A Proper Little Passage – by Mike Burn
This extract from the log book was published on the ASA website
The 2008 AS meet was at Brightlingsea, tucked up behind the Essex coastline along the Colne; the weather had been rubbish for weeks and I had only arrived back from 3 weeks holiday in the sun 2 days before the latest Sheila could leave from Woodbridge. Crew had to be assembled and she victualled — none of the omens looked good while other AS members had been awaiting forecasts in Levington all of which were wrong!
On the Friday morning it was mirror calm so I and my daughter Frances (22) and her chap Guy attached our dinghy alongside, mounted the 2hp Yamaha and crept off down the Deben with the first of the ebb at about 2 knots — hardly a propitious beginning, but a mile before the entrance a little wind sprang up free enough to give us steerage out over the entrance, with 2 hours to go to LW, and just carry us south over the tide flowing north. This sort of ‘Burn style’ endeavour has been in Frances’ blood since tiny so she was completely unfazed by the thought of sleeping at sea, having done it when we raced Sheila with the OGA on the Blackwater when she was little.
We set off down the Felixstowe shore with a target of getting over the shipping lane and across Pennyhole Bay to lie under Walton Pier for the night. Ever since I have sailed Sheila on this coast I have used the ‘inside’ channel round Landguard point to avoid the little knoll just north and outside it, as this track gives the shortest crossing of the shipping lane — a consideration with no engine and relying much on visual pilotage. With conversation being carried to a high level as we sailed I lost concentration on the fine details of the nav — and it was dead low water. About 400 yards before Landguard Point Beacon we grounded — grounding in the river is of no import but grounding at sea, on hard sand, is a little un-nerving. Mercifully the tide had just turned so we ‘bump sailed’ her off (3/4 hour of bumping) watching the water breaking and swirling over the knoll 200 yards outside us. At 1800 we broke free to ground again just 200 yards further on. This time we laid an anchor inshore to stop the bow being carried down-tide so as to let the stern float off so Sheila could face back the way we had come — she quickly did and we ‘jib’n’mizzened’ back and tucked ourselves into 3 metres of water half a mile north of the point. It was unilaterally decided that the wind would die before we got far across Pennyhole Bay — much happier to be tucked under Landguard than out in the middle of a huge, though shallow, sea off Harwich; the wind died half an hour later. The essence of success in these affairs is adequate familiarity so that a well-practiced routine replaces the ‘terror’ of those who have never been there.
Fran set to to cook us a fine supper as Sheila adopted a slight, intermittent, snake-like roll, but everything as safe as houses about 300 yards offshore. We quickly converted Sheila from dinatorium into sleepatorium (3 abreast) then retired in military order due to the microscopic space — no room for fancy foibles about privacy here. As I have written elsewhere a night at sea, properly tackled, is entirely safe “if sometimes uncomfortable”; the short cyclical roll was a bore so we slept fitfully but at 0400 (about half ebb) a little South Easterly got up which slewed Sheila across the tide to change the roll pattern. Fran, being a hardened type, thought we might have ‘let-go’ and got out of her sack to check; the Felixstowe dock lights (visible from space she told me) were in the right place, but the dinghy was not — everybody agreed that the proper knot had been properly tied but suspected that the snubbing caused by the wind across tide conditions had fretted it undone.
0700 all parties rose to find the unexpected prospect of a gorgeous sunny day — and that nightly South Easterly was still there — was this little joy forecast I wonder? I know I annoy people for seeming irresponsible by not taking forecasts but this is a philosophical point — which like all good philosophy is deeply practical — did our ancient forefathers “take forecasts?”; our slave-like reliance on taking them and belief in their veracity (against their prevalent inaccuracy and conflict with each other) is just another of the mental tyrannies the H&S has wound round us. More often than not people lie in harbours ‘waiting for the perfect forecast’ which is often adverse or wrong (and how can they tell beforehand pray?), and because forecasts sound more ‘terrifying’ in harbour than the conditions are outside — so they stay stuck. Further, they never have the special joy (amongst the rubbish) of a magical day unannounced; indeed they spend much of their time with failed expectations because ‘what was forecast’ did not happen while the waiting frets their nerves, so behave like little children deprived of sweets; Sheila does not have these failed expectations, for taking what arrives as we go, but we do get the joys of the unexpected. If yachtsmen are reasonably practiced (for ‘having been there’) the East Coast is highly unlikely to create weather that a well found AS yacht can not cope with easily even if anchoring or heaving-to is called for — sitting in harbour ‘waiting’ is not yachting, whereas the joys of the unexpected and the trials of dealing with the rubbish are the very essence of what makes yachting experience worthwhile beyond the predicated and planned experience of everyday; had we taken a forecast we would not have gone to Brightlingsea!
