun shone so we sailed down river to round Sales Point and dry on the mud off the old Chapel built by St Cedd in the seventh century. During the day I put on my waterboots and walked to the little creek that leads up to Walter Linnets old bungalow from where at least three generations earned a living fishing and wild fowling in this lonely area, to choose a smooth spot to dry out for the night. The bottom of the creek was flat mud, soft enough to cradle the hull as she dried, but firm enough to walk on, so we moved in on the night tide finding about two to three feet of water. It was neaps and as snug a hurricane hole as one could wish for in all but a gale from due east. The only snag was that it was a long walk into Bradwell village for milk etc. Monday passed pleasantly with walks among the sea lavender and a driftwood fire on the saltings. Next day the wind was still from the S SW but a little easier and we moved out as soon as she floated at 0800 hrs steering S by E until the Ray Yellow buoy came abeam at 0945 hrs. This was the moment of decision; either to go into the Crouch and safety or make a bold tip across the estuary? I liked the look of things and decided to go for Ramsgate. Ideally I would have liked to continue on starboard tack straight across Foulness Sands and keep on until I neared the Kent coast but the regular thump of gunfire ruled that out. Nevertheless, I just couldnt bring myself to run northeast all the way to the Whitaker Beacon with every yard sailed meaning a yard to beat S.W. over the ebb in the Swin. In a spirit of fairplay between myself and the M.o D, I cut across the sand from the Ridge to the N.E. Maplin buoy. Once out of the firing area we went back on the wind as there would be water enough over the West Barrow Sand well to windward of the Barrow Swatch and were almost over the sand by the time that the M.oD. hovercraft caught up with us at 1120 hrs demanding our name and address. Rather than spell it out against the roar of the engine we handed him one of our lecture leaflets but have not, to date, had a request to give them a talk!

Chapter 19

After a lighter spell, which gave us a chance to brew up, the wind hardened so that I had to take down a reef. I hoped to weather Margate Sands and take the attractively named `Overland Route` in the lee of the Kentish shore but with the ebb tide and the rising seas I was lucky to weather the Shingles Patch and realised that I would have to go outside, so I eased the sheets a little to leave the Tongue Sand to starboard at 1455 hrs. Margate Sand gleamed in the brilliant sunshine as I hove to for another brew up before sounding my way round the eastern edge as close as possible to get the benefit of the smooth water in order to pull down the second reef at 1600 hrs. Out to seaward I could see a large smack, probably Sunbeam, a recent restoration, who looked to be having a rough time. Once we were clear of the sand, conditions can only be described as worrying but fifty minutes later the Longnose Buoy was astern and at 1710 hrs we anchored in the lee of the white cliffs as close as possible to the gleaming wet sand in Kingsbury Bay, comforted from most of the swell by the rocky promontories on either hand. A small coaster was already there and later a sailing barge joined us. This was comfortable for a short stay but no place to spend the night. Fortunately the wind seemed to be easing and veering. After a cup of tea and a meal we got under way again at 1900hrs with the last of the southbound tide for an idyllic moonlight beat across Pegwell Bay to a sheltered berth for the night in the River Stour at 2200 hrs. Next morning we took the flood tide into the lovely old Cinque Port of Sandwich, and after a hurried shopping expedition, lowered down to pass under the old toll bridge (it can be opened by hand but causes traffic chaos) to reach Plucks Gutter ten miles along the `Saxon Way`, a national walk, for an afternoon nap. That evening we dropped back with the ebb to moor alongside a field of new mown hay for the night as the sun went down. Thursdays` morning ebb took us swiftly down past the old Roman castle at Richborough to Sandwich where we spent a pleasant day as the wind screamed overhead from the S.W. Under a cloudless sky we left with the ebb at 0200 hrs on Friday to travel the three tortuous miles to the sea while the moon danced around us from port to starboard and from ahead to astern, to anchor at Ebbsfleet for the rest of the night. At 0900 hrs we left for Ramsgate and the rally, entering the harbour at 1000 hrs to tie up alongside two boats just in from Brighton, and wait for the gates into the inner harbour to open shortly before high water. The rally was fine thanks to the hospitality of the Royal Temple Y.C. but the weather deteriorated even more towards the weekend. The yachting press (including some from the continent) were there in force to cover the big race which was laid on for Saturday afternoon and it would have been a great spectacle had all one hundred and twentyfive craft arrived, but in fact only twentyfive of us had the mettle to get there. The view from the harbour wall convinced me that that we should stay where we were, but in the end we agreed to take part to make up the numbers. Once we got our sailing instructions I checked the tides and was horrified to discover that we were to run north to the Broadstairs Knoll Buoy, then beat south to Deal Pier and that the spring tide set north at three knots just after the starting gun. I pointed this out to other skippers but could only find one who showed the least concern. Together we got the course changed to cut out the northern leg and start to windward for a beat

direct to Deal Pier. The best way of describing the conditions on the water can be summed up by the fact that the harbour masters` launch with all the press on board, lost its` rudder and had to be rescued. There was no well timed rush for the line (due east from the north breakwater) as the gun went. Craft just bobbed about all over the place as they struggled to survive. By beating right in, dangerously close to the new breakwater, we managed to get over the line and back into the harbour within an hour but most of the smaller boats, including the organisers`, were swept north and took three to four hours to get back to the starting line. Two larger boats got round the course and another got well south before giving up. At the prize giving in the clubhouse that evening there were just enough pots and prizes for one each! Happy as we were in Ramsgate (there were no mooring charges for entrants), we seized the first chance to get round into the Swale and left as soon as the gate opened on Sunday at midday. The wind was S.W. and we hoped to be able to point due west along the Kent coast as it is impossible to work a fair tide on this route from Ramsgate Inner harbour for to do so we would have to leave about two hours after the flood started which is impossible for craft locked into the inner harbour. The single gate to the inner harbour only opens when the tide outside draws level with the water inside, normally about an hour before high water. We had a pleasant sail as far as the twin towers at Recluvers (Two thousand years ago we could have got there via Richborough and Plucks Gutter in the days when the Isle of Thanet was indeed an island), but then the wind veered a little and died so that we had to kedge until the evening flood took us into the Swale and Harty ferry at 2350 hrs. Monday came in hot and we explored Conyer Creek at on the midday high water and then took the ebb as far as Emley Island where we anchored for an afternoon nap and to work the Elmley Island trick. When the ebb set in westward we sailed under the busy Kingsferry Bridge for a snug berth in our favourite Stansgate Creek. On Tuesday we shopped at Queenborough and sailed through Chatham to Aylesford. This voyage up the Medway valley with its` steep, wooded chalk hills on either hand, makes an interesting change for sailors used to the wide open skies of the outer estuary. Another attraction of this trip is that it is dominated by three bridges. The massive road and rail bridge at Rochester is guarded by the historic castle and just high enough for Shoal Waters to pass under except at the very top of the tide. No such problem at the next massive M2 motorway bridge with at least fifty feet of clearance. The lovely old single lane, packhorse bridge at Aylesford reminds us of a more leisurely past with its` five stone arches. In passing we took the opportunity to look into what remains of Whitehall Creek. Once a graveyard for old minesweepers and other derelicts, it is being gradually filled in from the south as modern buildings spread out over the low lying peninsular. Joy broke a tooth and had to go home to her dentist. In passing back through the Swale I was lucky enough to find the Kingsferry Bridge open for a coaster and got another colour slide to my collection of the area. After picking Joy up at Faversham I dropped back to Harty Ferry to photograph the assembled feet at sunset. The Swale Smack and Barge Match is unique hereabouts in that one race includes barges, smacks and gaff rigged and other traditional yachts. The usual

course is out to the Girdler Beacon, south to the remains of Herne Bay pier and back to Harty Ferry. It is always sailed as near as possible to neaps with a low water around midday so that the late afternoon flood helps them all back home whatever the weather. The East Swale is a perfect area for such a match and it is a real festival of sail. The event is perfected by the get together in the evening in the old boat building and repair shed at the Hollow shore. Sunday came in with light airs from the northeast and we sailed in company with Sea Pig who is a little bigger than us but was towing a dinghy. At first in smooth water she got ahead of us but as the wind rose to a working breeze and small waves built up, we overtook her easily, a clear illustration of the drag of a dinghy on a small boat, particularly when it pipes up. Neither of us were anywhere near the Whittaker Beacon by low water. Sea Pig beat on over the flood for a long haul to Brightlingsea, but we worked in over Foulness Sands, anchoring for ten or twenty minutes each time we ran out of water until able to sail into the deep water of the outer River Crouch for a run to Rochford for the night and home to Maldon on the morrow.

