This is not a tale of heroism, endurance or seamanship. For some members of the DCA it may be of no interest at all — but who knows?

For many years I have had a fascination with the sea and ships. I always dismissed having a boat of my own as financially impractical — I didn’t fancy dinghies, being not particularly brave or energetic, and I assumed that dinghies needed both for satisfactory performance i.e. survival! However, through ‘get afloat, try it out’ at the East Coast Boat Show in 1988 I discovered that comparatively ordinary people could enjoy managing a sailing dinghy, and set out to learn how. Near Sheffield there is a country park — Rother Valley, with a largish lake and a sailing school — offering facilities at very reasonable rates, and the family and I soon acquired the necessary minimum level of competence (and a copy of Bob Bond’s excellent manual) to enjoy sailing the Wayfarers. My thoughts soon turned to a boat of our own… but not until last year did the opportunity arise, and we acquired an elderly Kestrel. A lot of work was required. My crew disliked the centre mainsheet and I wasn’t fond of it either, and much of the running gear needed attention. The wire main halyard kept jamming halfway down — embarrassing, anxiety-provoking and potentially dangerous. I replaced it with a Kevlar one which so far has been most satisfactory. But this article is not about the trials and tribulations of preparing a dinghy for cruising! I must mention DCA member Tony Miller, who was most helpful when I was puzzling over fitting rowlocks and buying some oars — a phone call to Tony brought a letter giving details of his own Kestrel, which was invaluable.

Pleasant as Rother Valley is, the potential for interesting sailing is, to say the least, limited. The opportunity for something a little more adventurous came during Easter week 1992 when we visited my mother in Felixstowe, trailing our dinghy for the first time. The forecast was good, and proved to be accurate. Monday came — high water 1410 about. Off we went to the beach. Standing at the top of the ramp my crew, bless her, said something to the effect of “I don’t much like the look of that.” So we moved on to Felixstowe Ferry and used their slipway — free to non-power boats. We launched and got away in good style, riding the last of the flood and with enough wind to make me glad I had bent on the smaller mainsail. The easterly wind was on the starboard quarter, and I was rather aware that getting back wasn’t going to be quite as easy… particularly when the centreplate started lifting and we realised that we were touching bottom despite being nowhere near the bank. The Kestrel draws about 4 feet with the centreplate down. Of course, I should not have had it fully down with a fair wind, but I’m afraid I minimise my stress levels in new situations by minimising the number of things I have to think about.

One of our interests is bird watching, and we were delighted to get quite a close view of a cormorant perched on a half submerged wreck. Looking back at the crowded moorings — the ferry jetty by the slipway quite hidden by moored boats — our yellow streaks, or perhaps discretion, got the better of us and we started to beat back. I had intended to stay out from amongst the moorings, but of course I had found out about the extent of the mud flats, so I was more or less forced to manoeuvre between them. By the time we got back to the jetty the ebb was running nicely and, with the wind against the tide, I just touched a speedboat tied up to the jetty, but no damage done. With a combination of relief and a sense of achievement, we got the boat out, unstepped the mast and had a hot drink and a bun in the excellent cafe — highly recommended.

Tuesday, the forecast was for the wind to moderate further. It seemed like a good opportunity to launch into the sea. Crew wasn’t exactly brimming over with enthusiasm but we ran the boat down onto the beach and rigged it. The first intimation of the difficulties to come came with the realisation that the trailer wheels had sunk into the sand with the waves washing round them. We went on and got the boat moved far enough for the next wave to lift it off the trailer and dump it on the beach. Crew at this point looked even paler, but bravely rescued the padding from the trailer, the glue not having lived up to the salesman’s patter.

We pushed off and made an offing under oars without too much difficulty. At this point Crew mutinied. “You’re not thinking of hoisting the sails, are you?”

“Well, I was waiting to see how you felt once we were clear of the shore.”

“I want to go back.”

This was easier said than done. Having assessed the situation, felt it was probably better to try to use the genoa, the space for landing being limited between the concrete end of the ramp and assorted hardware left by contractors. In fact we managed very well, until we tried to get the boat back on the trailer. Every time we turned the boat stern on to the waves, a) it was filled with water by the next wave, and b) it was washed up on the beach broadside on, while we struggled to manhandle it where we wanted it — unsuccessfully — and to prevent it hitting anything that would hole it — we managed that. In the end we unstepped the mast and removed everything possible, and managed to work it onto the trailer by main force. In subdued fashion, stiff, bruised and wet, went back for tea.

In the evening the forecast came true: the wind moderated to force 1-2 and the sea was slight… but no-one suggested trying again.

Wednesday, even stiffer, we returned to Felixstowe Ferry. This time we loaded up a full crew of Skipper, Mate and two boys. I suppose we could hardly call it a cruise, but we sailed about two miles up the Deben before beating back, waving nonchalantly or enthusiastically, depending upon age, to the one other sailing vessel encountered. This time the moored boats seemed less threatening, and with three lookouts busy informing the skipper of the proximity of various obstacles, we returned to the slipway without misadventure and without getting our feet wet.

Since I wrote the above, we have sailed up the Deben to Waldringfield and landed for a picnic… and failed to get to any of the DCA rallies we aimed for; but we’re quite looking forward to 1993 and, however timidly, exploring water new to us — new, that is, from a boating point of view!