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After breakfast and washing up, I set to and uncovered the mainsail. Wendy started the motor – just as well to make sure it’s working before casting off – I untied the warps and coiled them before placing them in the lazarette, then pushed Curlew out into the pool, jumping on board just as she cleared the pontoon. I hoisted the mainsail as Wendy steered into the wind aiming for the exit, ‘swigging’ on the halyard to make sure the sail was as high as it could be. Wendy pulled the tiller toward her, ‘bearing away’ and bringing the wind onto the beam, and we began to sail. I made my way aft to the cockpit, released the foresail, pulled on the sheet to unfurl it and sheeted in until it was pulling well. Almost before I knew it, we were in the fairway and Wendy was bearing away on to a run and I was easing the fores’l sheet, then the main sheet.
Okay, I won’t give a moment-by-moment account of our exit from the Orwell, just to say the ‘hull speed’, the theoretical maximum speed of a twenty-eight foot yacht is about seven point four knots, which is a little over eight miles an hour for landlubbers. It’s roughly five nautical miles to the entrance of Harwich Haven, and we covered it in less than forty-five minutes. The figures don’t sound too impressive? You’re spoilt by cars and motorways. Sitting in the cockpit of a small sailing boat, (maybe two feet away from the water) and feeling she’s really doing her best, with the water hissing by and ‘a bone in her teeth’ as sailors used to say, meaning there’s white water where the bows are pushing the water aside, is quite incredibly satisfying. We passed Shotley Point, with the red light-vessel moored there ready to take the place of one that needed maintenance, seeing the old training mast where the naval training base used to be – the mast retained as a historical curiosity – and passing the busy quays of the Felixstowe Container Terminal ... I realised I was happy. I looked across at Wendy, whose eyes were on the burgee and the luff of the sails, her expression one of profound satisfaction.
Wendy steered ‘closer to the wind’ as we passed Felixstowe, and I sheeted in the fores’l and then the mainsail. She looked at me, our eyes met, and she grinned broadly.
We passed the old fort, then cleared Landguard Point and bore away on a run toward the Roughs Tower, a second world war fortification about nine miles off-shore. It’s visible on the horizon from the cliffs on a clear day. Some years ago someone bought it and declared it an independent state, printed his own money and stamps and called himself ‘King of Sealand’ since which the place has accommodated an internet company – or something – I don’t know the details. It’s mainly of interest as a landmark.
Wendy had been at the tiller over an hour.
“I think we may be pleased to be wearing water-proofs soon,” I said. “Shall I take over for a spell while you get yours?”
“That’d be good, I could do with a stretch,” she said, and got up, and handed over to me. I slid next to the tiller, noted the course on the compass, glanced up at the sails and looked ahead. Being pre-occupied with the minutiae of taking control of Curlew, I didn’t realise she hadn’t immediately gone below until she bent to kiss my cheek, obscuring my view forward for a moment. Okay, it wasn’t exactly an earth-shattering event, but I was surprised, and didn’t react before she actually did disappear into the saloon and shut the doors. Did it mean anything, or was she just happy to be sailing? I shelved the question in favour of getting on with sailing.
It didn’t take her long to get into rough weather gear, but in that short time, the wind veered noticeably, initially bringing the wind dead astern. I considered the options, first bearing away slightly in case a further veer caused a gybe. I didn’t think I needed an immediate response as I had plenty of sea-room, so I waited for Wendy to reappear.
When she did, I told her, “we need to gybe, and I think a reef or two would be in order. I suggest heaving to now to take down a reef. What do you think?”
“I agree,” she responded immediately, “and there’s a front coming up behind us, so I think shortening sail quite a lot would be good. I’ll take down the reef, if you like, since I’m dressed for it.”
I couldn’t argue with the logic, though I would have preferred to do the uncomfortable and rather insecure job myself – some would call it the ‘martyr syndrome’. It’s one of those things like opening a door for a lady, or always walking on the outside of the path with a lady. Anyway, I reached under the cockpit seat and handed her the reefing crank handle.
“Take care,” I said, “I know you will anyway, but I don’t want to lose you overboard.”
