Three days on the river

 The recent three days,  Friday,  Saturday and Sunday,  on the River Great Ouse,  have been astonishingly hot.   The hottest heatwave in May for (I believe) 60 years.

Three very different boats,  one out of Jones Boatyard,  St Ives;  two out of Buckden Marina.

One boat had a straightforward outboard motor;  no complications,  no frills;  very smart and clean;  very tidy accommodation.   A trifle skittish;  we needed to watch the wind carefully especially into a narrow mooring or lock entrance.

Another had a single inboard petrol engine and a bow thruster;  totally manoeuvrable,  very controllable.   I worry a little about petrol engines because they can be tempramental.   On the river we can’t operate American sports boats at their design speeds;  cruising at tickover means that the spark plugs can foul.   A beautifully kept boat with lovely accommodation.

The third boat had twin diesel engines and again,  spacious and tidy accommodation.   When the engine controls are properly adjusted,  as these were,  twin diesels are a pleasure to operate.

Three boats,  three lovely couples.

A father and son with a brand new (to them) boat.

A husband and wife on a new adventure.

Two friends looking forward to a relaxing time on the river.

The beginning of every new training day is exciting.

The early morning drive to the marina reminds me of commuting to work (which I usually enjoyed).   The A14 is often busy;  but not over this Bank Holiday weekend.   Most of the drivers are professional and we all know what we’re doing.   Except,  of course,  the occasional lunatic hell-bent on killing all of us.

The marina staff are very pleasant and welcoming.

Have you tried the coffee at Jones Boatyard?

Both marinas sell boats.   Every new boat owner is given a demonstration and a few recommendations.   They are also given my card and many of them book a day with me.

This is where I become a little apprehensive.

What will the people be like?   What will the boat be like?

My only contact so far has been an e-mail or,  if I’m lucky,  a phone call and a follow-up e-mail.   It’s in the nature of things that new boaters don’t know what to ask for or what to expect,  so I have a list of questions and a list of things they need on the boat before we go out.

What do they need?

Lunch,  water,  heads,  fenders,  boathook,  lifejackets,  warps,  springs.

At StIves we meet at the chandlery (I mentioned the coffee).   Elsewhere I have a gate key or the gate number so we meet at the boat.

They are more apprehensive than I am.

They are about to hand over a chunk of money to an unknown old man.   He has professional qualifications and a naval or maritime background;  but is he smiley or surly?   Is he loquacious or taciturn?   Is he didactic or listening?   Is he patronising or pleasant?   Is he patient or not?

On the other hand they’ve already handed over one hundred times as much for a sleek motorised aquatic conveyance that’s quite daunting.   Maybe this old man can make today less daunting,  easier to handle,  more understandable.

As it turned out,  all three couples were charming and ready to learn.   Trust and rapport was built quickly,  in one case within seconds,  in another within the hour.

Three glorious,  exhausting,  hot days.

'New Moon'

 New Moon is a smart-looking boat,  and it’s owners are a lovely couple.

It’s kept moored in a tidy circular creek near Bottisham Lock,  and brought upriver to The Plough for hirers to board.

At The Plough it shares a mooring with Rosie,  Princess Charlotte and a couple more of Peter’s boats.   Not always a comfortable association but it works most of the time.

A year or so ago the old man had given Gary his card.   They’d chatted amicably for a few minutes and the old man had thought no more of it.

Then,  a week or two ago,  Gary had ‘phoned to talk about handing over the boat and training the hirers.

Owning a boat which you hire out is at first exciting,  but,  like all jobs,  it can become tedious.

The old man went on board at 1000 and was shown ‘the ropes’.   The multi-fuel stove in the lounge and the diesel-powered heater are very promising for chilly evenings on the fens.

The dining area seats four cozily around the table,  where the old man settled himself with a book from the well-stocked shelf.

The galley is a dream,  even for a culinary dunce like the old man.   An electric fridge,  a gas hob and oven,  pumped hot and cold water at the sink.

The heads are definitely not a perforated plank across the bowsprit;   Instead,  a sparkling electric macerated system.   The shower is pumped and,  as always,  the sump is pumped over side.

Right aft is a big double bed.

The hirers were late;  very late.   They’d come a long way,  and the dog had needed several comfort stops.

