Paul Constantine takes his Torch 'Tyne' to meet the Royal Harwich YC’s Wayfarer cruise led by Anne and Dennis Kell (13 Wayfarers, 1 Wanderer.)Whilst cruising he muses on marinas and the safety of small vintage boats at sea.

I went sailing at the weekend. It's unusual for me to cruise the dinghy after the summer holidays have finished, but I was tempted out to meet up with some friends who were sailing to the Walton Backwaters from the river Orwell. I watched the weather forecasts all week. They were consistent. Ten knots north-easterly on Saturday with eight knots on the Sunday with warm sunshine. I couldn't miss it could I? My only problem was whether to wear my shorts and pack my jeans, or visa-versa.

I launched onto a grey and silent Deben with a cold breeze chilling my knees. Perhaps it would brighten up later? I departed Woodbridge about 9.20 apparently the only person to be taking advantage of this September weekend. The wind was up and down a bit. In the gusts with full main I was glad I was on a dead run. I would have needed a reef if I had been going the other way. Then the wind would die and I would have to be patient. I couldn't wait indefinitely as I had to be crossing the Bar at about 11.11 the time of Low water. If the tide should gather momentum against me in the river I would be hard pushed to force my way out in my 13ft dinghy, even on the run.

Above Waldringfield I secured the helm and started getting out my bigger headsail to rig it, but then the wind increased and we began to move steadily. I waited a while, then stowed it away. I didn’t really want to be carrying it out at sea. At 10.20 we were passing Ramsholt. At 11.05 I was going over the Bar having hove-to for a while just above the Horsebuoy, to prepare for the sea.

Visibility out there wasn’t all that wonderful. It was grey, cold and a bit lumpy but I was going at hull speed and enjoying the constant movement not often found goose winging on a dead run. By 11.20 I was approaching Felixstowe pier and looking ahead to where various cruising yachts were sailing off the mouth of the Orwell. So ... there were other people about after all. The tide was going my way and the wind was getting stronger. Passing Landguard Point there were no big commercial craft in sight so I sped onwards across the shipping lane beginning to really enjoy the speed. She was surging on the waves and trying to surf. She is a relatively narrow craft compared with the Wayfarer style hulls. She is more akin to the GP14 but not designed to surf, - so I thought, but she began to skid along on the wave at times with the distinctive smooth motion of surfing and the rudder was starting to hum a bit, which I had not experienced in her before. Craft coming up the channel from Walton were not having an easy time. They pitched heavily as they powered into it; sailing cruisers with just a single sail set in a vain attempt to steady the boat. Their occupants were sheltering in their cockpits and looked at me with a mixture of surprise as I suddenly appeared and, wonder at meeting such a boat in these uncomfortable waters. They weren't really smiling; they just had their teeth clenched.

At 12.20 I turned to port and hardened onto the wind a bit to shoot into the lee of Stone Point where the beach falls steeply into the water. I jumped out and held the boat. The place was deserted and I wondered if it had become a wildlife sanctuary. I was so used to seeing it covered with people as it is a very popular place. I pulled her up and explored a little. I found faded footprints high on the beach which indicated that I was allowed to land. Within ten minutes along came a group of dinghies from Walton to land for lunch. After another ten minutes my friends from the Orwell began to arrive. Within half an hour things were back to normal.

After lunch I reefed and we sailed in company down Hamford Water and then followed Oakley Creek which is a favourite base for the local seals. There were quite a few around, on the beaches, on top of the saltings and in the water. Amongst the usual mixture of white, grey and black colours were some rusty red ones which were new to me. We sailed around a little and then started to make our way towards the marina. I usually try to avoid marinas but with the number of boats and a plan to share an evening meal together, it was a sensible venue.

As soon as I entered the marina I was impressed by the noise. It was still quite windy and as it whistled through the rigging of hundreds of craft the sound generated was most disturbing. The incessant moaning added to the banging of halliards, all trapped within the enclosed basin created a doleful impression which ate into your consciousness as a dark and dismal background to all your thoughts. When you climbed the ramps up to the land surrounding the marina the sound died away, it was lighter, more pleasant and it was a relief to discover that there wasn't a gale force wind after all. Your cheerfulness returned on the tops of the banks only to be eroded as you descended into the moaning, dark and restricted confines of the basin bottom. It was a place to be avoided if at all possible.

After the evening meal lying snug in my sleeping bag I had to block my ears, as it sounded as though the whole marina was being blown away around me. It did not feel good for the morning when I would have to retrace my steps to Woodbridge. I fell asleep working on a number of Plan B’s in case sailing was impossible the next day.

