August Bank holiday cruise cut short

My wife used this phrase after a previous cruise where high pressure had been dominant, and wind had almost acquired a scarcity value. True, Sooty — her pet name for my engine — really had saved my sanity, but I still haven’t acquired her touching faith in these mechanical creatures. If they start first pull I believe they’re simply currying favour, worming their way into my heart so that I won’t take a hammer to them when they eventually let me down. If they don’t start first pull I explode, crying “I knew it!” and wonder where did I leave that hammer. You’ll gather that I went to the Basil Fawlty School of Engineering, training on a clapped out 1300 with a sapling.

On this Bank Holiday weekend, high pressure would again be in charge: winds would be light and the sun hot. So when I motored out into a hazy calm on Friday morning, I didn’t really expect to get far. But within five minutes we had a light south’easterly which, together with the remaining ebb, took us round the back of the sands and made Sooty redundant. From there our course was directly into the wind, tacking towards Walton Pier, along with the new flood. It took 3½ hours to complete those first 7 miles.

Then the breeze gradually filled in and things hotted up. We covered the next 3 miles in 50 minutes. Three miles further down the coast was Clacton pier, and I wanted to note how long that leg took, but got distracted. On the approach, a low flying jet came screaming out of the mist, passing us, banked, turned and screeched back. I wondered why, until I noticed a large group of vessels laying offshore in the mist towards the Gunfleet Sands. The penny dropped. Some sort of airshow was about to start and the fighter was the opening turn. My hunch proved correct, but I didn’t see much of the show. A police launch came chasing up to tell me I was entering a restricted zone and that I must head out to a barely visible red buoy, and go westwards from there. So I hauled my wind and headed The Genie into the crowded channel where we had to negotiate a way through the maze of anchored vessels. They saw the show, I saw only boats and anchor cables to be avoided. But eventually we were through and on a compass course towards Bradwell, where its giant power station was still hidden by mist. The wind continued to rise and we whipped along, all thoughts of returning that night being put aside. The power station emerged from the haze and we sped past at 1650. So impressive was our speed that I switched on my GPS and found we were making 5¼ knots over the ground, and this at slack water!

Continuing down the Blackwater until the wind began to falter we eventually headed behind Osea for a night on the mud, anchoring at 1830. Soon after the hook bit, the Red Arrows passed overhead, going east, probably to close the show. After that only the birds broke the silence of the night.

We had been underway for 9½ hours, covered a total of 28 miles with about ½ mile under power.

On Saturday 25th, high water was at 0550 and I was under sail by 0620 in a light northerly. We were not the only early risers. Ghosting out of the mist surrounding Osea came two Spritsail Barges. One was the Pudge, or the ‘Podge’ as I mentally renamed her when the profile of her mate suggested he was unusually well qualified to become the President of the League of Pear Shaped Men. We sailed east and once past Bradwell I turned south and stemmed the tide into the Rays’n. Knowing we wouldn’t get through the southern end as it dries at about ¾ ebb, I anchored for a long lunch once I could see mud ahead as well as either side. The wind rose and became a 3-4, making it an uncomfortable anchorage for awhile until enough flood had made. At 1430 I upped anchor and The Genie headed south again. Twenty minutes later, we were entering the Crouch. I hoped to get well up on the tide, but when the wind began dropping a while afterwards, I ducked off into the Roach going as far as Paglesham Creek, anchoring for a meal and then returning nearer to the mouth for the night, anchoring again at 1920. We had been 8 hours underway and covered 24 miles, without using Sooty.

Sunday 26th’s forecast was for winds to veer gradually into the NE later that day and during Monday, so I felt we should head back nearer home, spend the last night in one of the rivers north of Walton and leave an easy final leg back on Monday.