But,  at last,  the old man came into his own.   With the boat under way,  and the crew capable,  his job was delightful and easy.   Even the gongoozlers at the lock had no complaints.

The old man loves narrow boats.

They are perfectly designed for their original job of carrying goods along the canals and through the narrows.

When the rivers,  and then the canals,  were the highways of England boats up to 70ft long (but only 7ft wide) could be drawn by two galloping horses and carry 30 or 40 passengers,  or several tons of goods at  over 10mph from city to city across the country.

Forrester wrote vividly of a dash from Gloucester to London in less than 2 days,  horses changed every 20 miles or so.

Now,  passengers travel as tourists,  not traders,  and the narrowboats no longer carry sharp scythes to cut the tow ropes of slower boats.

Staunches were replaced by locks which,  especially the long staircase flights,  are marvels of 18th century engineering.   So easy to use if the boatman is patient.

Now of course,  the boats are powered by diesel (even electric) engines.   On the Cam even the locks are electric.

"Who pays the piper calls the tune"

The concept was very simple.

When the travelling musicians came to our village we could pay them,  or not.

If we paid them we could ask for a tune,  to which we might dance.   If others in the village wanted to listen and dance to the same tune we might let them,  or not;  it was our money.

Often we would put money into a small chest so that everyone paid the piper.

Before the author was born,  of course,  but he understands the concept:  he was once a Morrisman..

The concept was similar when the author was a young man.

If I put sixpence into the jukebox I could choose which record was played.   If you paid,  you chose.

Occasionally the local bully would intervene and,  using his superior strength and inferior sensitivity,  would wait until the sixpence was inserted and then press his predetermined button.

But we didn’t let that happen often;  if he was in the cafe we went elsewhere.   If he came in,  we went out.   The cafe proprietor (no fool!) quickly understood and banished the bully.   Henceforth,  “Who inserts the sixpence calls the tune”.

And then the author was no longer a young man.

He bought a boat.

Actually,  over the years he bought several boats;  sometimes more than one at a time.

He paid his money and bought the boat he wanted.   (or thought he wanted!)

Some were very small,  8 or 10 feet (say,  3 metres);  the biggest was 22 feet (7 metres).

He sailed on the Avon,  on the Severn Estuary,  on the Crouch and in the North Sea.   He was troubled by Authority once.   On the Avon he was asked for his river licence;  who knew?

It seemed fair.   The river needs maintenance and those who use it should pay.   The licence fee was a bit high,  he thought,  for a single use:  could he pay by the day or even by the hour?   Sadly no;  by the season.   So he didn’t go back.

No authority on the Severn,  the Crouch,  the Deben,  the Orwell or the Stour ever asked the author for a licence.   You don’t need one for the North Sea.   The author understood SOLAS,  the IRPCS and insurance (he’s taught navigation for some years).

A legacy (from M’s father) paid for a narrowboat.   A fairly cheap boat,  with ply inside rather than wood,  and with a BMC/Thorneycroft diesel under the cruising deck.   The Conservators of the River Cam demanded a licence fee which,  again,  seemed fair.   They pretended to maintain the river,  although in reality they focussed entirely on the rowers and especially on the needs of the Cambridge crews.

The concept of paying the piper and calling the tune was stretched a bit thin.   It seemed that the boatowners paid the piper to play the only tune he knew.

It rather reminded the author of the BBC.   In his youth and early middle age owning a wireless (radio),  and then a television meant that you must pay a licence fee.   This entitled you to listen to,  and watch,  the very few programmes (channels) which the BBC broadcast.   The radio listener paid the piper and listened to the only tune he played.

But the BBC licence-payer had some influence;  public opinion persuaded the BBC to broadcast the programmes which the public said it wanted.   Of course,  not all individuals of the ‘public’ agreed on what they wanted,  but the individuals had some choice,  and,  over time,  the choice broadened.

The author and M (and their sons) enjoyed the narrowboat for many years.

It was insured,  of course.

This is a scheme whereby the owner pays a company which promises to repay the cost of the boat if it’s lost,  damaged or stolen.

At least,  that’s broadly the idea.   Within certain limits the owner can pay for whatever insurance cover he thinks he needs.   The insurance company retaliates with ‘small print’:  a long list of things with which the owner must comply if he’s to get the money when the boat is lost,  damaged or stolen.   If the insurance company thinks you didn’t look after it properly,  you won’t get your money.