Chapter 20

The Call of the Reed Beds

Do you remember that warm, safe, secure feeling during childhood games when you were `home` or otherwise `out of touch`? I recaptured it in full measure at 0400 hrs on Monday the 13th of March when I pushed back the hatch of the little gaff cutter Shoal Waters and poked my head out into the night. The initial total blackness softened to reveal a very full River Bure, whipped into wavelets by the wind howling over the southern bank. Back over my shoulder, a faint yellow glow, almost certainly the loom of Norwich, silhouetted the heads of tall reeds bowing in the gale. Yes! I was back on the Broads once more. I shut the hatch and dropped back into the warmth of the radiant heater to make a cup of Horlicks and reheat the contents of the hot water bottle before crawling into my sleeping bags to contemplate the adventures of the last sixty hours. In point of fact the last twelve had been spent right here since the first splatter of forecast rain early on Sunday afternoon drove me to round up into this little dyke in the windward bank, chuck the anchor over the bows and rig the cockpit cover. After a disgustingly late Sunday lunch consisting of two of Mr Matthews turkey burgers, the last yoghurt which needed eating up, and a large hunk of gooey Danish swiss roll washed down with a cup of tea, it was time to catch up on my kip! The prospect of even getting out of the home river had seemed slim when I left my mooring off the Blackwater S.C. at Heybridge at 1320 hrs Friday with a lively wind from between south and southwest under a sullen sky but long experience has taught me that it is always worth a look. It was the very top of spring tides as I sailed up to Maldon to view the barges riding high above the quay and then enjoyed a hectic trip down river to moor on the mud of Tollesbury Creek in the most sheltered spot that I could think of. I was already in my bunk by the time that the 1750 hrs forecast came over, SW 5/6 3/4 and didnt even wait for more. The local waters forecast at 0030 was more encouraging, variable three or less and I got under way at 0210 hrs just before high water, to sail steadily into a long dreary dawn reaching Clacton Pier at 0510 hrs. Off Walton pier, the 0700 hrs local forecast gave W-SW 3/4, perfect for a run to the Broads. In spite of the disappointing progress so far, it was too good a chance to miss so I decided to press on over the flood that would set in soon. Working the tides is always the main problem with our annual seventy mile trip between the River Blackwater and Yarmouth to enjoy spring on the Broads before the opening of the fishing season on the sixteenth of June draws the hordes of motor cruisers out of the yards. High water at Yamouth is three hours earlier than at Maldon (High water London Bridge, half ebb at Swin, low water Yarmouth Roads, half flood at Lynn). The sailing craft bound north will never enjoy the full six hours of ebb, in fact the faster she goes, the sooner she will meet the next flood. On the credit side when she returns south, she will enjoy at least seven or even eight hours flood tide. Having no engine, I am dependant on the flood tide to help me into busy

Yarmouth harbour. The whole Broads area drains into the sea through here and the ebb runs out for at least an hour after the tide turns on the coast. A fair wind is essential for I cannot beat round Orfordness further than the first haven, Southwold , from the Ore or the Deben in one ebb. One trick is to take one ebb tide from Maldon as far as Walton Backwaters or the Deben, sleep over the flood and then leave at high water. You are bound to meet the next flood well south of Lowestoft but can usually sail over it by keeping close inshore to reach Yarmouth before the ebb starts out of the harbour. The Deben sounds much nearer than Walton but it is not just a question of simple distance. A fair wind north up the coast is likely be a dead beat out of the Deben but a fair wind out of Walton. Thus you can leave Walton anytime, even sailing out of the wide entrance over the flood tide, but will have to wait for the ebb to start out of the Deben and remember that because of the narrow entrance, the flood runs hard and continues long after the tide turns outside. The Ore is even worse. In 1966 we stood on top of Orford Castle Keep in a south westerly breeze and watched the Shipwash light vessel swing with the ebb but still had a long wait for the ebb to start in the river. By the time we got out to sea, much of the ebb had been lost and we had to settle for Southwold for the night. Even if I had gone straight to Walton on Friday, leaving early on Saturday would have meant crossing the Harwich shipping lanes in the dark, which is to be avoided if possible. Thus I faced a long plug over the flood along the Suffolk Coast. With the wind between east and south, this can be minimised by keeping close inshore but if there is much west in the wind you loose it if you sail too close to the high parts of the coast such as Dunwich cliffs. A further complication at weekends is the popularity of beach fishing. Hell hath no fury like a fisherman whose private patch of water (as far as he can cast), is disturbed by a boat dodging a foul tide. I have been stoned on several occasions and heard fishermen boast of casting a lead through a boats mainsail. Nevertheless, some sort of compromise can normally be worked out and there are certainly very useful eddies on the flood south of the Deben and Ore bars. The latter was astern by 1120 hrs and Orfordness lighthouse looked pleasantly close in the warm sunshine, which was now taking over from the clouds. Sad experience told me that this trip over a foul tide is one of the longest and most protracted voyages in the world. The shore is five miles of never ending bare shingle moulded by the tides as regularly as the moulding on any picture frame. It is very steep too and Shoal Waters can sail within ten feet of the shore to dodge the tide. Many years ago I sailed this stretch in thick fog with only the lightest of airs from the south, just enough to carry me over the flood tide. It was an eerie experience, just me, the boat and twenty or thirty yards of steep shingle, ten or twelve feet away to port. The only benchmarks with which to judge my progress were the occasional items of flotsam on the seemingly endless shingle. Another experience here that I will never forget was on a warm summer night as I neared the lighthouse. There had been an explosion of black headed gulls about this time and the sky was full of them diving and wheeling overhead in protest at my intrusion into their private nesting

area. Every five seconds the beam of the lighthouse swung round, lighting them up like flashes of pure silver in the black sky. I swept the shoreline with my glasses looking for the green umbrellas which are so essential for fishing these days, and noted just a few, far away near some old concrete bunkers left over from the war. The bunkers are within half a mile of the Ness and most important, a useful eddy starts there close inshore. In fact by the time I reached that eddy the nearest of the dozen fishermen were almost out of sight astern. Nothing goes on forever and at last the radar towers at Bawdsey vanished and Aldeburgh came into sight by 1300hrs. I was depressed to see that these lonely shingle banks are being invaded by fourwheel drives. Later visits to the neck of shingle at Slaughden, the only way they can enter the area, shows a barrier of massive concrete blocks have been installed to preserve this unique area for wild life. The little fairytale town of Aldeburgh was abeam by 1400 hrs (forecast Humber going south to force six), and I was surprised to see them launching the lifeboat, presumably just for practice. Then at long last the ebb set in. Sadly the wind eased and I too lazy to decide to put the topsail up, used the excuse of stronger winds forecast. Walberswick drew abeam at 1555 hrs but the wind fell even lighter. Lowestoft came into view but with the wind and ebb tide dying, it was slow progress and hopes of reaching Yarmouth tonight began to recede. Oh for Mutford lock and easy access via Lowestoft. Ever the optimist, I pressed on past the harbour entrance for it would be easy to come back, if necessary, once I met the flood. With a glorious sunset as a background, the lighted buildings of Lowestoft passed by until the entrance was astern and still the dying ebb carried me north. The headland here, Lowestoft Ness, is the most easterly part of England and forces the tide passing up or down the coast to speed up to get by. If only I could get well beyond it into the next bay, I would be happy to anchor and wait for the next ebb tide or for the wind to pipe up. So often the wind returns once the sun has gone to bed and there was a slight improvement but off the red can Ness buoy, I realised that I was beginning to drift backwards so I anchored well inshore of the buoy in over twelve feet of water and hung up the anchor light. After a cup of tea I decided that it was no place to stay unless I kept an anchor watch which I didnt fancy, so I got the sails up and drifted back with the growing ebb into Lowestoft Harbour. A trawler came belting in with no green sidelight and as I passed between the pier heads, I saw a large vessel coming straight at me with no lights at all! It was the lifeboat. I have regulation side and stern lights but waved my anchor light just to make sure. Someone must have swept a hand over a board of switches for the lights and spotlights sprouted everywhere and they swung to pass me on my port side slowing to ask, Have you seen anyone in trouble north of the harbour? I replied that I had come from Maldon but been unable to get passed the harbour because of the lack of wind and flood tide so I had returned. They swept out into the night and I glided into the yacht basin, almost empty so early in the year, and tied up to one of the many vacant buoys. A steak was soon sizzling in the frying pan while I spread out my

