RYA Affiliated Clubs Conference-East

The following was submitted to the DCA Forum this morning:

"Yesterday I attended this Eastern Region RYA conference. 

Some people assumed that I was representing the DCA;  so I kept very quiet. 

Representatives from the local sailing clubs clearly didn't understand the concept of 'cruising,  not racing'. 

The thought of cruising a dinghy for more than an afternoon was obviously alien to them. 

They knew of no cruising dinghies other than the Wayfarer. 

They tended to smile gently,  and move away. 

By contrast,  the RYA is beginning to understand dinghy cruising.   Or,  at least,  pottering about with family and friends with a picnic for the day. 

The RYA doesn't yet know what to do about dinghy cruising,  but it's clear in its collective mind that it must harness members.   It's the only water-borne recreation over which it doesn't yet have some degree of control. 

Robbie Bell,  the Eastern Region Development Officer,  was explicit about his objectives at the conference: 

it's all about recruitment. 

Recruitment for the local affiliated clubs?   Yes,  but as a means of recruiting members for the RYA. 

Did you read Terry Pratchet's "Small Gods"? 

He described the power of a god as the number of people who believed in that god. 

The more believers (members?) the more power. 

The RYA is a not-so-small god;  by accumulating members it accumulates power. 

It genuinely believes that it uses that power for the benefit of sailors of all kinds.   It consults with government over wind farms,  red diesel and the results of Brexit.   It negotiates over the application of SOLAS to small boats and with Trinity House on the positioning of buoys. 

It has training schemes for most kinds of watercraft (except cruising dinghies!). 

When,  I wonder,  will they devise training schemes for dinghy cruising folk? 

Will the schemes be as badly thought-out and constructed as those for yachts? 

What will the RYA do about us?  the DCA? 

John Starkie"

Boats and Mowers

Fido had become stuck on The Bank.

Again.

The Bank is steep(ish) and there is a small irregularity with which he it can't cope.   As he it continues to try he it eventually crosses the boundary wire and switches himself itself off.   He It then needs to be moved and rebooted*.

This is a minor nuisance which could be removed either by moving the boundary wire or by smoothing the small irregularity.

At about the same moment a heron chose to alight on one of the boats,  presumably to lunch on small fish.

What is the LG to do?   Rebooting Fido will disturb the heron:  not disturbing the heron won't get the grass cut.   For a real LG the answer is obvious:  do nothing.

*In the Old Days,  when the LG was a young man and learning Fortran (you won't remember Fortran:  it was a computer language when life was simple and computers had valves (you won't remember valves:  don't ask.)) computers often crashed.   They were then 'bootstrapped';  lifted by their bootstraps (a theoretically impossible task) and persuaded to calculate again.   Obviously computers don't have bootlaces;  it was a metaphor from a Bygone Age.

Computers are now 'booted up' (a startling and destructive mental image);  if they crash (another startling mental image) they are 'rebooted'.

Fido is a computer which is firm-programmed to move its structure around the garden and to trim the grass.   A robot.  With wheels.

Some robots walk.   They still don't have bootlaces.

DCA Medway Cruise

At seven o’clock on a Saturday morning in June the M11 and the M25 were plagued with weekend drivers,  but it took Opal,  on her trailer,  less than 90 minutes to reach Upnor and the Medway Yacht Club.   The seeds of the cruise had been sown in March,  when John Basley,  from the MYC,  invited the Eastern Region to launch from their slipway on the North bank of the Medway,  and had germinated into conversations with Steve the Bo’s’n and Catherine the Sailing Secretary.   The cruise had blossomed with a conversation between John,  of the DCA,  and Norman,  of Lower Halstow Yacht Club which would make the Eastern Region members welcome on Saturday evening.

Opal was off her trailer and waiting on her launching trolley when Dave arrived with his Roamer.   A few minutes later Mark arrived,  expecting to sail with Gerald.   Opal and the Roamer were afloat and waiting when Gerald trailed Susie to the slipway.   As she launched John and Opal were a mile or so downriver,  running before the Westerly wind against the new flood.   He ate lunch in the cockpit,  under way,  keeping clear of the two coasters carrying the flood upriver,  counting the buoys as he passed them and watching the thick,  black thunderclouds gathering overhead.