Imagine the piper coming to the village with a pre-prepared list of tunes.   You can pay for one,  or any;  but you must sit still and listen carefully.   If you cough,  or your stool squeaks,  you’ve broken the contract and you don’t get your tune.   Dancing is extra.   If you agreed to the contract,  that seems fair enough.

And then Authority decided that boaters were not safe.   (The people,  not the hats)

One or two boatowners had allowed gas to leak into their bilges and had blown themselves up when they lit the stove.

One or two had kept their engines running overnight,  for warmth, and had killed themselves with Carbon Monoxide.

If they don’t blow up,  or poison,  anyone else isn’t that their prerogative?

And so the Boat Safety Scheme was born.

You won’t get insurance or a river licence until your boat has passed the Boat Safety Scheme Inspection.

If you don’t get a river licence the Conservators of the River Cam will hound you for a few months and then impound your boat.

As the author types this the Boat Safety Scheme Inspector is inspecting the narrowboat.

He’s a remarkably pleasant,  affable young man *,  quite unlike the chap who came last time.

If he is the piper,  we have paid him,  whether the boat is deemed safe or not.

We have absolutely no say in the tune being played.

As an RYA instructor the author decided to use the narrowboat to teach Inland Waterways Helmsmanship.

The RYA licence fee (to be an instructor) is almost as much as the river licence (which is much more than it was because the boat is now a commercial vessel!).   This RYA licence allows the author to teach and to issue certificates.   It also covers the cost of an inspector to inspect the boat and the instructors.

We’ve seen this before,  with the BSS:  we pay the piper and the piper calls the tune.

*

He was pleasant and affable both before and after the boat passed its inspection!

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. 

Rosie

Fifty small children,  two narrowboats and 16 'teachers'!

Peter had been approached by the school to take the tots for a trip on the river.  He'd organised it well.  A couple of gazebos and six tables on the bank gave them a place to draw and colour their drawings.  In small groups they were given pots of bird seed and allowed to approach the water and feed the ducks,  geese and swans.
The pub had agreed to let them use the facilities.

Groups of 10 were kitted out in life jackets and herded onto Rosie and Little Rosie. 
"Can I leave my bag with you,  Miss?"
"Please Miss,  may I sit next to Rachel?"
"I'm going to climb through the window!"
"I don't like boats.  I'm scared!"
"I can't swim!"
You have to admire primary school teachers:  they are organised,  caring,  thoughtful,  patient.

Two parents or mothers to each boat with the hopeless task of keeping them seated and keeping their arms and legs inside the gun'l'.  The safety briefing is always fun:  there are three fire extinguishers which you won't need (even if you know how to use them!); please don't let them fall in the water;  and everybody must test the whistle on the life jacket to be sure it works (but don't use it again unless someone goes in).  It seems cruel:  blow the whistle when the skipper says so,  but not when you want to.
Each child was issued with a list of likely sightings (swans,  fishermen,  moorhens,  horses) and a pencil to record every sighting.  This seems to be good educational practice.  Whenever one sees organised groups of schoolchildren they have checklists.

Away from the mooring,  winding in the river,  and down toward the lock.
Lots of ducks,  many moorhens,  several horses,  a pair of swans and a heron.
Joggers,  fishermen,  single sculls and a double scull.
Winding again before the lock and back to The Plough.
And the Dragon Boat race had started!

Three times for Rosie and twice for Little Rosie.
The children squealed with joy and excitement;  the Dragon Boat paddlers sweated and struggled;  the teachers worried and coped;  the boatmen steered and moored.

What a wonderful morning!

For the two narrowboat helmsmen the extra factor was the Dragon Boat race taking place at the same time and in the same piece of river.
So,  fifty small children,  16 mothers or teachers,  30 corporate day-outers,  five boatmen,  two narrow boats,  two Dragon Boats and one safety boat.  Plus,  of course,  the First Aiders for the sweating Dragon Boaters.  Could this possibly end well?

It started well.
The children embarked and disembarked safely.  None of them fell into the water.  All of them went away with a ticked checklist (although none of them saw the heron) and most handed back their pencils and crayons.

It progressed well.
The youngsters squealed and laughed all the way there and back.  The helmsmen enjoyed the half-hour voyages.  The teachers and parents seemed happy.
Someone won the Dragon Boat races.

