First Rally of Summer?

Lowly Worm III — Ness Yawl Shetland double-ender LOA 19’2” Beam 5’3” Standing Lug, Bermudan mizzen. Sail and oar.

High water was not until 1600 at Harwich on Friday 17th April. I was therefore a little too casual in leaving Oxford and arrived later than planned. I launched over the beach in front of the high church tower just south of the pilot boat station. A cold northerly force five wind blew down the harbour over a grey-brown sea. Large container ships and ferries moved in and out of Felixstowe but there were no pleasure boats to be seen. The beach too was bleak and deserted save for a few dog-walkers buttoned up against the cold. I made a quick tour of Harwich by car to see if I could find a chart of the Orwell and Stour. However I did not find one. Commandeering a cubicle in the public loo I dressed in thermal underwear, several layers of warm clothing and oilskins.

There is a hard slip over the beach at this location but the winter sand covered the top section to an extent that only a four wheeled drive vehicle could power over it. I struggled the launching trolley over the sand and carried the ballast and gear separately down to the sea. The 19 square foot mizzen was set, leaving the 101 square foot main furled. The scrap of sail pushed me south from the beach at 4 knots and in a nice safe fashion given the wind strength. Leaving at 1850 I sailed south sighting the Pye End Buoy at 1835. At 1850 I spotted the port hand buoy marking the entrance to the Walton Backwaters. I was quite alone. On my starboard hand a large black cloud hung over Dovercourt. Beneath its flat base rays of sunshine formed a curtain to the ground. The Naze Tower stood on the port bow. The sun dropped below the cloud in a reverse sunrise, bright orange lighting up the cold grey water. There were wavelets now, due to wind against tide in the long narrow approach channel. Speed over the ground fell to about 2 knots. It was growing gloomy and by the time I arrived off Stone Point it was difficult to see the buoys. The Backwaters are such a special place that it came as a shock to me that the last time I visited was 35 years ago and I did not remember the channels, although I did know I wanted to spend the night in Hamford Water, the isolated north channel. In the failing light I could just see a buoy in the distance but nothing further when I arrived there. With a few strokes of the oars I pulled into the wind to anchor in shallow mud in the lee of New Island. The tide still had two hours to fall. A couple of geese honked by.

Slinging the tent between the two masts warmed me up both with the effort and the enveloping still space beneath the canvas. The bow cuddy overlaps the main bivouac cover enclosing the front two thirds of the hull leaving the rear third as an open cockpit. With a gas lamp hanging from the ridge rope and soup heating on the stove I was totally content. The weather forecast repeated that it would be a very cold night — two to three degrees above freezing. Noting that the yawl was grounding at an angle to the wind as the tide fell I pulled in the anchor rope a little to slide the boat over the mud and head to wind. Whilst Alastair Cook read his letter from America quietly on the radio I cooked and ate dinner. Warmth finally returned to my feet and knees.

The isolation of the anchorage was wonderful, the reason I had wanted to come. A huge black dome of a sky merged into the flat dark water and mud. The lights of Harwich and Felixstowe formed a very thin line of light to the north-east, a few other scattered lights punctured the darkness to the south, and above many stars were visible. Not a single boat anywhere. However it was too cold to sit in the cockpit for long. With excellent equipment for cold nights — an Ajungalak 4-seasons bag, a Thermarest mattress and a real pillow — I made for bed. The starboard floorboards are just wide enough to sleep on, squeezed between the centreboard case and hull and beneath the centre thwart. I put the newspaper and the radio beside the bed but fell asleep instantly my head hit the pillow. Little did I expect the strange night to follow.

I awoke at 0230. Lowly Worm felt as though he was sailing fast into a head wind. The rising tide was bringing the hull and its tent up into the strong northerly wind. The boat was veering around on the anchor. Very warm and cosy I fell back into a deep sleep only to be awakened again at 0400. The boat was now being thrown around. There was a great deal of noise from wind and waves as the hull surged through the water. I was aware that the gas lamp was swinging wildly from side to side across the tent. I went to sit up to stow the lamp and check that the anchor had not dragged. However I could not move. My stomach muscles would not contract and I could not sit up. Then through the open end of the tent I could see that I had drifted, and was almost upon a wooden staithe on the lee shore. I saw two men on the wall looking down at me clearly concerned about the safety of the boat and the fact that I was not doing anything to rescue it. I tried again to sit up but could not. I tried to call out but I could not make a sound. The men now appeared in the stern of the boat. I wanted to ask them to give me a hand to sit up but I could not speak....

