Some while ago, I wrote about the contrasting trips one might experience whilst sailing over the same stretch of water. Two that I made during 1999, each from the Medway back to my base, are further examples.

After the Queenborough Rally, on Sunday morning at 5.30, The Genie and I were heading out towards the Thames. There was only a ghost of a southerly breeze — just enough to carry me over the last of the incoming flood. The forecast had been for something stronger — 4, 5 or occasionally a 6 — due to a fast-moving depression that would centre over East Anglia about the middle of the day. But for now, we obviously had to be content with what we had. Little though that was, it came at least from the right direction for we were bound northwards to Walton-on-the-Naze, some 44 miles away. “Come on Genie,” I said, “show me some of your magic, or we’ll take the proverbial month of Sundays at this rate.” Then the breeze died altogether. She can be obstinate at times!

For a while we drifted — rather too close to the shipping lanes and much too near the old Richard Montgomery. This is a wartime wreck on the edge of the Grain Sands, still loaded with her cargo of explosives. No one has dared move her since for fear she should blow up. Only the tops of her masts were visible at high water and they seemed to be getting nearer. Reluctantly, I lowered the engine and pop-popped half a mile clear before stopping it.

The ebb commenced running at a tremendous pace, and The Genie sped over the ground without a breath of wind. But after about 30 minutes, it began to fill in again, from the west at first, then quickly veering to the north-west, and reaching 2 or perhaps 3 in strength.

Once across the Thames and close in by the Maplin Sands, the breeze began to harden, giving us a reasonable turn of speed. But as we gradually altered course more towards the north, The Genie started hammering along. By the time we were passing the Whitaker Beacon, I reckon the wind was touching a 5. We were rail-down and just able to hang on to a full suit of sails. It was a glorious day, blue sky, wall to wall sunshine, good visibility and I was in my seventh heaven.

We located the elusive Spitway Buoys — indicating the route between the tail of the Buxey Sands and the Gunfleet — not by good navigation, but simply by following the procession of larger yachts bound that way. Many of them were reefed.

Somewhere between the Whitaker and the Spitway, the tide had turned against us, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Certainly once we were through and bore off down (or is it ‘up’?) the Wallet, she charged along, lifting into a series of lumpy forward lunges from the top of each crest and leaving a white tail astern.

The weather began to deteriorate, with huge towering cumulus building up to windward and I had the difficult task of struggling into my waterproofs whilst trying to hold a frolicsome boat on course. Sure enough the rain came, in short, sharp, blustery bursts.

Between the showers Walton pier came into view. We rounded it at 1430, then as the breeze eased and the rain cleared, came more on the wind to head northwards and finally tacked over before running back into the Walton Backwaters reaching her mooring at 1630. It had taken almost two tides and exactly 11 hours to cover those 44 miles. For a heavy boat of only 13’-6” waterline, she had done very well, especially considering the slow start.

The next trip, which came after the Paglesham Rally, was altogether different. I’d been down on the Medway for a few windy days afterwards and on the night before my planned return, I caught a forecast. Not surprisingly, it predicted the freshish breezes would continue. ‘South-east, 3 to 4, occasionally 5’ it said. ‘No problem!’ I thought. And at 6am the next morning, I was ready to go.

However, there was a problem — a complete absence of any breeze! I watched and waited, drank copious amounts of coffee, read and generally kicked my heels for 4 hours before a zephyr brought some life to the telltales on the shrouds. Then I realised we had another problem. The wind was not from the south-east, but the north-east — the very direction we were heading. Instead of the reach across the estuary, it would be a dead beat. I raised anchor and sails and slowly, but ever so slowly, The Genie slid northwards over the incoming flood to reach the Thames soon after noon — some six hours behind my expected time. Of course, I could have used the engine, but that’s cheating in my book.

Outside, the visibility wasn’t too good either and I had great difficulty in picking out buoys. This made me a bit nervous crossing such a busy stretch of water, but there were no heart-stopping moments, and once we were over under the shadow of the Maplins, we made good progress and all went well — until we approached the Blacktail Spit, that is.