It ended well!
The lifejackets were all recovered (none used),  the children were reunited with their coats,  bags and friends,  the facilities were used and,  finally,  the bus was caught.
Peter and John took down the gazebos and returned the picnic tables.  The boats were tidied and closed.

It was a truly satisfying morning.

Rosie at Jesus Lock

Days on the Deben

22 September 2014

Titchmarsh is a good place to launch.
It's just over 90 minutes from Cambridge; not quite the nearest piece of tidal water, but better than many.

There was a new regime at Woolverstone, on the Orwell. The new manager was a nice, friendly chap, prepared to let Opal launch for half price: just £16.00. It still seemed like a lot of money for a few hours on the water. The next time, he was off-duty: his accomplice (sorry, assistant) charged the full £30.00. That's £1.67 per foot. Somewhat bank-breaking. On the other hand, the crew gets access to the heads and showers: quite necessary after a few hours on Opal. The Buttery is pretty good, too.
But Titchmarsh charges half that rate. It has excellent showers and a good restaurant. The slipway is a little bit easier, too.

Opal always takes longer to rig than she should. People stop, and talk, and ask questions.
That's all very pleasant and friendly, but the tide had turned at 1140, and the channel was long and winding.

By 1230UTC she was on the water, wheels stowed, Mirage drive fitted and skipper settled with his laminated charts, VHF and coffee flask.

The Eastward branch of Twizzle Creek was downwind; a fast, smooth run between the moored boats. Walton Channel was a fast reach. At Island Point NCM the channel had become tortuous: the Mirage drive again showed its worth, making the transition from sail to "power" effortless and smooth. The channel across Pennyhole Bay was straight, NE by N, and Opal was making for Landguard Point. The only danger was being carried too far East by the tide ebbing from the Stour and the Orwell. And, of course, the ships in the deep water channel out of Felixstowe and Harwich. With the gentle breeze and the North-going tide Opal made 6 knots over the bay and across the channel: not a moving ship in sight!

By 1535, off Felixstowe town, a small chop had developed. Opal began to leap from crest to crest, hurling clouds of spray and volumes of water to drench her exhilerated skipper.

At 1600 Bawdsey SWM came into transit with W Knoll PHM, and Opal hove to. She was nearly 2 hours too early for the first flood into the haven. In all probability, water would continue to pour out of the Deben long after the new flood had started.

A small trawler moved South, turned at the SWM and moved North. It turned again, coming South a mile to the East. North again, on its endless search for bottom fish. Finally, it turned into the Deben, demonstrating to Opal's skipper that, at slack water in the open sea, the river basin was still draining.

The dilemma began to crystallise. Opal needed a friendly beach before nightfall. She must go in soon, ebb or not.
The mile or so between W Knoll and the anchorage seemed endless. Not directly upwind, it was still too close for the sail to help much. For an hour or more the skipper's legs pumped at the pedals: the occasional spasm of cramp had to be ignored: to stop pedalling would mean being swept back to sea. Opal slowly gained ground.
In the breakers, outside the shingle, a young man paddled his board out to sea, then rode the crests in toward the bank. At the end of each run he was hurled head over heels by the tumbling breakers. Then he emerged, stood on his board and paddled out to sea.
He was still there, still playing, as Opal passed the ferry and slipped into the placid waters of the anchorage.

As the sky darkened the tide began to help. But there was still light enough to see that the banks were wide expanses of mud. East Coast mud. Black, stinking mud. Thigh-deep, sticky mud. Mud conquered by Charles Stock, with his long wooden planks.
Mud that an exhausted old man could not cross hauling his boat, however light.

'Round the bend, in the gloom, was a miracle crossing all the mud into the water. A floating pontoon. Opal moored alongside, and her gear was carried to the shore. In the wind-lee of the flood bank a few square metres of grass was perfect for the tent. The tea was black and bitter and hot. The meal was tasty and varied and hot. The sleeping bag was warm. The geese and the curlews sang a cheerful lullaby. The crew slept. 

23 September

The engine was quiet, but getting louder and closer. They would discover him trespassing on their pontoon, confiscate his ship and leave him marooned on the desert island. Pleading for his life would be futile. At least, the dishes had been washed . . .