Then I woke up! I fastened the lamp and checked the anchor. It was full tide. I took off my socks and track suit trousers. I was too warm. The boat was being thrown around. With my head lying next to the ply hull the noise and violent movements had obviously had a strange and powerful effect on my dreams. As I lay down again I switched the radio on quietly in order to orientate myself should the experience repeat itself. I need not have bothered. As soon as I was settled a wavelet squeezed itself neatly up between the hull and the tent wall and cleverly divided itself between my left ear and left eye. When I awoke an hour later I could feel the motion of the boat had lessened as the tide fell and shelter returned.

At 0630 I awoke with the sun on my face. It was a lovely day and there was a sailing boat leaving the Walton Channel, the first I had seen since leaving Harwich. As I was writing my log, this boat, a small cabined craft, appeared close under my stern. I scrambled out of the sleeping bag. The helmsman called out, “Are you going to the Orwell?” I was so surprised to see him I did not know what to answer. “Are you DCA?” he called. “See you on the Orwell.” He spun about and reached quickly away down the channel. I was to meet this sailor, Ted Jones, later that evening at Levington Marina, the site of the first East Coast DCA Rally of 1998.

Half an hour later and cooking breakfast in the cockpit I was aware of yet more eyes upon me: a seal appeared like a periscope just astern and we looked at each other for several minutes before it swam away upstream. The tide was dropping quickly and as I was in no hurry to leave I lifted the anchor to allow the boat to drop back before the wind and re anchored on the edge of the main channel close by the east cardinal navigation mark.

The wind had moderated to northerly force 4 and the yawl remained close hauled on the port tack all the way to Harwich. Carrying full canvas now I sat up on the gunwale for much of the way enjoying an exhilarating sail. I landed at Harwich to check the car and trailer were still secure and in order to telephone home. Under way again the water was a little more choppy in the main confluence area of the harbour so I heaved to in order to bail. This operation is unbelievably easy in a yawl. The mizzen is hardened in to weathercock and the mainsheet is let go. The boat rides quietly head to wind, an excellent attribute when single handing. As I did this the sailboat from the Backwaters and another DCA small cabin cruiser ran down the Orwell together, went past, and headed up the River Stour.

Then began an excellent beat up the Orwell. The river is so wide that each board could be held for a long time, and with the tide flooding under the keel I rapidly made ground. Heaving to once more to eat lunch I then continued past Levington. About midday the grey overcast sky started unloading a steady shower of rain which continued for most of the afternoon. Having tacked past Pinmill my resolve weakened and I ran back down to the Butt and Oyster. Sitting in a window seat with a pint of Guinness, a sandwich and the newspaper was no great hardship. However I misjudged the time of high water and had to borrow a punt to retrieve my boat which was moored too far out to reach. The tide turned instantly, I was surprised how quickly the water flowed back out from high water. Although the wind was about F2 I had to ferry glide across the broad expanse of river to ensure I arrived upstream of the entrance to Levington Marina. Once inside I met the rally organizer Peter Small on the dockside at almost the same instant as I spotted his DCA burgee amongst the boats. I rowed up to moor on the next pontoon, followed closely by Ted Jones and within half an hour by Martin Corrick in a handsome Drascombe Lugger. Around ten members gathered over a meal in the converted lightship restaurant that evening.

At 0530 the next morning I heard Peter rise and pack his tent and knowing I needed the ebb to reach Harwich clambered out myself at 0600. There was a dense mist over the river and not a breath of wind. I rowed out of the marina and headed downstream. The morning was silent and strangely beautiful. I could see nothing more than the occasional buoy slip past in the mist. An hour later with the aid of a favourable tide I was approaching the main harbour area. I headed for the western bank to enable me to have Shotley Marina as a landmark before crossing the harbour. In fact in time the mist lifted and I was not faced with the potentially dangerous crossing where large ferries leave and enter Harwich. I beached almost at low water and had to carry everything from the shore to the car park to lighten the hull as much as possible. The boat had been winched slowly half way up the beach when an energetic walker helped me to whiz it up the remainder of the way.