The first few drops were big and heavy,  dimpling the river and killing the wind.   As the shower strengthened the drops became hailstones,  turning the water into a seething,  bubbling froth.   The ice accumulated in the little boat and on the skipper’s drysuit until he was sitting in an ice bath.   As the hail and then the rain abated the black clouds lowered,  flickering with lightning and deafening with thunder.

As the storm moved away to the East the wind returned gently and he was able again to count off the buoys.   The PHM ‘No 16’ was mistaken for ‘No 14’ and he crossed to the South bank looking for the two cardinals.   The flood,  now at its strongest,  carried him into Half Acre Creek and he spent an anxious hour struggling out again.   And there,  around the corner,  was the real ‘No14’ and beyond it,  the cardinals at the mouth of Stangate Creek.

During the storm the wind had backed toward the South West so that,  in Stangate Creek Opal tacked with long boards to the S’E and short boards,  back against the flood,  to the West.  At the mouth of Halstow Creek the wind was exactly contrary;  the creek itself was a maelstrom of breaking water.   With Opal deep-reefed the boards were equal,  but even with the fair tide flooding up the creek each one gained no more than a hundred metres or so to windward.   When,  occasionally,  Opal refused to tack and had to be gybed around there was no gain at all and even a loss.

Dave later estimated this wind “at the top end of F5”;   he and his Roamer wisely anchored in Stagnate Creek during the worst of it.   At the same time Susie was safe somewhere in the maze of channels East of Stagnate Creek;  neither Mark nor Gerald was able to say quite where!

As Opal finally rounded the corner into Halstow bay the wind died away and a weak sun came out.  Under full sail she glided across the flat water toward the LHYC clubhouse,  passing smoothly between the moored yachts and whispering into the grass an hour before HW.

Ken,  a member of the LHYC,  had prepared his sailing yacht and was waiting for the DCA members at the landing stage.   John secured Opal to a post and Ken showed him the clubhouse,  how to operate the door lock,  the location of the kettle,  the microwave and the shower.   Was ever a soaking sailor made more welcome?!

And there,  coming round the corner,  were the Roamer and then Susie.   Before they were halfway across the bay both dinghies were under oars and being rowed the last half mile to the jetty.

The Three Tuns was packed and heaving with marathon runners who had run an extra ten miles to celebrate and were now rehydrating.   All tables in the restaurant had been booked weeks ago (Saturday nights are popular,  and it’s a lovely pub!) and there was a waiting list for tables in the bar,  but eventually one came free and the four sailors dined and supped.

Medway Estuary

Four o’clock on a Sunday morning.   The last quarter of moon was high in the South and the air was clear and dry and calm.   The tide,  following the moon,  had covered the mud in the bay and would reach HW at about 5.15.   Opal was afloat by a quarter to five,  moving gently through the moorings on the slack water.   The light Westerly wind and the new ebb carried her East down Halstow Creek and North down Stangate Creek.   At the cardinals both wind and ebb were dead against her.   For a futile hour she made no progress upriver at all,  and eventually anchored on the ledge between the East Cardinal and the Isolated Danger for a second breakfast.

To the East Dave’s Roamer,  and then Susie,  crept out of Stangate Creek and turned right toward Queensborough.   They intended to wait for a few hours,  perhaps over lunch,  and then catch the new flood up to Upnor,  but,  within the hour,  the Roamer appeared,  tacking upriver.   For a boomless standing lug she sails remarkably close to the wind!

By  eleven o’clock John had also tired of waiting for the tide and weighed his anchor - which refused to leave the bottom!   Eventually,  he cut the rode,  losing the anchor and committing himself to the wind and tide.