She smiled as she took the handle. I pushed the tiller away from me, Curlew came round into the wind, which suddenly increased dramatically in force. Obviously, when sailing down wind, the wind is much less noticeable, but no matter how much sailing I do, there’s always a little surprise at the... ferocity ... of a strong wind when trying to sail into it. Wendy ‘backed’ the foresail, I sheeted in the main and kept the tiller pushed away from me. We were ‘hove to’. That wouldn’t do while Wendy wound down the reefs but it made life a little easier and safer until she started.
She went forward and when she was standing by the mast and holding on, I furled the fores’l, let Curlew turn up into the wind, and centred the tiller. The sail flapped wildly. I watched anxiously as she released the main halyard little by little, winding down more of the sail around the boom as she did. After an apparent eternity, she was done, the sail area reduced by maybe a third. She made her way aft to the cockpit and, with some relief, I let about two-thirds of the fores’l unfurl, sheeted in the port, and let it push Curlew’s head round on to port tack. Wendy took over setting both sails before telling me to get below and get my rough-weather gear on.
We’d done the necessary in good time. The wind continued to increase and veer, until it was north-westerly and as far as I could tell, about force six, as we approached the old fort. It was about 1030 as we rounded it at a discreet distance, heading North, close hauled. The force of the wind was very apparent, though the sea wasn’t too rough considering the strength of the wind. It was, however, getting rougher, which slowed the boat considerably. It took nearly an hour to reach the Rough north-cardinal buoy, then another hour to make the Cork Sand buoy, still close-hauled but on starboard tack. By this time we were getting a fair amount of spray aboard ... I was aware of cold water trickling down my neck. I looked at Wendy who appeared to be enjoying the whole experience immensely. I had to smile at her; her enthusiasm was contagious. She moved across the cockpit and sat close next to me, but leaning back so as not to obscure my view. It was rather pleasant. More than that, she was breaking the force of the wind and spray.
“That’s very kind of you,” I had to yell, by this point, “but could you go look at the chart and get me a course for the Pye End buoy and a bearing of the Landguard Point from it? It’s notoriously hard to spot.”
She nodded, and went. Personal considerations of any sort have to take second place to the management of the boat. Her course was just about spot on. We – actually she – spotted the buoy just as she was about to take a bearing on the Point. I bore away and she eased the sheets for a broad reach. The water was becoming smoother as we moved into the shelter of the land, and we couldn’t have timed things better; the tide was making and we speeded up. It was 1530 as we passed the cardinal buoy marking the division between Walton Channel and Hamford Water, passing it to our port.
“If you’ll take over, I’ll deal with the anchor,” I said.
She nodded, and I went forward and began the grubby and laborious process of heaving anchor chain up from the locker. The rule is three times the depth for light winds, five times or more for holding in strong winds. Please note, three to five times the maximum depth at high water! I wanted to be quite sure and hauled up fifteen fathoms. For the edification of the ignorant, that’s just over twenty-seven metres. Bear in mind that it would come back on board covered in smelly mud, cold, wet and rusty...
Sailing well in to Hamford Water, we found a spot I the lee of one of the islands, I dropped the ‘hook’ and went to the mast to tighten the topping lift and lower the mainsail. Wendy came forward with tiers to secure it and we got the cover on as it began to rain.
“Can you get the boom-crutch out?” I asked.
She nodded and went to find it. I could then release the topping lift to let the boom rest in the crutch and stop it swinging around. We were at rest.
Did I mention being cold, wet and tired? We went below and my first thought was the stove, already laid with paper and kindling; I lit a match and watched as first the paper and then the kindling caught, then added a few pieces of coke, opened up the draught and put the lid on.
When I turned, Wendy was standing at the cooker with a lighter looking helpless ... and cold. She was shivering, and looked faintly blue.
“You okay?”
Looking at me, she replied, “it won’t light.”
I went out to the cockpit and opened up the hatch concealing the gas bottle. It was turned off – I’d turned it off; a routine safety measure as many small craft are lost to explosions due to gas leakage in the the bilges (LPG being heavier than air). I turned the tap.
In the saloon the stove was beginning to burn properly and I added some lumps of wood and a few more lumps of coke. Going to Wendy, I gently took the lighter out of her hands and took her in my arms.
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