Six thirty. He watched the two anglers motor slowly upriver. Behind the scudding grey and black clouds the sun had risen high. Again, the tea was hot and welcome. The porridge was hot and laced with condensed milk. The washing-up was easy. Striking camp was swift.

By 0830 Opal was drifting upriver on the tide. The wind on the water, though strong and driving thick clouds at altitude, came in fits and starts, now and then. Sometimes drifting, occasionally pedalling and often fast, brisk sailing. The anglers had anchored their dinghy below the moorings at Ramsholt: Opal swept past, ignored and ignoring. A couple of barges moored, or laid up, in the corner above Hemley, and then toward Waldringfield. West of the island, the village and moorings at Waldringfield were from a picture book. The water was sheltered from the Westerly wind; pedalling gently was enough to maintain steerage way with the tide. A long reach up toward Martlesham Creek, the little island almost covered by the Spring tide. Again, the mooring was sheltered, and the Mirage drive made easy work.

By midday Opal was gliding into Woodbridge. Pottering around the anchorage, she irritated a single scull teaching a very scared girl.
It's never really clear whether Opal is sailing or 'motor-sailing': the transition is easy and smooth, and she carries no cone. Most sailors are not irritated: more fascinated and questioning. The instructor was irritated, but probably had no concept of sailing or motoring. Other vessels were simply in the way, and he wanted to get his frightened student back to the boathouse ramp. Ferry-gliding is a sophisticated technique, difficult to teach even when on the same boat.

Opal moved out of their way.

The skipper knew Woodbridge well, but not from the water. The boatyards and boathouses were all there, but different. Most of the boats were there, but closer, more intimate, more real.
Luncheon afloat, drifting in the slack high water. Boat-watching. People-watching. Part of the scene, but detached, alone. Relaxed. Content. Cold pasta bake and water.

Then there was enough ebb to create a sailing breeze. Toward Martlesham Creek the wind strengthened. Flat water and a strong wind are the conditions for which Opal was created. The hull and l'ward ama hissed across the surface. Five times Opal skimmed along the reach, to and fro, flashing past the moored yachts, her skipper's heart singing with the wind and screaming with joy.

And then on down the estuary.

The moorings at Waldringfield were sheltered by the hill from the wind, which then swirled around the sailing club and sent Opal flying on again.
Past the moored barges the river turned South and a little West. Then Opal was drawing long boards across the water, changing tack in the shallows close to each bank.
Then South and East, with the wind on the beam, and Opal lifted her windward ama and hurtled on.

By 1500 she had reached her isolated pontoon and moored alongside.

Teatime.

A long walk along the flood bank to Felixstowe Ferry, and a cup of tea and slice of cake at the cafe.
A stroll around the boatyard and then a chat with the Assistant Habour Master.
"Take the flood down to the Backwaters." said he.
"Catch the last of the ebb out of the river: you'll have plenty of water for that little boat. Watch the buoys and keep away from the shoal opposite the tower."

At 1800, back at the campsite, the skipper pitched his tent and cooked supper.
A seal surfaced close to the water's edge, and surveyed the domestic arrangements. Satisfied, it slipped below the surface and vanished.
Low water would be at 0607UTC.

24 September

If the Autumn leaves continue to fall at this rate the bivvy will be completely camouflaged and no-one will ever know. Heavy, fast-falling leaves like storm-driven spray on the coachroof . . .

At 0330 a sharp shower rattled on the tent.
Breakfast, as always, was tea and porridge: hot fluids and slow-release carbohydrate: warming and 'wakening.

0530. The night was black. The all-round white on Opal's pole was blinding. The river was black, the anchorage was dark. No useful lights near the ferry: the entrance was invisible. The buoys in the channel were all un-lit. This was impossible: to leave in these conditions would be folly.

So back to the pontoon for a second breakfast, and more sleep.

At 1030 another shower of rain rattled on the tent. Again, the little camp was struck, the boat loaded and embarked. Slack high water would be around 1240, when the channel should be calm and, in daylight, visible. It would mean sailing South against the ebb, but the wind had strengthened again from the West.
At the ferry crossing the water was calm. In the channel the water was flat and calm, while the wind over the sea wall pushed Opal along. She was half reefed so as not to overtake the yacht ahead: it might show the way to the SWM.