The long beat upriver was concentrated sailing,  both tiring and relaxing,  stimulating and exciting.   Keeping the boat as close to the wind as she would lie while keeping the speed up to cover the tide.   Judging the moment to tack before running into the muddy bank yet using as much of each board as possible.   Estimating by eye the potential collision courses with other boats,  their tack and angle to the wind,  and then deciding which of the blighters had even seen him and which would ignore him.   A cheery wave to those who clearly knew the Rules!

The new flood helped to carry the three boats the last mile or so;  and then the back eddy at the slipway took them each in turn by surprise.

The electric winch was a blessing,  the club restaurant and bar was welcoming and the club officials were very friendly.

The boats were loaded and secured and the motorways were relatively clear.   The delay at the Dartford Crossing was normal.

Christmas Eve, 1963

Christmas Eve,  after luncheon,  and he was bored.   There would be afternoon tea later,  and then the long evening toward Midnight Mass.   He could read through the long,  deepening gloaming,  but there was always the ambiguity:  they became irritated by his reading:  "Always has his head in a book,  but never in his school books."

It was a bright clear afternoon (decades later he would know about high atmospheric pressure in winter,  that the evening would cool and the night would freeze) as he and the dog walked up the hill,  across the fields behind the house.   Across the next field,  and the next (the hedges and fences were no barrier to a skinny,  teenaged country boy and a small mongrel dog);  over the brow of the hill and then down across the fields to the South East.   The A482 was somewhere to his right,  the lane to Glan-Denys ahead in the valley.   There was always water at the bottom of a valley.

The copse was unexpected,  a delight,  not an obstacle.   And then the lane in the valley.

The lake was a total surprise:  he'd had no idea.

Back in the summer he and his sister,  together with her would-be boyfriend Cornflakes and a girl from Lampeter,  had borrowed his father's Vauxhall Velox to get to the cinema in Aberystwyth.

Driving was a great pleasure.   The long,  narrow swooping roads to the coast were a joy.   The big car purred as it swept them along.   The others chatted as he revelled in his skill.

The attraction at Aberystwyth?   The film,  Summer Holiday,  starring Cliff Richard and The Shadows.   He'd been astonished when his sister and the girl had screamed every time the star appeared,  and especially when he sang.   Even Cornflakes,  round as he was,  bounced up and down in his seat with excitement!

Eventually the tedium ended,  and he was able to drive them home:  Cornflakes to one of the little coastal villages,  his sister to Pantcoy and then the girl toward Lampeter.   Around the bends and down the hills,  with no-one to talk to,  she became anxious and was clearly car-sick.   She began fumbling with the door handle.  He swerved off the main road,  into the lane and stopped in a layby.   She threw open the door and was violently ill by the side of the lane.   He fetched water from the stream and she drank and washed her face.   Gently and slowly he drove her home.

As he crossed the lane,  on that cold Christmas Eve,  there was the layby.   The puddles of vomit,  along with the memory,  were long gone.   And there,  on his left,  was the lake.   It's gravelly shore stretched at right angles to the road.   And on the shore was a raft.   The usual thing,  nothing special:   A few planks lashed to four oil drums.

It took a matter of moments to drag it into the water.   A long stick served as a pole,  and in a few more moments he,  the dog and the raft were a hundred yards from the shore,  and sinking.

He'd spent the past 12 years or so in West Wales with parents and younger sister.   The past 5 years had been at Aberaeron County Secondary School,  on the coast,  where every window overlooked Cardigan Bay,  where lunchtimes were spent on the beach or around the harbour.   

The family holidays were spent in a caravan at New Quay (the Welsh one,  not the Cornish one).   He and his father looked longingly at the sailing dinghies drawn up on the sand,  and at the trip boats in the gentle surf,  and at the mackerel boats as they brought their catch in for the holidaymakers.   They knew every inch of every plank and line;  every ha'lyard and stay;  every gun'l' and thwart;  every jib and main.   In theory they could sail every one of them.   

They knew the intricacies of the British Seagull outboard engine,  how it worked and how to operate it.   Even the magic of the misunderstood air-bleed screw!