Sunday dawned. The marina was still here. I wasn't drifting alone somewhere in the middle of the North Sea. The noise was slightly less, but still overwhelmingly depressive. I determined to reserve judgement about conditions until I had climbed the banks, where, in the blessed silence I found similar weather to the previous day except for a thinner cloud cover and the odd beam of sunlight showing through at times. My meteorological optimism of yesterday was replaced with realism and this time I wore the jeans and packed the shorts.

When all the goodbyes had been said after breakfast I rowed out towards the entrance. A man commented on the boat as I passed. "That looks nice," he said, "it looks quaint." I suppose it does. I never think about it for myself. I guess that it is the wooden spars and the wooden deck that really pick it out. I just sail my dinghy which was sufficiently well made by its manufacturer that all its equipment continues to function after nearly forty years. I’ve had it so long, it now looks old fashioned and distinctive.

Outside it was blowing a gusty force-four-plus and the ebb was going against it. The Twizzle as the Walton channel is called has twin rows of moored boats on either side of a narrow fairway, so single handing out of there was no easy ride. Only our group were sailing that day. People sat securely in their cruisers, pleased to be moored and enjoying the ride, whilst we provided the entertainment. Our group was mainly Wayfarers, sailed two up and in these testing conditions the favourite rig was reefed main alone Under this sail they sat up straight and maintained their speed whilst being certain of their ability to tack. It was easy to see why they are so favoured for dinghy cruising. I set reefed main and jib on my Torch so I was a bit slow after tacking to get the headsail in and sheeted. I have a cover to extend my foredeck which is quite effective at returning solid water back overboard but still I get a generous ration of spray coming inboard which adds to the stuff which slops up out of the centreboard case on rough beats such as this. I have a diaphragm bilge pump which I can rig on the thwart where it is accessible for me to remove the water which gathers to leeward as I heel. As I cleared the moorings and approached Stone Point I tried it, only to find it was not sucking. I had to sort it out before I went to sea.

I landed on the beach and discovered that the end of the reinforced intake pipe had sheared where it entered the pump. I removed it, trimmed the damaged end, turned it end for end, then secured it and tested it. It worked. Good, I was going to need it when I emerged from the shelter of the land. 1 ate some food and watched the Wayfarers coming up. They only had to get to the Orwell. I had double that distance or more. At least the sun was shining now.

I was setting off an hour later than I should have been. I estimated a three hour beat at sea with the favourable ebb. The target time on the Deben bar was 12.45 when the flood would start. Departing at 10.45 as I did would mean that the flood would begin to go against me by Landguard Point. How- ever, I would be crossing the Rolling Ground and Pitching Ground areas off the point with no tidal flow and the water would be relatively smooth. I reckoned on beating for an extra hour at sea (four hours in all), to replace the time lost. The estimate proved to be accurate.

A final check that everything was in its proper place and I set off. The channel is like an extended slender funnel in shape. At the beginning it was very close tacking but as I advanced so the tacks could be extended and better progress made. There were some cruisers going out to return to the Orwell. They were trying to preserve a degree of comfort, restricting the heeling of the boats by shortening sail. They motored and used just the headsail to steady the craft. I assumed that this choice of sail was because it can be set and controlled without leaving the cockpit. In the rough water of the channel where the strongest tide was right against the wind I crossed tacks with them and as I had the manoeuvrability I sailed around them, keeping pace with their progress as they laboured up and over waves standing on their tails and then burying their bows. Their family crews had that same look of amazement mixed with some curiosity to see a recognisably vintage little boat out in the sea. Perhaps twenty or thirty years ago the smaller boat, the open boat, timber and the gunter rig would have not have appeared so strange. Variety in boats was better understood and accepted then. A cruiser now comes complete, with electrics, with upholstery, with plumbing, with security and a reliable, powerful engine. A generation of family sailors is now at sea that has only known these standards. Was I safe?

As I approached the Pye End Buoy I noticed that it was the turning mark for the current cruising-racer fleet. They came powering in under their charcoal coloured laminated sails with their crews in neat rows along the windward rail, gazing in my direction, no smiles, no waving as in days gone by. They also seemed to be wrestling with their impression of what they were seeing. Is that safe? Can you be safe in a dinghy without a life raft in a canister, or a RIB in close attendance with an open VHF link?

From the Pye End I was able to hold close-hauled on the port tack and the sea state was much more comfortable when the wind and tide came together. Some small shelter from the land took the sting from the wind and limited my progress but I still had all the power I needed for most of the time. Roughly off the pier at Felixstowe I heard voices and looking around inshore I saw two Wayfarers using old Firefly sails slowly overhauling me on a similar course. They had a couple of teenagers aboard each. I could hear them laughing and enjoying themselves. As they closed with me they shouted across to know where I was going. They were going to Felixstowe they said as they went by. They had been camping down at the marina overnight and I had heard that they were on their Duke of Edinburgh Award expedition. Now they were on their way back. It was my turn to wonder. Just kids, out here. They were sailing well and looking out for each other. They were based at Felixstowe Ferry and quite used to sailing there. Anyone who knows will tell you, it is a scary place to sail. It makes good sailors. The youth of today can still access adventure.