At sea the wind had backed into the S'West, and freshened again. Opal bounced across a short chop, now and then slicing through in a shower of salt water. The yacht ahead stayed close inshore. Unable to sail as close to the wind Opal moved further out, heading South but making leeway to the East.

As the sea built Opal began to leap from crest to crest, often plunging through the next wave, never stopping.
A big yacht came close to the port quarter, its crew apparently anxious about Opal's intentions and safety. Satisfied, they bore away to overtake, then thrashed away through the chop on a fine reach to the South.

The ebb out of the Stour and the Orwell again became a worry. Opal's leeway threatened to take her East of the Wadgate Ledge beacon which, in these conditions, was too far. She needed to be close inshore as she passed Landguard Point to have any hope of reaching the Backwaters.

On the port tack she began to lose ground to the North. In 5 minutes she seemed to lose 15 minutes of ground gained, but she closed the shore. Now she could brave the deep water channel.

Onto the starboard tack again: a wild, wet, bouncing ride over the white caps: where had they come from? Again the wind had strengthened. Then the channel.

A vast container ship, leaving Felixstowe, was turning the corner at Landguard NCM. Opal would be swallowed by the bow wave and shredded by the screws. Onto the port tack again and close Landguard Point. Then onto the starboard tack to cross as close behind as possible.
Past Beach End SHM and there, approaching the corner, an even bigger ship.

No stopping now.

Opal flew across the channel, drifting downtide as fast as she moved forward. For a full minute, as it turned to port, the ship pointed its bows directly at the little canoe. Then they were clear, Opal South of the channel in the lee of Deane PHM, the ship presenting her vast starboard side.

Pennyhole Bay was a maelstrom. The ebb from the Wallet meeting the mixing ebbs from the Backwaters and from Harwich was turned into a cauldron of white, breaking water by the S'Westerly breeze. This was not exhilerating. This was hard, concentrated work. Keep the boat as close to the wind as possible, but keep her moving as fast as possible. This was frightening: a long, cold, hard fear that focussed the skipper's mind, lifted it above the thrashing breakers, and allowed it navigate and sail the tiny boat. Transits on the Gunfleet Array showed that she was moving up to windward, but not fast enough. She would make landfall a mile to the East of Walton Channel, a little North of the Naze. Time to tack again. Five attempts failed. The sixth, with speed and hard pedalling, succeeded. Once again, Opal was losing ground to the North. Close to Pye End SWM she reached the channel, and again changed to the starboard tack. Now, in the lee of the land, it was plain, fast sailing.

Four o'clock, with the tide still ebbing out of Walton Backwaters. Titchmarsh Marina would close the inner gate at five thirty and Opal would spend the night in the dinghy compound. The campsite would be flat and fresh mown, the restaurant would be warm and friendly and the delights of Walton would be 5 minutes away. The tide of life was flooding again, even as the ebb of water slowed the boat.

Island Point NCM appeared on the starboard bow, the dogleg was easy with the wind on the beam and Walton Channel was a fast smooth fine reach through the moorings.
The Twizzle was hard work against the breeze and the tide, and then Opal slipped into the pool, the port ama was folded and she came alongside.
Fifteen minutes later, with five to spare, she was on her trailer, through the gate and into the car park. It took the exhausted skipper a further 90 minutes to load her gear and to secure the car and trailer.

Three days of high tides and low, high emotion and despair, exhileration and naked fear; the little boat had conquered it all and come home.

A New Cruising 'chute

A cruising 'chute is not, despite its name, a parachute: the flow of air is completely different. Nor is it a spinnaker, although the airflow across both is the same; that is, from luff to leech.

It's more like a large, lightweight genoa, in that it has a luff, attached at the head to a ha'lyard and at the tack to the stemhead: it is triangular, with the foot and the leech meeting at the clew, where the sheets are attached. Both sheets pass forward of all stays and of the sail's own luff-rope, and pass, outside all, to blocks on the quarters, and thence to winches on the coamings.

It's not, usually, a staysail: it carries its own luff-rope from head to tack, and is set flying.

The tack is not changed as it is with a square-sail or a spinnaker. Changing the tack of a spinnaker is a cumbersome, skilled business of moving the spinnaker boom across the foot of the sail, so that the former tack becomes the clew, and the former clew becomes the tack. This is usually done with the wind astern of the boat. The tack is changed while wearing ship (in modern speak, gybing).