They had once,  as a family,  taken the paddle steamer from Barry to Weston-super-mare.   And back.

Sundays out were spent at Llangrannog,  further South down the coast.   His parents and sister were good swimmers;  aunts,  uncles and cousins,  when they came to visit from England,  were excellent swimmers.   He hated swimming and scorned all attempts to learn or be taught.   Boats were the thing:  they kept you dry.

And now,  for the first time in his life,  he was afloat on his own,  sinking,  craft.   Alone on an isolated lake in a Welsh valley.   There was a skim of ice across the surface which broke as he paddled with his stick to get the doomed raft back to the beach;  a thicker patch of ice broke the stick and left the stub in his hands.

Water welled up between the planks and froze at the edges.

No problem;  the dog's lead (string) was long.   Push the dog into the water,  it'll swim to the beach and pull the raft along.

The dog didn't agree.  It scrambled back onto the edge of the raft,  its efforts pulling that edge a few inches lower into the water.  

But that lifted the opposite edge a few inches out!  He knelt at the edge and began paddling with his hands.  His hands and the dog's hind legs combined to drift the waterlogged craft back toward the beach.   It ran aground,  and he waded the last few feet.

As he slipped quietly in through the back door his trousers,  from the knees down,  were rock hard ice.   His shoes and socks were sodden.   The dog was dry and as happy as he.

Afternoon tea was long past, and they served nothing but tension and unanswerable questions.

Midnight Mass was utterly tedious. 

Vermiculture

Worms eat dead and decaying plant (and animal,  and bacterial,  and other organic) remains.   Anything that was once part of a plant but is now decaying will be eaten by worms.   'Decaying' means being invaded and digested by bacteria and moulds:  it is these moulds that attract the worms.  Worms also swallow large amounts of soil and digest the moulds,  bacteria and plant remains in the soil.   The faeces of earthworms contains bacteria,  humus,  particles of rock and mineral salts.

There are hundreds of species of worms in the soil,  and each one has a range of temperature,  humidity and soil type which it prefers.

Vermiculture is a system of using Eisenia foetida to digest food waste;   The resulting worm casts (faeces) are rich in plant nutrients (mineral salts) and are used as a fertiliser or soil additive.

The special worms  are kept in a bed of bran,  within a warm,  ventilated bin or container,  to which is added food waste.   The worms swallow the decaying food waste and egest nutrient rich faeces.   If the temperature falls,  or the food supply dwindles,  the worms die and their eggs remain dormant until the temperature rises again and a food supply is restored.   Fresh food (kitchen waste) is added to the top of the mix and the worms move upward toward it.

Eventually the worm casts are separated out,  the worms and food waste are returned to the bin and the casts are used in the garden as a slow release fertiliser.

The worms,  the bran and the bins are all available commercially.   The food waste comes from the kitchen.   Domesticated livestock,  whether cows,  dogs or earthworms,  need maintenance.

A heap of plant and food waste on the soil in the garden will not attract E. foetida (the ground is too cold:  indeed,  E. foetida added to an outdoor heap will just die),  but it will attract Allolobophora species and Lumbricus species of earthworm.   It will also attract snails,  woodlice and centipedes,  all of which will eat the decaying waste and leave their droppings:  all excellent sources of humus and minerals:  slow-release fertilizer!

If a heap of kitchen waste on a vegetable bed looks unsightly,  it can be covered with a layer of grass clippings;  that will accelerate the decay and contribute to the compost.

If this 'compost heap' is built in the middle of a vegetable bed the finished compost can simply be raked across the surface of the bed ready for the next crop.

Vermiculture is a triumph of marketing over biology.

Proposed Eastern Region rally, September 2016

Snettisham Beach to Brancaster to Burnham Overy Staithe

(Organised by the magnificent efforts of Chris and Richard)

Adrian,  Commodore of the Snettisham Beach Sailing Club has kindly offered DCA members the use of the Club's bar,  showers and campsite for the Friday night.   There is space for parking cars and trailers.