sleeping bags. Somewhere in my slumbers I remember hearing the vessel return and have a horrible feeling that they had been looking for me! I left at 0430 hrs to make certain of enough ebb tide to carry me to Yarmouth. There was little wind and I narrowly missed being swept onto the red can buoy on the Ness as it swung back and forth in the strong ebb tide. Even in these calm conditions there was a rare old popple, which shook what little wind there was out of the sails. A mile on, all was calm again and sitting to leeward, the little green cutter glided on smoothly towards the lights of Yarmouth as the groynes along the shore became visible and then patches of sand and grass on the low cliffs. The sun was up by the time I neared the harbour entrance and anchored close inshore of the south wall. After awash and shave and a couple of eggs for breakfast, I laid on the bunk and waited for the tide in the entrance to ease. The southerly breeze was up to force two when I got under way to look in between the piers. Too early first time, but fifteen minutes later at 0800 hrs I got through the short east /west stretch where the high walls take most of the wind, and started the long drift north through the busy harbour. Now 0800 hrs on a Sunday morning is not the best time to enter Yarmouth harbour. There must be between one and two hundred small craft of all types and ages there used for line fishing. Engines varied from modern monster outboards snarling under the speed restrictions to ancient industrial monuments bonking along in clouds of black smoke. I met them all and bobbed about in their wash almost helpless for the steep shore and buildings took most of the wind. Add a gas rig vessel backing up the harbour followed by a Norfolk Line RO RO ferry and life becomes full of interest! Nevertheless, the growing flood knew its job and by the time that Southtown Bridge came in view, I was alone in smooth water and able to lower the gear without stopping to moor up. Had I succeeded in reaching Yarmouth last evening, which must have been after dark, I would have attempted to moor for the night on the visitors` moorings along the eastern bank just below the bridge. In fact new piling is being driven along the bank here and it is a no go area! In the entrance to the River Bure I met my first broads motorboat, but once under the next two bridges, I was able to moor on the comfortable, free, eastern side to raise my gear instead of the western `No Mooring` side, the only place with any room in high season. By 0950 hrs I was under way again with prospects of a fair wind most of the eleven miles to Acle and beyond. The sky was already overcast and darkened as the last buildings of Yarmouth gave way to the open reed fringed marshes and the old familiar landmarks such as the Three Mile House, Mautby windmill and the six Mile House slipped by. The abundant wild life is my main reason for coming here each spring and I like to log the first heron, grebe, coot and moorhen I meet. This year all four greeted me before I reached the Stracey Arms, the first acceptable mooring place above Yarmouth. It was still shut for the winter but at Stokesby, the first traditional Broads village, I found a shop open where I bought a pint of milk and, in appreciation of their being open on a Sunday so early in the season, a large Danish swiss roll. Acle Bridge was little trouble with a fair wind and tide but both the waterside shop and more important, the toilet and water tap were closed. Now the wind was piping up. After Thurne Mouth, the little boat began to tear along and the inevitable gybes on

the winding river became distinctly exciting. As the ruins of St Bennets Abbey came into view, the first drops of rain began to fall and by 1435 hrs I was moored up safe and sound in as snug and private a spot as anyone could wish for; safely `out of touch` from the worst that the wind and water could chuck at me.

Chapter 21

All Stations South

Shoal Waters is essentially a creature of the east coast marshlands where her twelve-inch draft with the plate up and lowering mast enable her to get to places beyond the reach of other craft. I suspected that there must be similar delights in the Solent area and the fiftieth anniversary celebrations at Dunkirk tied up logically with such a trip. We cut short our annual visit to the Broads in 1990 and returned to Heybridge to prepare for a long cruise, leaving on the evening tide on Saturday the 19th of May. The wind blew from the northeast so it was a beat out of the River Blackwater before turning south to run down the Raysn channel where we grounded for the rest of the night. With the flood next day it was an easy run south into the Crouch and on under the lifting bridge at Havengore to reach the outer Thames. The wind was fair for Dover but I lost my nerve off the Red Sand Tower when it began to harden, for I guessed that there would soon be a vicious lop building up off the North Foreland. Thus we spent the rest of the day enjoying warm sunshine in the East Swale. In fact we were trapped there until Wednesday and took the opportunity to visit Faversham, Windmill Creek and Conyer South Deep. Thursday brought lighter winds, almost too light, but by sunset Shoal Waters sat on the sand, deep in Pegwell Bay south of Ramsgate like a fat contented duck. When the tide returned in the small hours, I moved out into the deeper water of the River Stour and left at 0600hrs under full sail including topsail. The direct route is east of the Goodwin Sands but I dont like such sands under my lee and steered through the Downs to sound round the southern edge to the South Goodwin light vessel where we took in the topsail. Another reason was that the `Little Ships` were leaving from Dover and we expected them to overtake us. We hoped to make three or four knots while they were to do six. In fact we made five knots with the help of the tide and they made four knots by declining such help. Once across the shipping lanes, which we crossed at right angles, we headed up the French Coast over the last of the west bound tide, making surprisingly good progress. When it turned, we put in one reef as a rare old lop built up quickly but I confess that I never realised how rough it was until I read other peoples` accounts of the voyage that day! Nevertheless, we were pleased to turn into Dunkirk at 1515 hrs where the tidal marina fitted us up with a fine handy berth. I bailed out the cockpit with a sponge as Joy prepared a meal and then we started the long wait for the `Little ships` who gradually assembled in the big ship lock from 1930 hrs instead of the inner more sheltered smaller lock which was being used by local craft. The big new lock faces the harbour entrance and straight into the onshore breeze, which had built up quite a swell by this time. All concerned had great sport with warps and fenders deep below the lock sides until the gates closed behind the last arrivals at 2200 hrs. They made a brave sight in the sunshine next day in the Commercial Basin and many other English yachts arrived over the weekend. There was widespread resentment that most of the publicity in the press about the crossing had been scooped

by some clot in the African Queen; yes the one from the film, which surprise, surprise, had to be rescued by the lifeboat. I am inclined to believe that the reason we did rather well at Dunkirk in 1940 was that we were all on the same side. While walking past the assembled Little Ships, we came across a bookstall selling accounts of the evacuation in which each double page described the experience of one person. A chap in a blazer came up and asked the stall keeper. Are you Dunkirk Veterans or British Legion? We are British Legion; we are not getting involved in any arguments! The veterans seem to resent the Little Ships, which are now manned by new owners with no connection with the evacuation, who in turn resent the other motor craft who join in the visit and are banished out to seaward of the ceremony. I was told that the latter had written three times to the veterans running the service onshore, to ask if it could be broadcast to them via the Royal Navy guard ship and had not had one reply. Even I was warned at the Boat Show that I would have to hurry and book, and this was repeated later by a member of the Cruising Association. In fact any craft was free to visit Dunkirk, which looked to me to have enough room for most of the boats on the East Coast of England. On Saturday morning in the calm of dawn I went alone to seek out the Dunkirk Memorial and found it a most moving experience as I walked along the historic sands with tear welling from my eyes, (they are coming again as I write this). The local workers were already out clearing blown sand from the area for this is also a memorial to the liberation of Dunkirk in 1945. Joy joined me to watch the French Memorial Service and parade through the town later that morning. On Sunday we sailed early and went right up on the beach to savour the real memory of it all. The northeast wind built up during the day but they now have massive offshore wave breaks, each about a hundred yards long built of six to eight foot square concrete blocks, which gave us a comfortable berth in which to wait for the wreath laying ceremony that afternoon. The visiting little ships circled east of the mole while a helicopter lowered the wreath. I tried to take colour slides of all the craft as they went past but the last ones are out of focus as I had not noticed that with each circuit, they were getting closer to us anchored behind the wave break, now almost covered. Back onshore, one entrant asked, Was that an outfall you were sheltering behind? Many yachts from Belgium and Holland had come down to Dunkirk for the weekend and hoisted inverted black cones when they put on their motors for the long run in past the mole to the tidal mooring pontoons. They left them up, presumably because they knew they would need them when they left. A smart, peak capped Englishman from a motor yacht asked me why so many of them were displaying SOUTH CONES ! Monday came in with light winds from the northeast and we left early to get the full benefit of the westbound tide. This time the `Little Ships` overtook us before noon and disappeared towards Ramsgate. Off Dover we could barely stem the eastbound tide and when it did turn at dusk it was flat calm so we anchored for the night just west of Folkestone. Light airs from the southeast on Tuesday took us

slowly round Dungeness and into Rye where we moored at the Strand on the top of the afternoon tide and rested one whole day while I bought and studied a Channel Pilot Book. On Thursday we left at dawn but thick fog (Royal Sovereign fog 200m), gave us a long slow trip to Beachy Head at dusk where a light air from the southeast took us into lee of Newhaven breakwater for the night. Friday came in clear but equally short of wind until we were off Bognor Regis, where a thunderstorm in the early evening brought a rising wind from the northwest which gave us a lively trip through the Looe Channel in company with several yachts heading for the Round the Island race next day Then came a long, long beat to Chichester, cheered up by a clear sunset before a very black night.. It was 2250 hrs when we reached the beacon and raced in to moor opposite the Hayling Island S.C. in Stockers Lake. During the next week we explored every corner of the extensive harbour in blustery weather from the west. Joy escaped with a kitbag of dirty washing when my son, who lives in Southampton, came down to see us and returned a day later with it cleaned and ironed. Late on Thursday we lowered down and polled under the bridge, which joins Hayling Island to the mainland to moor in Langstone harbour for the night. Friday was still lively and we spent the day at the Lock S.C., pleased with the chance to examine Morton Lock from where, each month in the early eighteen twenties, Portsmouth barges laden with gold bullion and escorted by redcoats were towed out by the steam tug Egremont to pass north of Hayling and Thorney islands into the Chichester canal which we had visited earlier. From here they joined the rivers Arun, Wey and Thames to reach London and the Bank of England (Shoal Waters explored the northern end of the derelict Wey-Arun canal in 1973). The wind was lighter on Saturday and we got across to Bembridge, one of the few places where craft deliberately dry out on sand just inside the entrance. Already tiny white specks of young barnacles smothered the bottom and a large cat was in the same state to the dismay of the new owner who had had her steam cleaned a fortnight earlier. How do the barnacles get from the bottom of the sea up to the boat? I explained the fall of spat and how oyster growers tried to throw clean shell into the beds to attract the young oysters as the newborn specks of life searched desperately for somewhere clean to hang on. Any boat with a clean bottom is a magnet. Over the next few weeks we circumnavigated the Island counter clockwise, made Newport with its reasonably priced moorings our base and visited Ashlett, Woodmill, Botley, Beaulieu Abbey, Wotton, Yarmouth and Kings Quay Creek where we got right up into the mill pool. Shoal Waters was among those present when H.M. the Queen arrived in the Royal Yacht Britannia to inspect the Cunard fleet on its seventyfifth anniversary and had a poll position on the mud opposite the Ocean Terminal for the best firework display I have ever seen. The following Monday the Queen Mother inspected anchored yachts from Britannia as part of her ninetieth birthday celebrations but it was badly organised and the 1500 yachts present (half the total hoped for), were spread very thinly. We lay behind the Royal Yacht Squadron in the shelter of East Cowes. Sadly for both events the weather was dull and wet. Another highlight was the O.G.A meeting at Wooton Creek early in July where we met some fine gaff yachts and their keen crews but the westerly wind was too strong