It was still dark when I rose before 5 o’clock and found a gentle northwester blowing —enough to get me over the last of the flood until the ebb started at 0630. So, after swallowing a coffee as I dressed, I pulled Sooty’s cord — just the once — and it roared into life. Definitely no sulking there, I thought! And we were away, heading north with the tiller pegged whilst I stowed gear and got ready for a sail. Reaching the north shore of the Crouch — a matter of ½ or perhaps ¾ mile — I cut the motor and trimmed the sails to run east in the light breeze. After Holiwell Point I put her closer on the wind and by 0820 the Buxey Beacon appeared magically out of the haze behind the leach of the jib whilst I was still looking for it before the luff! The breeze had risen nicely and progress had been good. However, by the time we were abeam of Clacton it started to veer. Between 11 and 1130, just as the ebb was done, the wind veered further and I was only able to manage N65E. So we tacked into a strengthening flood towards Walton. The tide round that particular corner of Essex can be fierce and the pier stands such a long way out to sea that I always hope to get on the ‘right’ side of it before the change. In addition, the huge headland plays havoc, turning the breeze into a ‘Heinz’ with 57 varieties. Each tack promised we’d ‘make it this time’ but with the increasingly variable wind falling lighter, we’d finish only a few yards nearer than the last.

I decided we definitely needed more breeze. Whistling does nothing to improve matters. There are only three ways that work. You announce (loudly) that, whilst things are quiet, you either (a) intend to have a pee, (b) make a cup of tea or (c) light a pipe. The wind will always increase! In this case, I decided on a pipe. The result was as predicted and we stormed past the end of Walton pier with the gun’l down and the sail woollies stretched out like piano wires. St Michael might be the High Street’s patron saint of underpants, but St Bruno has a lot going for him as a windmaker!

Once past, I could afford to take my eyes from the jib luff and relax my arthritic neck. Looking back, I almost fell overboard with surprise. A huge thunder cloud hung above Clacton. And what colours! Blacks merged with purples, greens, oranges and yellow. Watching it for a while, I decided the centre would miss us and when later, the first flash of lightning came, there was a comfortingly long pause before the thunder. Next came a smattering of rain, so light that I didn’t bother to put on waterproofs or even shut the cabin — beyond closing the top hatch.

We were still heading close hauled for the slacker tide in the shallows beyond the pier, half expecting the strong blow that often circles a thunderstorm, when the breeze suddenly dropped and veered at the precise moment we tacked. The boat floundered in the slop of a sea, tossing the burgee round and round. Once I realised the wind was now on my quarter, I eased the sheets to get her going. We couldn’t afford to hang around for very long with the strong tide carrying us back toward the pier. It was an anxious moment or two — perhaps three — and probably explains why I did nothing about waterproofs. Meanwhile, the rain intensified.

The wind returned a little and continued to veer, and I finally goose-winged the jib and kept a watchful eye on the shoreline to check we were going in the right direction. By the time that was obvious, I was soaked to the skin.

We continued round the Naze and just about had the huge tower abeam when the wind again dropped, this time to a mere whisper, leaving us floundering once more in an extremely confused sea. The sails slatted and the boom crashed back and forwards just above my head. Well, I thought, at least we have Sooty! His hour had definitely arrived! I leaned back — not without some difficulty given the excessive motion — and pulled the cord. Once again it started with that first pull. I said a humble ‘thank you’, and all the shaking, the banging and the willy-nilly motion stopped as Sooty moved us noisily northwards.

I now had an opportunity to appraise the situation and looked into the cabin. The following wind had driven rain in and everything was as wet inside as I was out. Would it be sensible to continue up towards the Stour or better to tuck into my marina berth? There really was no contest. I headed The Genie to the marina by the quickest route. The wind changed again and went back to a NE direction, but by that time I couldn’t care less. All I really wanted was to stop shivering.

As soon as we berthed, at around 1600, the stove went on, warming the closed cabin, and I stripped off, towelled down and changed into something dry. It took some while to mop out the cabin, and by then I had lost the desire to stay on board overnight. Instead I piled everything into the car and drove home in the pouring rain, cutting the cruise short.

We had been 10½ hours underway, used the engine for about 4 miles out of the day’s overall total of 27, the overall miles for the 3 day trip being 79.

p.s. It was comforting to hear Monday’s TV weatherman admit that he had been caught out and soaked by the unexpected storm he had failed to predict.

p.p.s. Aren’t engines wonderful things?