Getting to Snettisham Beach

High Water is early on Saturday morning:  the earliest time to launch on the Spring tide is about 1.5 hours before HW.

With a wind anywhere in the North,  Brancaster Bar could be breaking and dangerous for dinghies.

With a wind anywhere in the South it should be an easy cruise North,  against the last of the flood,  and then with the ebb,  to Hunstanton.   With the square water tower SSE it would be time to turn East,  perhaps on a broad reach,  toward Brancaster Bar.   With the Golf Club to the South turn into the channel.   By now the ebb will be running out of Brancaster and the harbour will begin to dry.   Tucked in under the bank to the South would be an excellent place to lunch and wait for the tide.

There are two obvious dangers in this coastal run.

The Coastline

The first is grounding,  and sticking,  on one of the banks.   There would be no alternative but to wait out the ebb (eat and sleep?) and then,  when lifted by the new flood,  to return to Snettisham Beach.   To go on would mean arriving Brancaster in the dark,  which is very difficult,  especially on a Spring tide.

Grounding might be avoided by regular,  frequent use of a three metre sounding cane!

The second is capsizing.   The procedure might be first, to send a Mayday;  second,  to deploy a PLB;  third,  to attempt a recovery.   If the recovery is successful consider whether to be rescued or to cancel the Mayday.

Capsizing might be avoided by reefing early;  if you don't like the wind strength,  don't go.

Around mid-afternoon there should be enough water to sail into Brancaster and up to the Staithe.   Anyone who lands at the staithe should be careful to run down to the proposed camp site before the ebb becomes too strong.

Overnight Saturday will be ashore or afloat (actually,  aground!).

On Sunday HW is an hour later,  but still early by Sunday standards!

To get through Norton Channel will mean starting as soon as your boat floats.

The distance is about 5 miles,  so this should be a leisurely cruise arriving at Overy Staithe an hour or so after HW.

The boats can be drawn up on the shingle,  and secured,  as the tide ebbs.

There is a frequent and regular Coastal Hopper bus service along the North Norfolk Coast,  and Snettisham is an hour or two.   Better,  perhaps,  would be for a few people together to take a taxi to collect cars and trailers.

When the trailers have been loaded it might be worth de-briefing over lunch in a local pub?

The Dinghy Show

Most people visit a boat show as a punter;  a would-be buyer;  a feeder of dreams;  a voyeur.   They exclaim over the expanses of white fibreglass or polyethylene,  or 'tut' over the effort of scraping and varnishing.   Some imagine themselves gliding over smooth,  sunlit water;  the family smiling and happy,  the picnic basket safe on the bottom boards.   Others live the moment of being first across the start line,  having anticipated the starting gun to the nearest fraction of a second;  and then leading the fleet around the triangle and across the finish line:  to them the glory (however temporary) of the starting and the winning gun.

The stand holders see them as targets;  sources of income.

There are two separate groups of people at boat shows:  those who (however potentially)  have the money,  and those who want it.

Dinghy shows are slightly different.   It's true that stand holders want to sell their wares,  and it's true that the punters are reluctant to part with their money,  except for a bargain.

But the two sides are closer;  it's a little less commercial.

Sailing dinghies are all about racing.  Aren't they?

Look at the polished,  go-fast surfaces.   Look at the plethora of lines for controlling all aspects of air-flow and water-flow.   Look at the exotic materials of which the hulls,  the lines,  the sails,  the rigging,  even the costumes,  are made.   Look at the eager,  competitive,  even aggressive faces of both the sailors and the salespeople.

The West Corridor

In the poorly lit West Corridor of the Alexandra Palace were four sailing dinghies that had,  and wanted,  nothing to do with racing.   Two were Wayfarers,  one belonging to the Sea Scouts,  the other to a commercial group.   Both had two sleeping bags laid in the bottom.   Huh?