for a race when we would have seen them at their best. The most memorable item was a superb polished stone axe head produced by a member who had dredged it up while trawling for clams. All good things come to an end and we had to be home in good time for the August bank holiday, which fell early in 1990. We planned to leave after Cowes week but it did not start until the 4th of August so I decided that we would take the first slant after it started. In fact Cowes week came in with a low over Southern Ireland and forecast of NW 3-4. We watched the start on Saturday from a buoy astern of Round the World racer, Rothmans and abeam of Britannia, which became a sort of ordeal by power boats. When the tide set east in the early afternoon we reluctantly left for home. Most of the racing craft had bunched under spinnakers along the northern shore making for three turning marks according to size, and strangely, we were with a few hundred yards of each mark as they rounded in the rising wind. I didnt fancy the Looe channel at dusk and settled for Chichester for the night. On Sunday we left at 1000hrs to fight the westbound tide to Selsey Bill which enabled us to solve the Looe/Owers controversy by rounding close to the starboard hand markers on the ends of the groins, less than one hundred yards from the shore. Once again we anchored for the night in the shelter of Newhaven Piers and left at dawn for a fine trip to Folkestone where we anchored over a foul tide in East Wear Bay before a glorious moonlight trip to anchor in the mouth of the Stour in Pegwell Bay at 0300hrs on Tuesday. During the next three days we dived deep into the heart of rural Kent amongst the trout and dragonflies (and mosquitoes) to Fordwich, the old port of Canterbury where two of our grandsons were able to join us. On the late afternoon ebb on Friday we left Sandwich with a southerly wind to round the North Foreland for an idyllic trip to the East Swale under a full moon. When I looked out next morning a dozen barges were drifting out to sea in the wake of a mass of smacks and gaff yachts for it was the Swale Smack and Barge Match. After watching them finish we joined in the celebrations at the Hollow Shore, (has any event a better venue?) On Sunday we sailed outside the Isle of Sheppey to the Medway where we watched the sun go down from the Shalfleet after visiting Chatham on the tide. By Tuesday morning it was obvious that the weather was breaking up and we left at 0500hrs with wind from the SW to reach the Blackwater S.C. at 1600hrs. Shoal Waters had covered over 1250miles with wind and tide alone plus a bit of paddling and quanting. Harbour and marina charges had amounted to 84, much less than I had feared. 28 for Gaz for heating and cooking, 35 for two charts and a pilot book together with other items over and above food, pushed the cost of the 86 day trip to 190. My interest in sailing started with Maurice Griffiths book `Yachting on a Small Income`, bought in paperback price 6d on Liverpool Street Station in 1944. I think I got the message!

Chapter 22

To the Broads 1993

The northerly gales behind the storm surge that tested the sea defences along the East Coast at the end of February and limited Shoal Waters first weekend afloat to her home river, the Blackwater, were obviously dying. A high was moving in and promised a chance for the little gaff cutter to slip up the coast to the Norfolk Broads. 1993 was to be a special year for the lock at Mudford was once again in full working order after a major refit. It was 33 years since I first used it in my old half decker, Zephyr and 26 years since I last took Shoal Waters through. Lowestoft is a much kinder harbour to enter or leave than Yarmouth and shortens the journey from the Thames Estuary by six miles. Between times, the lock had only opened on Wednesday afternoons or at 48 hours notice with a surcharge of 80! Thus I had been forced to use Yarmouth in order to sail among the golden reeds of the Broads in early spring. I had never enjoyed battling Yarmouths strong tides, and with advancing years, realised that I must hit trouble sooner or later. Homeward bound last year, I fell overboard while negotiating Southtown Bridge solo at five in the morning. Fortunately I took a piece of rope with me and got back on board thanks to a bowsprit and its bobstay. I have never been slow to take a hint! The Weatherline forecast on Thursday spoke of light winds backing N.W. and then westerly with smooth seas and I prepared to leave my mooring at Heybridge early on Friday morning as soon as she floated two hours before high water. In fact the winds stayed between north and northwest until Sunday when they went easterly. It was clearly topsail weather. A thick haze with a little drizzle kept me in oilskins instead of my warm ex R.F.A duffle coat as I tidied up the boat and put a hot water bottle into my sleeping bag. As usual when leaving before high water, I cut behind Osea Island to avoid the strong flood tide in the narrows. Off West Mersea the old Trinity House vessel Winston Churchill swung into the wind and then the ebb tide set in. Progress bucked up; Clacton pier abeam at 1225, Walton at 1330. The shore dropped away as I came on the wind. Now it was a choice of Walton, Harwich or the Deben for a stop over the evening floodtide. The Outer Ridge buoy came out of the gloom ahead at 1445 as a misty monster glided across way beyond my bows in the Harwich shipping lane. After some hesitation I sailed across the shipping lane to reach the Deben bar at 1615hrs and moored inside under the S.W. shore half an hour later. By 1730hrs I had had a meal and was tucked up in my new 52 oz sleeping bag with another over the top for good measure. By 1750hrs the forecast killed any hopes of the wind freeing so I knew I would have to fight my way north. When I woke at 2100hrs the moon was peeping through the clouds onto the smooth water. The snag of the Deben is that the tide floods in for and hour after it turns on the coast. I have no engine so by leaving with the ebb, I have already lost at least an hours north going tide. Things are made worse as the further north one gets, the earlier the flood sets in. In fact H.W. at Yarmouth is three hours earlier that at Maldon. Of course you get the benefit when southbound. It is said that a fast vessel

can carry a fair tide from Lowestoft to Burnham. In view of the calm conditions, I decided to leave with the ebb and anchor for the rest of the night under the lee of the shingle west of Orfordness, which I reached half an hour before midnight. By getting under way at 0700hrs next morning, I was off the dreaded Ness with its famous light at 0815 hrs, H.W, to take full advantage of the ebb. I couldnt quite point along the coast, which gradually fell away in the mist. Of course sailing close hauled is more tiring than with a fair wind when I can almost cat nap at the helm. (Never use self steering gear when alone. If you fall overboard you will feel very lonely as the boat sails on without you! I know of a least one case in which the lone sailor was able to swim back to the craft as it rounded up into the wind with the sails flapping idly). Southwold passed in the mist at 1100hrs, very good progress, but a long board inshore at noon found me well south of Lowestoft towards low water facing a long beat over the new flood. Fortunately the wind backed up and somehow the northbound tide continued to help me along. As I entered at 1415hrs I noticed that the entrance seems to have been narrowed since I was last here. Massive wooden piling and beams by the bridge provide ample mooring at which to moor up to lower down. By 1500hrs I was beating through Lake Loathing, noting that it is much busier than when I was last here, much of the derelict, wreckage strewn mud having been reclaimed. Perhaps the biggest difference was the mass of small craft on all sides. I reached the lock just after 1600hrs but there was no sign of anyone in authority. More importantly, there was a fish and chip shop to hand. I had ducked my mast under the rail and road bridges and found enough space to get the gear up between the latter and the lock. In fact both open, as does the footbridge over the lock chamber. I was not worried by the busy traffic that night and slept like a log (this bridge, and the swing bridge at Lowestoft, are the only river crossings east of Beccles.). When the lock keeper appeared next morning, he told me that the new charge was five pounds and went on to say that a couple of motor craft had booked in to pass out at 0930 hrs, which time I agreed would suit me fine. Working the lock is a long business as there are double gates at either end because low water in Oulton Broad is three and a half hours later than at Lowestoft and it is possible at times of drought for the salt water to be higher than the fresh. As there was no room for the usual long beams to work the gates, they had rack and pinion operation, which made a lot of sheer hard graft. (When I went through for the last time in 2002 they had brought in power driven gates). Once onto the Broad, I sailed across and out onto the River Waveney with a light easterly wind. Somerlayton Railway Bridge opened for me at 1240 hrs and I sailed under the New Cut Bridge at 1345 hrs (just enough headroom for the topsail) to reach the River Yare at 1435 hrs and on across Breydon Water to the new bypass bridge at 1635 where I met the flood tide. It would have been possible to quant along the shallow north shore against wind and tide, in fact I have done it several times, but this day I was well content to anchor over the rapidly covering mud on the south side well out of the traffic with a cup of

