As my 5 ton cutter, Lady Beatrice of Paglesham, was still on terra firma by the time of the Old Gaffers Association East Coast Race (21st July, 1984), I decided that entering my 11’ 6” clinker dinghy would be better than a view from the touchline. It was the first race I had ever entered, and I did so with a degree of trepidation, especially as I had also never sailed on the Blackwater before. We were in Class III, for open boats of 20’ or less, on handicap.

On Friday, the day before the race, I had an opportunity to have my first ever glider flight (an exciting weekend indeed). After an administrative bungle (theirs) I eventually got off the ground at High Wycombe at 6.30 pm, so had to rule out my plan to take Cobweb to Stone that evening and get her rigged. The next morning was a bleary rush and we eventually set off after the fleets, big and small, ten minutes after the gun.

With a modest breeze — varying between west (mainly) and south — and the tide both behind us, we made reasonable progress towards Bradwell, which gave us the chance to organise ourselves (a bit) and relax. We noted one Class III boat going into the shallows of St. Lawrence Bay, way off to starboard; this I found rather disconcerting as from the red and white striped mainsail I believe it was the brother of the chap who, last winter, was trying to instil some navigational ability into me at evening classes!

The distant wall of canvas was receding even farther. Past the ‘nuke’ station and its sea wall we could see some III’s already stepping out across the river from the racing buoy on the southern side of the mouth (buoy no. 2, but our first mark) to the second mark (buoy no. 1) off the beach at Mersey Island, fairly close in.

When we rounded this mark ourselves, we then had to stem the tide and fight a fickle wind, which was both yawing through the same angle and was also very variable. We kept well in, hoping to miss the tide’s full force, and eventually got up to Mersea Quarters. Some of our adversaries seemed to be so far up-river we assumed our presence had frightened them into going home! We found it difficult to believe we had to go that far back before heading out again and, joking apart, really did wonder if they were on the right course. Eventually we saw some going out again along the other bank, and felt a bit happier.

We followed our bank along, beating, when an observant crew member said, “Oi — there’s something rather solid between us and the middle of the river!” — and there was! We realised then that we were inside the Nass Spit extending out from Singlehead Point, and we were sailing towards Tollesbury. To be fair to ourselves, the organisers’ chart did show the buoy on the middle of the spit; not south of it. So back round the spit and on to the elusive no. 3 buoy (actually taken 3rd!). During this stage we were caught up by some other III’s, including a Scarfie and two likely lads in a small Winkle Brig type boat, in very laid-back style, leaning against one gunwale, their feet over the other, swigging cans of beer. We eventually picked out ‘our’ buoy and, a while later, rounded it.

Decision time: my crewmate was obliged to return to Cambridge that night to help celebrate a friend’s 50th birthday. We checked the rules and, as only finishers got a plaque, that settled it — on we went. In all honesty I think we would have done so in any case, but a good excuse eased the conscience!

We headed out once more and decided to try rigging a spare jib as a water sail under the boom. The lower point was dragging in the briny, so we knotted it à la Grandpa’s handkerchief hat and fixed a sheet. I suppose it helped, and we made good progress as the wind had freshened a bit and the morning greyness had evaporated into a very pleasant afternoon. What was more, we were beginning to meet the returning big-boys, and that, for us, was really the highlight of the day. We noted Playmate from Wakering, near us, was going very well with her new suit of ‘W’ sails (who also made Cobweb’s new tan lug and jib — formerly Windward Sails). Others we tried to identify from our prog., but many were obviously late entries, which was a great pity. The Official OGA Register would have upset our power-to-weight ratio! Anyway, it all made a great sight as they charged homeward with the tide now turning in their favour. A superb run.

Eventually we re-rounded buoy no. 2 (our 4th mark) and we too were homeward bound, and still with more boats passing, this time in the same direction. Most of Class III were already in the shower, no doubt. We pressed on and, as we tacked into St. Lawrence Bay towards Bradwell and Pewet Island, the wind seemed to be dying away altogether. My crew commented that we might have to finish under the wooden tops’ls, and my 11 year old son Patrick added, “I didn’t know you could sail for this long!”

Then it happened — “just like that”, as they say. Wang! The almost non-existent westerly (changeable) wind suddenly re-emerged with greatly increased strength from completely the opposite direction, and we were off, goosewinged. We were in a group of some 20 boats, perhaps, who all charged off hanging out every bit of washing they could find. They ranged in size from us right up to the vast Queen Galadriel. In these conditions we were not losing too much, and went with the group. As we crossed the line the hooter was going berserk trying to note, audibly, each completed course. We had got our plaque!

So back to shore where another tiddler’s crew helped us onto our trailer and vice versa. Seven hours twenty minutes it had taken to complete the course. Thanks to my crew, John Weatheritt, for enduring it all before dashing off in his lovely vintage Bentley, and thanks to the organisers too. A pity they don’t have a Plodder’s Pot for Class III — if they did they could call it ‘Tiddler’s Tail’ and it would now be sitting on my sideboard!