To take a cruising 'chute from one tack to the other, the clew is passed forward of the sail, and sheeted down the other side of the boat. This takes fewer people and less skill than changing the tack of a spinnaker. But it can't be done head to wind: only by wearing ship.


StJohn had suggested (in conversation, as you do) that sailing Saga downwind in light airs would be easier with a cruising 'chute than with her heavy genoa. He'd drawn from his father a horror of sailing downwind under a boomed mainsail, with its attendant preventer and collapsing genoa. Both had the skill to helm goosewinged, but found it concentrated and tedious work; one can never sail in a chosen direction. 

So Julian became the proud owner of a brand-new cruising 'chute.

A sunny, calm day in November was the perfect opportunity to try out the new sail, especially since he had found a sailing Buddy attributed with some knowledge of these things.

First try, of course, with the boat secured to the pontoon.

From its bag, the sail was enclosed in a long sock, or snuffer. One end (becoming the head of the sail) was snap-shackled to the spinnaker ha'lyard, and hoisted aloft. The other end (which became the tack) was attached to a long tack-line which passed through a block at the stem-head, and then aft to the cockpit.

Aft of the pulpit, or forward?

The instructions said forward, but it didn't look right. The tack-line fouled the top of the pulpit and slid side to side across it, threatening the safety of the lights. Saga's forestay, unlike many, is 12 or 14 inches abaft the stemhead; leading the tackline abaft the pulpit placed it well forward of the forestay. The wise old buddy and the enthusiastic new skipper argued happily for a long time, over coffee. Isn't this one of the joys of cruising under sail?

Attaching the sheets exposed several dilemmas. The sheets are modern and synthetic. They are slippery blighters, and will undo almost any knot as soon as your back is turned. And they did.

It became clear, too, that if either of the sheets was allowed to slacken it would fall into the water, pass under the forefoot and slide along the keel. On the way it would snag the log impeller, the propeller and the rudder.

The sail having been hoisted, but not set, the moorings were slipped and Saga moved gently out of the marina into the flooding Crouch.

The zephyr from the South West was perfect. The snuffer was lifted and the l'ard sheet hauled. The new sail blossomed in all its glory, like a blood-red, radial-cut rose. It gave 2.5 knots through the water which, against the tide, gave less than half a knot over the ground. A few degrees of helm to windward sent Saga ferrygliding toward the moorings and the Northern bank; a few degrees to l'w'rd and she crossed to the Southern bank. An hour and a half against the flood brought the Royal Corinthian's abeam; perhaps half a mile from the marina entrance! No other test of the efficiency of this lightweight sail could have been better.

So Saga turned upstream.

The snuffer tamed the curved, turgid expanse of thin nylon in a moment. Two or three minutes later the ha'lyard was unhooked, the tack-line and the sheets coiled, and the whole thing was bundled below. The test results were improving!

By then the marina was abeam: 100 minutes against the flood and 8 with it!

By the time the main and genoa were set Saga was well into Cliff Reach: less than 1 knot through the water and 3 over the ground, with the Spring tide covering the saltings and making the channel, wide as it is, difficult to see. Bridgemarsh Island had disappeared.

Opposite Bridgemarsh marina, in Raypits Reach, Julian again brought out the 'chute while his Buddy held station in mid-stream. The ha'lyard worked perfectly but, by the time he'd reeved the tack-line the ha'lyard was three times 'round the forestay. As he attached the sheets they wriggled themselves into every possible wrong arrangement.
It's surprisingly difficult. whilst standing on a squirelly foredeck, surrounded by a network of lines, sheets and tacks, even to see where they are, let alone see where to reeve them.
And then the whole assembly tucked itself neatly around the wrong side of the forestay, and the boat had to be gybed twice to coax it back.

But finally it was done. The genoa was rolled away, and the 'chute liberated from its snuffer. Blanketed by the main, it sagged into the water.

Then, main handed and zipped away, the cruising 'chute showed its real value. A broad reach along Easter Reach and a fine (too fine!) reach along Cliff Reach brought the marina abeam once more.

The engine started at the first touch of the button, the snuffer doused the 'chute without a hitch and Julian slid Saga into her berth with millimetric precision.