tea to watch the thousands of birds on the flats feeding franticly before the mud was covered up for the remaining daylight hours. I could have slipped across about 0400 hrs on Monday morning but preferred to sleep late. When I did stir, I sailed about the area and caught the last of the afternoon ebb into the Bure to take the flood to Stokesby for the night. Next day I moved on to Womack Water and my mooring for the next two months where I prepared for a very different sort of sailing. To the public at large, the peak of challenge and skill in yachting is a voyage across the wide oceans and in particular, sailing round the world singlehanded. In my experience there are two basic problems facing the sailor, starting and stopping. These are minimised by the ocean voyager while they came in abundance to the trading wherry with a cargo of sugar beet from Potter Heigham on the North Broads for the factory at Cantley near Norwich on the South Broads, powered by wind and tide with a bit of the armstrong system when those two powerful allies failed. Today the owner of a small sailing vessel can still enjoy the satisfaction of solving those eternal problems once more. The tide was already ebbing when I left Womack at 1400hrs and it was an easy sail down the narrow dyke to beat down the River Thurne to the wider River Bure to reach Acle Bridge an hour later. With a fair wind and tide, ducking the bridge was little trouble but the banks are crowded with large motor cruisers waiting for the busy season ahead so I anchored each side of the bridge to lower and raise the mast. In some ways anchoring is simpler than mooring for unless one is very careful taking in the mooring lines to move through the bridge, when you moor up again the other side it is easy to get them over the rigging and prevent the mast going up smoothly. The anchor and chain comes up on top of everything and goes back down again leaving everything clear. Had Joy been with me, we could have shot the bridge without stopping. The tide grew stronger as the river swung more easterly but it was already two hours after low water at Yarmouth and I knew that I must meet the flood several miles from the town and the junction with the River Yare. Both rivers continue to ebb while the level rises. The times at which the flood sets in varies with springs and neaps and the amount of fresh water draining off the land. Very roughly, the wide Yare turns about an hour after low water and the narrow River Bure ninety minutes later. Tidal speeds of two to three knots mean that engineless craft have to pass from one river to the other at slack water. Mooring up to the bank at the yacht station cost ten pounds at this time and was almost impossible anywhere else so a good anchor is essential. The importance of the time of low water in this area is shown by the fact that the local tide table shows only the time of low water. For a few pence, a small cardboard `clock` can be purchased. When set to the mark of low water at Yarmouth Bar, the times of high and low water can be read off for places throughout the whole navigable area of the Broads. Reedham is two and a half hours later and Norwich four and a half hours later. A windward reach just above the Stracey Arms windmill at 1730 hrs showed that the flood had started but the river runs easterly from then on, the sun was shining, and with a useful breeze from the

south, I pressed on for another couple of miles before slipping into a shallow dyke just below the six Mile House to wait for the night ebb. It was flat calm when I looked out at 2230 hrs but I was almost aground, so I slipped out onto the smooth water already sweeping towards Yarmouth. The sails just gave steerage way. Half a mile above the yacht station, I dropped the sails and lowered the mast under way, watching carefully that the craft did not drift into one of the many posts marking the shallows each side of the river. The River Bure is very narrow for the last few hundred yards and in daylight, alive with large motor cruisers passing, mooring or leaving in the strong tide. It is a hazardous place for an unpowered yacht and I prefer to pass through at night when I have the place to myself. There are massive dolphins at the junction with the Yare to which one can tie up to wait, for the main river was still going out to the sea under Southtown Bridge like a mill race. I knew from long experience (since 1949) that if I kept to the starboard bank, I could quant over the spit between the rivers and along the shallow north shore of theYare to anchor above the new bypass bridge and get my mast up while waiting of the tide to flood. The whole secret of lowering and raising the mast and its gear singlehanded is to disturb the lot when it is down as little as possible. Once you start crawling under the rigging to get into the cabin to brew up, things soon get in a muddle, which can be the devil to sort out on your own in the dark. By 0130 hrs the massive bridge was behind me, the gear was ready, and I dozed until the dragging of the anchor chain at 0400hrs told me that the flood had started. The red and green painted posts marking the channel across Breydon Water (over a hundred of them) slipped by as dawn broke and a warm sun killed the light northwesterly breeze. The rail bridge at Reedham swung open promptly for me and I paddled furiously to help her through as quickly as possible. The broad River Yare wanders widely but the general trend is northwest. By noon the sky had clouded over, heavy rain was falling to the west and when the ebb set in, I passed down the southern dyke into Rockland Broad for lunch and an afternoon nap as the rain poured down. By 1730 hrs it had cleared and I sailed out of the northern dyke into the Yare where the first of the flood carried me to Surlingham Broad for the night in warm evening sunlight. I anchored near the old wherry graveyard. Each year more of the bones are smothered with reeds and scrub. At one time you could paddle over then at high water and gaze down on them. I even bought an expensive Polaroid lens with which to photograph them, but when I returned next year they had been chained off from visiting craft. Sleep, sleep and more sleep! Wednesday came in overcast with light drizzle. I shopped at the little waterside store at Brundle at 0900hs and then drifted with a rising easterly air to Thorpe on the outskirts of Norwich. Most of the banks are heavily wooded but there is plenty of interest from the old ferry staging at Surlingham with its restored pub, to the old fashioned boat yard west of the new Norwich bypass bridge which towers a comfortable thirty two feet above the river. I turned when the ebb set in and I helped the boat along among the trees with the quant and paddle. It took three hours to reach Brundle again but by then the ebb was powering down, the trees retreated and

the westerly wind rose to a useful working breeze. Much of the next few miles run south and with the wind free, progress was good. The sky cleared, the sun came out and the reeds turned to gold again. When I met the first of the flood I ran into the mouth of the little River Chet and tied up to the weather bank a few yards from the Hardly Cross, an ancient monument that marks the jealously guarded boundary between the ports of Norwich and Yarmouth. I was well pleased with my progress so far and knew it would be an easy leap to Yarmouth on the night tide. Just one nagging thought crossed my mind as I slipped into the arms of morphus; the wind had died; a mist was rising. When I looked out at 2230 hrs, the other side of the narrow River Chet, barely forty feet away, was only just visible through the fog. Overhead a nearly full moon shone boldly, showing that the mist was not very deep. Hopeless though it was, I never had any doubts about setting out for Yarmouth. The forecast at 1800 hrs was east going northeast and gave a no hint of the gale warning to come for the afternoon low water next day but I just had a hunch that I should go. A slice of bread chucked onto the smooth water showed that the River Chet was still flooding but very slowly. With the Hardley Flood to fill, I guessed that it must flow up for some time after it turned in the main river and this proved to be correct. I put the sails up just in case a zephyr came along and tried to quant along the south bank against the steel piling but the Yare is a big river and the water was too deep so I used one paddle. By keeping the bank in sight, I knew where I was, but the first problem was to avoid a large white motor cruiser moored as a houseboat on the southern bank but, fortunately, he still had his lights on so that was no problem. Then it was just a case of picking the outside of each bends to benefit from the strongest tide. A few revellers were still awake in the cruisers moored at Reedham and one had his engine running! This is one of the snags of Broads Holidays. Craft tell me that they can only get hot water by running the engines. Last year I got fed up with a boat astern but up wind after thirty minutes and asked him why he was running his engine and giving me his fumes. I have to run the engine (diesel, probably 50/60 H.P.) so that my wife can use the hair dryer.! The pollution from this nonsense has to be seen to be believed. On past the pub with its bright lights and the darker residential area, as I lowered down the gear. Would the bridge ever come into view? Suddenly it appeared high up in the mist and we swept through the gurgling water. It was just midnight. I paddled on slowly past the small boatyard on the north bank until I could vaguely sense rather than see, the reeds on the eastern side of the entrance to the New Cut. The river turns easterly here and I knew I was on my own for several miles. Up mast and I did find occasional light airs from the northwest but most of the time I was to be tacking with the tide wind and using the paddles to come round if there seemed to be any doubt. If you do touch the bank, the current soon swings the stern round and drives the boat hard against the bank facing upstream. The river winds from south of east to west of north. At times I got steerageway from the sails. After an hour or more I sensed a shed, a large square building I knew to be on the north bank. Later a derelict mill on the south side stood out against the moon and is the only one