My eye caught an unusual pattern on the otherwise smooth water ahead. Looking at it through the binoculars, I decided it was simply the ebb scouring off the sands and mixing with the fast running river ebb. Although I felt there couldn’t possibly be a problem at this state of tide, I bore off a little to the south where deeper water lay. And then The Genie shuddered to a standstill. We were aground.

I pushed, shoved and levered with the 7’ sweep we carry, but nothing would move her. It was 4.30pm. The tide would have to ebb and flow over the next 3 or more hours before we’d float again. By that time it would be dark and we were in a relatively little known area. I didn’t feel too happy about that having banked on getting through the Spitway into home waters before nightfall.

The sands hereabouts at least, were firm and level, and the boat sat upright on her stubby bilge keels. Once she was dry, I slipped over the side and walked an anchor out, climbed back aboard and ate my evening meal. After this, I settled back to re-read Charles Stock’s book coming to the part where he tells us that you may ‘cheat on’ — meaning to go inside — most of the buoys around the Maplins, but you mustn’t do it at the Blacktail, he warns. I had somehow cheated and been found out. To the south, the Blacktail buoy winked at me through the mist and gloom with an ‘I told you so!’ air.

When it became too dark to read, I stretched out and snoozed until the tide returned and joggled me awake. Going outside, I found the same old problem — not a breath of wind. I felt we’d probably have to stay put until morning and wished I could tune into a forecast to find where the wind would likely be. On the other hand, I thought, they had got it so very wrong today, would they be any nearer tomorrow?

I was sitting in the cockpit some while later with a contemplative pipe when a faint breeze came. It was from the north, but quickly went round to the east, then to the south, before seeming to settle in the south-west. If it lasted it was a fair breeze and I’d be a chump not to take advantage of it, even though I was a little apprehensive about the passage in the dark.

I prepared by gathering everything needed overnight close to hand and then, in my deck log, listed all the buoys I’d expect to see, their light characteristics, the course and distance between each. After this, somewhat heart in mouth, I raised the anchor and sailed off the sands.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried since it was all a piece of cake, as they say. Once clear of the Blacktail, and with a series of back bearings confirming that we weren’t being skewed by the flood tide, I found that the breeze actually helped me to steer the exact course I wanted. Steer too high and the goosewinged jib fell in, too low and the mainsheet block rattled to tell me we’d gybe if I didn’t watch it. Then, later, as we brought the wind over the quarter, it just filled the jib on our new course. If I eased away too much, the main blanketed it and would tell me to bear up. It took only the occasional check on the compass to ensure that the wind itself hadn’t changed.

We had a gibbous moon and relatively light clouding, but the visibility still wasn’t good, with mist continuing to hang around. However, as each buoy’s friendly wink penetrated it and told me we were on course, I reflected that in many ways a daylight passage might have been more difficult than this one. Certainly, I had no trouble finding those elusive Spitway buoys. In daylight, they are arguably the most difficult to locate on the east coast, despite presiding over one of the more important sea crossroads.

There was very little traffic that evening. What I did see was some way off and didn’t worry me and I had a fairly easy ride until we began closing the Clacton coast. A group of lights began to concern me. Maybe I’d relaxed too soon, being so near the end of the trip, or maybe tiredness was simply exacting its toll. Either way, I found myself taking ‘avoiding action’ for what afterwards, turned out to be some shore lights! That was probably the most anxious moment of the trip.

Dawn tiptoed in somewhere near Walton pier, which I normally think of as such an ugly structure. You’ll believe me I know when I tell you it looked quite appealing that morning! Soon we had rounded it, gone further north to skirt the Pye Sands and were excitedly tacking down the narrow channel into the Backwaters. The sun came through and began scattering the mist and we were on our way back to our berth where I had visions of hot tea, breakfast and sleep. We arrived at 0830.

This trip, from ready to arrival — which includes all the waiting times for wind and tide —had taken 26½ hours. What a contrast!