They sailed more off the wind than I did and put in a few tacks whilst I held the single tack until approaching the entrance. I followed their inshore tack and was disappointed to find very little wind close to the beach. I toyed with the idea of going to full main but I knew that the wind would be funnelled against me as I tried to get into the river and so I crept along with my reef in. With several short tacks I manoeuvred in towards the starboard Bar buoy and then began tacking for the port mark which seems to sit right on the bar itself. The wind was up and the roar of the waves breaking on the shingle was rising. The turbulent water was still against me until I could get further in but it was getting so narrow that I was having to push the tacks beyond the limits of the channel just to gather sufficient way to make progress. I made it to the port mark and felt that from this point I would be entering the influence of the water being sucked into the river. I approached the narrowest section inside the highest shingle bank on the bar. As an observer this is where one perceives there to be the greatest danger for there was hardly room to tack my little dinghy, but the worst was yet to come.

After this narrow nip, the bar to my right-hand side became flatter and broader. Although the water was shallow over it, the incoming waves from the sea were driving right across the top of it. It was almost as if the bar wasn’t there. There was no protection. To the left was the steeply banked shoreline running straight for half a mile or more to the gap where the river exits the land. The deep channel followed it and was within metres of it, the width of the sailing water hardly stretched to tens of metres. The waves crossing the course to be sailed were being driven onto this lee shore where they crashed and were reflected back to collide with the next incoming waves. To enter the river meant beating along this narrow corridor of breaking waves and surf trying to judge the very final moment when to tack, to maximise progress by keeping up boat speed. The port tack out towards the incoming waves rapidly lifted the bow in an explosion of spray and solid roaring water and almost halted progress; all the time heading for the white water swirling shallows that indicated the solid mass of unyielding pebbles lying in wait inches below the surface. How far could one go before hitting it? The starboard tack was virtually right at the shore. The incoming wave lifted the boat and drove her towards it so that destruction seemed inevitable. To miss the tack in this situation would have seen the boat crunch onto the shingle and be rolled out and down by the backwash, only to be swamped within seconds as the next roller came in to pound her into matchwood instantly. I was caught out on the second tack at this point, simply by the scend of the wave. I had already gone about and she was turning outwards, but as the wave drove against and up the shore, so the water level was dropped and the boat sank into the trough. The centreboard hit the bottom with enough force to snap its restraining elastic which shot like a broken rubber band up into the bow of the boat. I grabbed the halt-up board and whacked it down again praying that it was still intact below the boat.

The worst was over after about two hundred metres in this maelstrom for the channel broadened sufficiently for a decent tack and the tidal stream increased in strength and became more favourable in direction. The wind was strong and I was pleased with my earlier decision to stay reefed, I was joyous that my boat had seen me through as the tide sped me into the river. I only had the length of the Deben left to tack up.

Above the Horse buoy I sailed lazily whilst getting some food and drink and pumping out the boat. As Ramsholt came into sight I sheeted in again and brought her hard on the wind. The river was full of boats on moorings. A few sailing cruisers motored; one or two went gently in the opposite direction under reefed headsail. So many boats were unused. Here was a river full of potential. Here were millions of pounds worth of dedicated equipment waiting to be used. The numbers of craft that I had seen out and about in these two days were insignificant beside the numbers that were garaged on their moorings and secured in marinas. I was reminded of the first chapter of Charles Stock's book 'Sailing just for Fun' in which he makes the case for the small cruiser.

“ ...it seems to me that there must be some correlation between the size of the boat and the time available to sail her.”

Above Ramsholt I drifted in the channel whilst I shook out the reef. Above Waldringfield in the shelter of the land it was perfect, gentle sailing in the evening sunshine on empty water. The forecasted eight knots of wind had finally arrived. Charles Stock also says “Many of us ... want some sort of challenge when we go afloat.” This was the perfect fulfilment of my weekend's challenge.

A couple of dinghies sailed at Woodbridge. One landed on the slipway at the same time as me and its owner kindly helped me pull up my trolley. "Have you just been out for a couple of hours?" he said. "No I went out yesterday. I've been to down to Walton and back." His face went blank. He stepped back and looked at the boat. "In that?" he said almost involuntarily. I smiled. "It's quaint isn't it?"