in that area. Over halfway to Breydon! The tide ran even stronger now. Another mill, the only other one on the south side, the white hull of a yacht near the only house and suddenly I looked northwest to see the gigantic structure of the Berney Arms Mill reaching above the mist to the right of the full moon. A perfect fix! It was 0200 hrs so I was well on time but the next three miles across the open Breydon Water would be another problem. No longer would I have the tall reeds on either side to keep me on the straight and narrow, just green and red posts too far apart to be visible one from another in this fog. The river here makes a dogleg to the north, which was difficult, but here at least the channel runs close to the high northern sea wall. Once out onto Breydon Water, spotting and dodging the posts proved difficult for when they loomed through the mist, there was no background with which to judge the direction of the tide and I brushed against three of them. The answer was to keep the boat heading between eastnortheast and east (thank heaven for a large points card illuminated from below through a red filter). At one time a post ahead left me instead of approaching. After a muddled moment, I realise that the boat had turned round completely. I found about half of them, mostly on the south side. Gradually the noise of traffic warned of the bypass bridge ahead. Last Tuesday morning I had noted red lights on the massive piles on the southern shore where coasters can tie up to wait for the bridge to open, so I stuck to the southern side to use these lights as a warning, for I didnt wish to be suddenly swept onto the bridge with this strong tide. Once they came in sight, I tacked north in the tide wind, spotted a green post and anchored inshore of it to lower down. I started quanting along in the shallows but realised that I was loosing the benefit of the current and moved out into deeper water and the swifter tide, using the paddle to pass under the bridge at 0345 hrs and anchor on the spit between the rivers to wait for the ebb in the River Bure to ease. I noted that the water was already rising (low water Yarmouth bar 0255hrs). The River Bure curves to the right under two bridges just before its junction with the Yare and although the ebb runs very fast on the eastern side, there is an eddy on the western side. The water is very shallow but with the plate up Shoal Waters can quant under the two bridges to anchor above them. It gives me time to get the gear up at leisure as the last of the ebb slinks away. This is important, as a rising northeast wind funnels down the narrow Bure, which meant a beat for the first half-mile. While still head to wind, I could hoist the sails at slack water, ready to get under way with the first signs of the flood. If I came through with the first of the flood and anchored to raise the gear, the boat would point downsteam with the wind coming over the stern, which would make hoisting the mainsail and getting the anchor in the narrow river almost impossible. The flood started up the Bure at 0530 hrs with the wind rising by the minute. Once round the great half circle to the Three Mile house, it was a fair wind with brilliant early morning sunshine illuminating the reeds along each bank. By 0915 hrs at Acle it was really coming onto blow, and mooring to get through was a problem but somehow I managed and sailed on to Womack Dyke by noon. Four hours later, at which time I would have been negotiating Yarmouth if I had ducked the night

passage, the whole boat shook regularly in the gusts and a warning for northeast gales came over the radio. I am glad I left the River Chet when I did.

Chapter 23

Why Not Try the Back Door?

The order and authority of Wells harbour came as a shock to the little gaff cutter Shoal Waters when she arrived from Burnham Overy just before high water on the Spring Bank Holiday Monday afternoon, after a week spent enjoying the wild untrammelled freedom of the other north Norfolk havens of Brancaster, Blakeney and Morston. She was waved alongside the harbour wall, which I knew from previous visits in 1950 and 1973 to be high and ladderless, by the harbour master and told that I would have to lay there instead of finding my own bit of mud or sand on which to dry out in comfort and privacy. He certainly runs a tight ship and once that I had talked him round into letting us dry on the sand, admittedly in a very precise spot, it rapidly became obvious that Wells is now a very busy area indeed with occasional small cargo ships, a busy inshore fishing fleet, many yachts, a big fleet of racing dinghies (twelve square metre sharpies), with water skiers and windsurfers galore. Keeping the channel open for the small coasters is proving a constant problem, possibly as a result of the closing off some of the little creeks and gutways opposite, so that a dragline on a large lighter stands ready just below the wharf. One noticeable feature is the population of trimarans, possibly because it is one of the few places that do not seem to charge extra for multihulls. Yes Sir! Law and Order is the rule at Wells and much as it goes against the grain to a small boat sailor, I had to reflect that it eliminated such problems as the dinghies with outboards stuck out astern, that swung about across the narrow channel into Morston and the one water skier at Brancaster who scorned the smooth sea outside and tore back and forth through the racing dinghies and other small boats inside the harbour. We dried comfortably in the late afternoon on firm sand where the deep channel had been on my last visit, and spent the evening watching the bank holiday crowds driving off into the traffic jams. A notice in the harbour masters office showed that the charges for visiting yachts were 25 pence per foot per day alongside the quay and half that when on a mooring. Thus an enforced stay could be expensive. In theory the larger and more weatherly yacht should get in more sailing than a smaller boat. This may well be true for craft kept in man made harbours or marinas on open coasts with few other havens, but among the wide estuaries, the small boat will give her owner many more hours under way. When strong winds rule out sailing in the open sea, the small boat can take advantage of her shallow draft and general handiness to explore with the estuary. Now Shoal Waters found herself trapped at Wells with two larger visiting yachts, one waiting to return to Boston and the other to the Humber, I knew that at least I could get some interesting sailing within the harbour itself. The impending classic boat rally at Shotley in a fortnight meant that we must soon head south but Tuesday brought very strong winds from the North. I persuaded Joy to take the bus home, as this would leave me free to sail in heavier conditions than she could tolerate, for she subject to seasickness. While trapped here in 1979

after visit to Whitby, I found that it was probably possible to get out through the extensive marshes to the east towards Blakeney but had not actually done so. A chat with a canoeist while waiting to dry on Monday afternoon confirmed this but he said that there were two footbridges, possibly built for wild fowlers. He also mentioned that the sand outside the harbour, east of the main channel has built up considerably, making it a long trip out of Wells round into Blakeney. Thus the back door was worth a look, for it could shorten the passage home and save harbour charges. I decided to sail as far as possible through the maze of creeks to the northeast and then dry out so that I could explore further on foot when the tide had gone. Low water neaps was on Monday and they started making up today. As soon as Shoal Waters floated, I set off with one reef to explore the creek, which runs due east above the town, but there was little water and I soon nosed up into the northern weather bank and anchored for an hour. The wind increased steadily and the 1400hrs forecast gave Humber, northwest six to eight with a gale warning. I close reefed the mainsail and set the storm jib, a tiny sail of just twelve square feet. Many local yachts have moorings in a wide creek that runs east of north just above the commercial harbour. I reached back to this creek and came about to find that I could just point through the moored craft to the narrow and shallower deserted creeks beyond. Some stretches were dead to windward and mean short sharp tacks but there was bags of tide going my way. At each of the many junctions I had to make a quick choice but my standard rule for such exploration is that the following the tide will take you further in and bucking it will bring you out (provided you reverse it at high water), stood me in good stead once again. The roar of the surf on the outer bank grew louder but I was unable to see anything of it, as the saltings are fringed with rough, grass covered, sand dunes and low scrub. Gradually the creek bore southeast and I wondered if I would merely end up along the southern mainland shore again. The fair tide eased and now seemed to be flowing against me. Was this the start of the ebb or was I over the watershed and meeting the tide flowing in from the sea? I encountered no bridges although rotting posts in two places showed where they may have once been. Suddenly the channel swung sharply north to windward, to reveal a frightening sight. Beyond the two hundred yards of salting fringed creek was a wall of surf ten or twelve feet high. Yet the water sweeping into the creek was smooth! I rapidly dawned on me that the gleaming white surf was breaking on a bank some quarter of a mile away. The water between the surf and me stood out strangely smooth and black and was flecked with lumps of brownish foam that raced towards me. The tide was almost level with the saltings and as the foam reached them, the screaming wind lifted it off the water so that it tumbled on over the coarse vegetation for hundreds of feet. The tide was flooding into the creek too fast for me to beat over, so I swung the boat in against the saltings on the western side and anchored to explore further on foot but soon found my way barred by a gut to wide to jump. My glasses revealed a couple of sand and shingle banks to the east marked off with stakes and string as bird nesting areas and a few craft moored far off against the shore, presumably at Stiffkey. It was 1520 hrs, a few minutes from high water.

Twenty minutes later the tide flooding into the creek had eased and I tacked out just beyond the saltings to anchor in three feet, marvelling at the smoothness of the water. In fact I was tempted to sail on the see if there was a clear channel eastward behind the surf but discretion ruled the day. Far better to dry out where I was and `look see` when the water had gone. In fact the tide fell very slowly indeed, presumably because the water had difficulty in getting off the sands into the teeth of the howling wind. It was 1645 hrs before she grounded and took another hour to dry, by which time the water in the creek had changed direction and was flowing back into Wells harbour. The 1800 hrs forecast gave Humber northwest four to five and Thames north to northwest five to six going three to four. In glorious evening sunlight, I walked along the sands as the water retreated, finding that after couple hundred yards, my channel turned east, to run parallel to the massive ridge of sand, onto which the surf had been breaking when I arrived, for about a mile before swinging north again to dive into the surf towards open water. Where it turned towards the sea, another channel going eastward could be seen beyond a narrow sand bar. Next day I was to learn from a bait digger that once this had been the route of my channel which had continued eastward behind the sand spit to join up with the channel from Stiffkey before entering the sea. Recently it had turned north to find its own way out. He was a member of the Wells lifeboat crew and came up with the useful information that when towing in rescued craft, they often came into Stiffkey because there was much less surf on the bar that at either Wells or Blakeney. Presumably the exit to my channel would enjoy the same advantage. After repositioning my anchor so that once I floated next morning, I could retreat into the saltings under headsails if necessary, I watched the sun go down over the sands and so to sleep ready for an exciting early start on the morrow. Wednesday, 0200hrs. No sign of water in the creek but plenty of noise from the advancing surf and a bitterly cold wind. 0220 hrs. No change but surf louder. 0235 hrs. Still no water! Dozed again wondering if I might be neaped. 0300hrs. Water in the bottom of the channel at last. Smooth as silk but the gale seems wilder than ever. I got dressed as the tiny cabin warmed rapidly from the heat of the stove and the radiant heater. The first signs of dawn were already in the eastern sky as a tired old crescent moon rose above the horizon. After making tea, I refilled the hot water bottle and put it back into the sleeping bags for I had not done with them yet. When I had dressed with two sweaters and topping off with a scarf and duffle jacket (this was no time for artificial fibres), I settled onto the bridge deck with my feet in the cabin and elbows on the cabin top to watch events. The radio reported extensive frost inland. I thought of my neighbours, several oyster catchers sitting on their eggs, and reflected that it must be a cold old job. 0320 hrs. Boat afloat at last. Calculated the time of high water at 0335. This is a very different tide to that of yesterday afternoon, at least two feet lower. In the sober light of dawn it became obvious that the wind was much lighter. 0335 hrs. Boat afloat at last. Shortened the chain so that she lay in the middle of the channel. Flood tide seems to be slackening already.