On its road trailer was a thirty year old Mirror dinghy,  named Curlew,  which belonged to David.   A gaff-rigged Mirror dinghy!   With a topsail!!   Three rows of reefing nettles in the mainsail and a row in the jib.   The varnish was worn and scuffed;  clearly David spends less time with the sander,   brush and pot than he does with the sheets and tiller.   On the port bow was a business-like Fisherman anchor.   The well of the boat was a vision to disbelieve:   on the starboard side a pair of folding,  ply planks was covered by a thin sleeping mat and a sleeping bag;  on the port side was a box with a cooker,  kettle,  pans and plates;  another box was labelled 'battery 1',  'battery 2',   'bilge pump',  'navigation lights'.   This was a cruising dinghy in which David had explored the South Coast of England for twenty years;  sailing when the wind and tide served;  eating and sleeping aboard when they did not.

Curlew

Next to Curlew was Avel Dro,  also on her road trailer.

She was a 15' (palatial by comparison with Curlew) Ilur,  designed by Francois Vivier after the manner of a French inshore fishing boat.   No varnish here to scuff and repair:  this was a working,  cruising boat.   Here again was the sleeping mat (this time deep and inflated) and sleeping bag;  the tiny cooking stove and galley,  the 12V battery for lights and pumps.   Conspicuous near the centreboard was a modern electronic chart-plotter,  in the sternsheets a Personal Locator Beacon and VHF radio.   The mast,  well forward (to give space inside,  as befits a fishing (and cruising) boat) was unstayed,  the rig a standing lug.   Roger had sailed the coasts of England,  Wales,  Scotland and France.

Roger was (is still) President of an extraordinary group of people known as the Dinghy Cruising Association;  David is a member,  as were Alastair,  Geoff,  John and Mike,  who had not brought their boats.

These people were not there to sell;  they were there to evangelise their way of life;  to wax lyrical and lengthy about their adventures cruising the coasts of Britain,  Europe and the world.   Their listeners were legion;  there was hardly a moment in the two days of the show when a sailor didn't say  to them "We used to have a Mirror.   Wish we hadn't sold it!".   There was always someone asking about where to cruise,  what cooker was best,  how to modify their dinghy,  what clothing to wear.

In this poorly lit West Corridor,  close to the main entrance,  there was only one group of people,  not two.   The stand holders and the public were all dinghy cruisers.   The stand holders had cruised tens to thousands of miles,  for days to weeks at a time;  the public were avid,  excited,  would-be cruisers,  many having never realised that a dinghy could be other than a racing machine.   A few were frankly disbelieving (especially of David's Mirror),  but eager to learn.

And not just the punters.   The leaders of sailing clubs,  those bastions of hard-core racing,  were keen to learn to cruise.   They wanted links,  and they offered to host cruising rallies at their sailing clubs.

Gardening Advice?

The suggestion has been made that Robyn's school needs someone to guide the children in their school garden.   It's not clear at this stage whether the teacher in charge of the garden knows anything about plants,  or whether he needs support.

It seems that the ideal candidate is a parent or grandparent (check),   retired (check),  with lots of free time (?),  who knows about gardening (check) and is not afraid of very small children (??).

Shallots

 

"Plant on the shortest day, 
to harvest on the longest day"  from here

Since the last of the beans,  the bed had been mulched with a thick layer of weeds and grass clippings.

This was in lieu of a compost heap which had always seemed like a waste of effort.

The grass clippings had sunk down into a compact sodden layer.   The gardening experts tell us that a too-thick layer of grass mulch becomes an anaerobic stinking mess,  but this mulch had not yet begun to smell.

 

The matted layer lifted easily from the soil underneath.   The soil looked crumbly and worm-worked:  there was evidence of moles.   Some of the mulch would have been turned into worm casts which would have been spread across the interface of soil and mulch and taken deep into the ground.

 

The surface needed no preparation;  digging would have ruined it.

Forty shallot cloves from last years crop had been kept in a cool loft,  but about 50% had rotted:  perhaps they had not been dried thoroughly.   Twenty of the biggest bulbs were taken from the kitchen to replace them.

They were spaced along a marking board at regular intervals,  and each one covered with a clay pot to keep off the birds.