0410 hrs. Tide ebbing although much of the sand spit and wide bay to the west that was covered, yesterday, was still dry. I decided to sail out along the creek. The first hundred yards was dead to windward and as it was too narrow and shallow to beat in, I removed my trousers and waded out, leading the boat by the bowsprit into deeper water until I could sail off with the wind on the port quarter. Five minutes later I anchored at the limit of the calm water, south of where the sand spit dived into the surf, and crawled back, into my sleeping bags to thaw out. I left the radio on for the forecast but dozed off and missed it. . 0650 hrs I looked out to find the spit had grown half a mile eastward leaving a much narrower channel. I was in two feet of water and obviously on the northern side so I got the anchor up and let her drift south into four feet. The local waters forecast at 0700 hrs on the radio gave west four as far south as the Wash and northwest to west force 4 to the North Foreland. 0730 hrs. Shoal Waters grounded on golden sand in the middle of the channel. Twice during the forenoon I tramped over the sands to the entrance. The last of the ebb went out very fast, hitting the surf in an horrendous jumble of water but I decide that it might be possible to get out through the surf on the flood, as then the water would be moving in the opposite direction and, hopefully, slightly quieter. The new entrance/exit was comparatively narrow with a shoulder of sand on the western side and a gradual slope on the east. Provided that I got there before it covered, this shoulder of sand on the western edge should give me a good guide to the best water. The wind seemed a little more westerly which should bring it on the beam as I hit the surf and as the flood tide would run in hard, I decided on full sail. It was worth a try! Another attraction of the plan was that I would catch the first of the east going tide along the coast, which starts about two hours before high water. This is usually very difficult to achieve under sail from the main entrances to Brancaster, Wells or Blakeney for when the wind is fair for the fifty mile trip to Yarmouth, it will normally mean beating out over the strong flood tide. 1200 hrs. No signs of the returning tide. Waiting is always worse than doing. 1230 hrs. First signs of the returning tide in the bottom of the channel. By 1300 hrs I was well afloat and got away under full sail. It was difficult to steer on the run in the very shallow water for I could not lower the rudder blade at first but the deepening water soon solved this problem. With half rudder and half plate, trousers off ready in case it was necessary to go over the side, either to save the boat or even myself, and the water just level with the top of the sand to port, she handled the popple in the channel easily. As I had anticipated, the advancing surf had lost its fury on the swiftly flooding tide, much as a boxers furious punch falls lightly on an opponent moving smartly backwards. In fact she has often met worse at the entrances to the Rivers Ore or Deben but beyond were three advancing widely spaced lines of advancing surf. She reared up over the first two, which were not breaking but the third was like an advert for washing powder and solid water, with showers of spray, came right over the boat as far aft as the stern. Then it was open water, albeit a little confused, as I eased away northeast to keep well clear of the tide sweeping into Blakeney.

The rest was routine. I put in one reef and then shook it out again. The wind eased a little and as the coast swung more southerly it came right astern and the headsails flapped uselessly most of the way. The long trip was brightened by a Broads style motor cruiser at anchor off Cromer and rolling wildly. The rubber duck lifeboat put out to her to find if she wanted assistance and discovered that they were lost, but looking for Lowestoft! She set off south, only just a little faster than Shoal Waters. The lifeboat came alongside for a chat for half a mile or so and to assure themselves that I was O.K. It was 2200hrs when at last I reached Yarmouth, too late to catch the last of the flood into the harbour, and had to anchor south of the mole until 0335hrs which wasnt much fun, but then if you cannot take a joke you should not take up sailing! That weekend we were able to watch the Three Rivers Race and then sail south for the Classic Boat Festival at Shotley in Harwich harbour, thanks to my decision to slip out of the back door.

Chapter 24

Along the Saxon Way

For once the August bank holiday started with perfect weather. High water at Heybridge on Saturday was at 1039 hrs by which time the little gaff cutter Shoal Waters was gliding past Osea Island in the light northwest breeze ready to take full advantage of the ebb to get clear of the river before the noise boys arrived to take over for the weekend. The forecast was for light northerly winds and I planned to cross the Thames Estuary to visit Kent. The Buxey Sand is a major obstacle with a choice of the Spitway to the north or the drying Ray Sand Channel to the south, but as a result of some amateur survey work, I reckoned that I could slip across the sand, south of the Buxey Beacon, to the Whitaker Channel. Today it was busy with racing yachts for this was the start of Burnham Week. From there we carried on across the Foulness Sands rather than go right out to the outer edge, which is seven miles from the nearest seawall on Foulness Island. I admit we didnt use much plate but the Northeast Maplin Bell Buoy beckoned and the sands slope very regularly so deeper water was always available away to port. The Swin was the busiest that I have ever seen it but most craft were under motor as the wind grew ever lighter and veered slowly. I sounded along the edge of the West Barrow Sand to dodge the ebb tide as much as possible but it became increasingly obvious that I could not reach the North Foreland before the westbound flood tide set in, so I settled for the East Swale. As I wanted try again on the Sunday morning ebb, we glided along between the Isle of Harty and the great bulk of the Horse Sand to run ashore just west of the old wooden wreck so that we dried out overnight, the sure way to get a good nights sleep in a small shallow draft boat. The forecast for Sunday was for very light winds. We left with the topsail and ghoster to ease our way over the last of the flood. Progress was painfully slow along the Roman Coast. If only they had kept the River Wensom dredged so that we could slip south beyond the twin towers at Recluvers and inside the Isle of Thannet as the Romans did two thousand years ago! I settled on 1700 hrs as the time for decision. If we had covered the twenty miles to the Longnose Buoy, we would have another three hours of fair tide, if not, it would be back to the Swale with the westbound flood. Anyway, the sun shone and life seemed good. A useful breeze came in from the north for a while and trip seemed to be in the bag but then it went easterly and our fellow travellers switched on their motors, leaving us to beat slowly, Oh! so slowly, past Margate. Anyway there was plenty to watch. I have never seen this area so busy. Many craft were bound south but even more were rounding the Foreland to catch the early evening ebb into the Thames. Even the very tip of the normally hostile, Longnose rocks were graced with a party of venturesome walkers. In fact we rounded the buoy at 1600hrs but it was flat calm by now. Using the tide wind, I steered east to get well clear of the rocky shore as it opened out to the south and Margate Pier reluctantly bid us farewell. When the wind did come, it came from just east of south. The topsail soon came down and the seas mounted quickly so that we

had to put in one reef. Joy decided to lie down inside rather than struggle into oilskins as Broadstairs and then Ramsgate came into view while the spray began to fly. Suddenly I could ease the sheets for the Power Station at Richborough and the GBS buoy at the mouth of the River Stour. The spray flew even harder for a time until we reached the shelter of the extensive mudflats for we were early on our tide. I had to sound hard to find the channel until I reached the line of buoys and the triangular beacon, which I noticed is being replaced by a new one nearer the channel but they hadnt transferred the light yet. From then on the banks rise steeply with pole beacons on every bend. Some are already being undermined while others stand well back on the high sand showing that the river is constantly changing its course across the wide flats. A unique feature here is the reflective spinners on all marks. A powerful spotlight seems to the thing here for night navigation. I had no stomach for tacking along the winding river to Sandwich in the dark so we settled for the inside of a wide bend just north of the old train ferry terminal and anchored for the night. The river here is cutting into the eastern bank and silting up the western side, which gave us a flat area on which to dry. Monday was just perfect, mist, sun and then wind from the north. We wound our way into Sandwich to join the Old Gaffers Rally and all the fun of the fair in the quaint old town. Of particular interest was an exhibition of the port of Richborough in the latter years of the First World War when it was second only to the port of Dover for servicing the army in France. Tanks and other vehicles sailed on the worlds` first sea going train ferries. The turn round time was twentyfive minutes. On the sixteen hundred yard long wharf, six mobile electric cranes, the first in England, loaded lighters built in the many boat yards on site, to be towed across the Channel and small enough to go into the French canal system. There were fiftysix miles of railway sidings. The massive gantry, which served the three train ferries is still standing but forty miles away at Harwich where it became part of the Harwich to Hook of Holland train ferry service until well after the Second World War. The forecast for Tuesday was northeast and I determined to make the best of it. This is one of those places where the tidal current continues to run out long after low water while the level rises quickly up the ancient stonework of the bridge. I watched carefully as darkness closed in and with the mast down, began to pole upstream as soon as it eased at 2215 hrs. A couple of hours later we were clear of the industrial area and through the railway bridge out onto the marshes of the national footpath called the Saxon Way. The moon was nearly full and I couldnt resist sailing for another mile or so before anchoring for the night close into the northern bank in an area reminiscent of the Norfolk Broads. Tuesday came in clear with wind from the north. We enjoyed a fine sail over the ebb to Plucks Gutter, the first bridge and with a bit of hard poling on a couple of short windward stretches, reached the second at Grove Ferry by low water. On the way we noted the southern end of the River Wensum, now just a drain. There are moored craft along both banks below the bridge. As we rounded the last bend ready to shoot the bridge, we found ourselves face to face with a large tripper boat. We

hung onto one of the smaller, narrower moored craft as he squeezed by. The river trends south of west here; the wind had gone east of north, and in glorious weather we had a fine sail through luxuriant country on to Fordwich, the old port of Canterbury, by mid afternoon. There are extensive lakes on each side but all except one have been blocked off from the river. The one that is open is very shallow indeed, less than a foot deep at low water. Mile by mile the water gets cleaner until one can see the bottom at six feet and shoals of fish among the waving weeds. Last time we were here, the chef at the Fordwich Arms pub claimed the have had a fresh caught trout cooked and onto a customers` plate in twenty minutes after being pulled out of the water. Issac Walton in his 1676 `Complete Angler` praises the `Fordidge trout` and their fighting qualities. Wednesday came in fine with light airs. At 1000 hrs we reluctantly set out for home, quanting and paddling slowly with the strong current as we revelled in the sheer beauty of the luxuriant vegetation and wild life, including a fine herd of red Sussex cattle clustered round an enormous bull, all laying down chewing the cud. I nervously approached them to get a colour slide and then realised that they were the other side of a drain so was able to go about my business free from fear. Just above Grove Ferry we met the flood tide and moored up against the bank for a meal and an afternoon nap in the scorching sunshine. So far from the sea, the flood only lasts about four hours and at teatime we slipped under the bridge with the first of the ebb. As we raised the mast, the local tripper boat came round the bend; exactly where we had met her before! Once clear of the moorings and local fisherman, we sailed slowly but the sun had set by the time we ducked again at Plucks Gutter. The ebb was faster now and I drifted on with a wonderful afterglow behind us and a full moon rising ahead. Once the wind had gone for good, we lowered the sails and put up the tent, keeping the vessel in midstream with occasional touches with the paddle on the starboard side. As the afterglow died and mist began to rise over the water and marshes, Joy turned in but I held on for another couple of miles, drifting in perfect silence, to anchor (complete with anchor light) for the night close to the northern bank just above the rail bridge. The advantage of anchoring is that the boat swings with the tide when the ebb sets in and thus acts as a sort of alarm clock. I had expected fog but it was as clear as a bell when I got under way at 0430 hrs to paddle with the tide to Sandwich. Now the water was thick with rich brown mud but large fish regularly jumped out of the way, probably grey mullet. I changed to the quant for it was shallower now, which enabled me to push along as hard as possible in order to carry the ebb to the river mouth where we anchored at 0900 hrs. By this time the wind had come in from the northwest and we were able to sail the last mile or two. All we had to do now was to get round the North Foreland before the tide set in southerly for it runs up to three knots here. With northerly winds forecast, a fair tide was essential. High water Dover was at 1240 hrs and that most essential and long lasting document the Thames Estuary Pocket Tidal Atlas, told me that it would turn north half an hour before. Accordingly I planed to leave at 1100 hrs, ample time to cover the two miles of mud flats across Pegwell Bay, but the speed of the flood tide spurred me on to leave at 1030hrs complete with topsail for a hectic broad reach out

of the river. Once into deep water, the topsail came down. It was a wild beat past Ramsgate and Broadstairs but this was acceptable, as it should mean that I could point westward along the North Kent coast once round the North Foreland. The snag of this journey is that any craft using the fair tide north will only have a couple of hours of west bound tide before meeting the ebb out of the Thames. As the wind rose, we pulled down one reef and had a rare old rough and tumble past the Longnose Buoy. In the shelter of the eight mile long Margate Sand, things calmed down and at the end of the afternoon we anchored just above Harty ferry at low water. On Friday we took it easy with a morning walk to Oare village and on up to Faversham for shopping as soon as there was enough water. After dark we took the flood to Elmley Island and moved on at half ebb to pass under the giant bridge at Kingsferry into the River Medway ready to cross to Essex. On Saturday in a brisk northerly we crossed the Thames and crept into one of the many rills that drain the extensive sands off Shoeburyness, finding crystal clear water where we anchored to wait for the afternoon tide to take us over the sands to Havengore. The only blemish on a perfect holiday was that it was the day of the cricket cup final. Essex batted first and dismissed the opposition for just over a hundred runs. We anchored in warm sunshine to enjoy listening to Essex win easily but our joy faded as they were bowled out for well under a hundred.

Chapter 25

Xmas 1993
Yachting writer Francis B, Cooke often did it before the First World War. Maurice Griffiths did it between the wars. The idea had always fascinated me but the family were not keen. The moon was full over Christmas 1993 and already into my second year drawing the old age pension, I decided it was now or never. I would spend the Christmas holiday on board my little gaff cutter Shoal Waters. Preparation was everything. She is too small for a solid fuel stove but I have a Gaz radiant heater as well as the Gaz cooker. The deckhead is lined with polystyrene tiles and the inside of the hull with back packers closed cell ground sheet material. I have two sleeping bags which are kept warm continuously with two hot water bottles A supply of best steak and mince pies headed the stores. I had no plans for ambitious cruising and planned to stay within my beloved River Blackwater. There was a gale warning for Thames at 1400 hrs on Christmas Eve and I spent the day anchored off Ray Island, alone with a few waders, as the wind screamed out of the northwest and rain lashed down. High water was at 2030 hrs. With one reef and guided by a fitful moon, I tore across the wild mouth of the River Blackwater and sounded my way onto the lee shore of the St Peters Flats. The red lights on the power station breakwater vanished behind the seawall and the massive building itself moved south to come in line with the little church crouching on the sea wall for its one thousandth, two hundred and eighteenth Christmas. I swung the bowsprit westerly towards the little creek leading to St Peters on the Wall. Suddenly the water smoothed out; the dim shapes of the saltings appeared on either hand, I furled the staysail and rushed forward to drop the anchor into two or three feet of water. There is only water in the creek for two or three hours and by midnight Shoal Waters was sitting on the firm mud like a fat contented duck. After a nap I opened the tent at midnight to be greeted by the vivid shadows of the mast and rigging thrown onto the mud by the brilliant moonlight, for the sky had cleared and the wind had dropped. The little church build by St Cedd at 675 A.D. in the western gateway of the old Roman fort of Orthona stood out boldly on the only rising ground for many miles. Out to sea, I could pick out the flashes of the Northwest Knoll and the Colne Bar buoys under the great constellation of Orion, which dominated the eastern sky. Away to the north were the lights of Mersea Island and Brightlingsea. Midnight mass came over the radio with `Silent Night`. I thought of walking over to the chapel but it was probably a good thing that I didnt do so. Its a bit of a spooky spot and when I looked in next day, I was surprised to find a nearly life sized Joseph and Mary by the altar. They might have looked a bit ghostly by moonlight! On the morning high water the saltings were alive with vast flocks of hungry waders and geese waiting to feed on the exposed mud as soon as the tide retreated. After lunch the sun burst through as I tramped the miles of lonely marshes studying the ravages of the sea. A stake I had driven on the inner edge of a cockleshell bank

advancing onto the saltings in early August was now twelve yards into the gleaming shells. These swathes of shells seem to kill off the vegetation leaving the mud bare and a soft target for the waves to attack. Even the farms here cower a mile or more inland. Smoky clouds of gulls and geese wheeled and turned over the endless mud and saltings outside the ten miles of sea wall between the Rivers Blackwater and Crouch. There are guts and rills here in which you could lay dead for the rest of your life without being found. As night closed in after a perfect marshland sunset, I bedded down until the night tide, when I sailed across to West Mersea to anchor off the church at the entrance of the Besum Fleet for the rest of the night. The sun rose clean out of the sea next morning to prove once again that West Mersea is indeed the jewel of the East Saxon Shore. I sailed past `Old Mersea City` and through the gently waving withies on the oyster beds up to the Strood, the ancient causeway, covered at springs, which is still the islands` only link with the mainland. Halfway back, I anchored in the lee of the wooded Ray Island to chuck a steak and a couple of eggs into the frying pan as a fleet of sailing dinghies flowed out from the Hard, their gleaming white sails contrasting with the sparkling blue water. That afternoon I reached up the river over the ebb to anchor for the night off the old pier at Osea Island ready to pick up my mooring on Monday. Another minor ambition achieved!