Fran spotted the dinghy on the shoreline (onshore wind) but banned me from getting into our little rubber to row ashore to rescue it (the outboard was still in the dinghy from the towing exercise!); as we were leaving she spotted wide tyre tracks on the beach but no dinghy! 0730 we were under way and set off across the shipping lane in good style with the young flood under us, with a fine free force 2/3, enough to give Sheila 5 knots; the odd clouds cleared and by Walton Pier it was broad sun and we were “passing the folks just as they were stannin’” — all but two 40ft moderns! Morale rose enormously as Fran made bacon butties and a pot of Earl Grey. We took turns to steer to catch up on the sleep as we bowled merrily down the Essex coast in an almost flat sea, sun, and 6 knots with that gentle angle of heel that defines a perfect ride. At half-tide we were at the Colne bar. I have always used the ‘inside’ passage here close round Colne point which, at this state, had 9 metres over it; this saves a long hike out to the bar buoy, which I could not see in the sea-wrack anyway, and the long trip back up the Colne.We hurtled round the point and gybed to come scorching up the Colne only 2½ hours from weighing anchor; indeed we were going so fast as we entered Brightlingsea (4 knots please) that we briskly handed the main to jib’n’mizzen into the creek. Sheila will tack comfortably under this rig as long as the slightly wider tack angle and slower pick up on the new tack are appreciated (30 years of practice should have got it right by now). The trip up the creek was dead to weather but we had the tide so it was ‘easy-peasy’ to work our way up beyond the harbour pontoons, swirl round and hand sail to drop down on to them; this looks very easy, and is, as long as one knows at exactly what wind and tide strengths Sheila will make over the tide on hull alone; being able to handle everything from the cockpit is really just like driving a car – throttle (mizzen brail) on and off to match the speed to the point of contact. We needed to be over with the other boats on the pontoons on the opposite side so we chose to entertain everyone by letting go, unbrailing the mizzen, giving her a whiff of jib and dancing amongst the parked boats to slalom alongside the other AS yachts to some charming compliments (thank-you); nemesis was to come later.
A goodly crew were there and, as both Fran and Guy are highly sociable animals, all set to to renew acquaintances which are always enormously heightened by the gorgeous views of AS boats moored together. It was a delight to welcome Galatea; so much sitting on her deck was done meeting her new owners and absorbing them into the AS family; it was a pity that Firefly had not yet arrived as Louie is an asset at any party. Hobsons were in evidence, the heroes of the camper-van, so levity was the order of the day.
It was agreed to go for a ‘trip round the bay’ in the afternoon so crews were changed. There are always two family style protocols here; those who must lunch (on time) and those who just blaze around while they can (I fear I am of the latter sort), so attaining agreement is always an interesting affair. I assembled two who had not been on Sheila before, John Hobson and Peggy (whom Pete Clay has known since University days) and, with the tide just turned to ebb and Sheila facing down-wind, down tide we let go — to embrace that nemesis with style; when there are people on board Sheila and when partying is the order I find that the quiet consideration of conditions and forces I indulge in when undertaking manoeuvres is carried away by the fun of the thing. Down-tide carried us crunching alongside the moored boats before the sails, or the rudder, could bear as (we discovered later) the tide sweeps under the moored boats. A good deal of mad rushing about by various lunch wielding AS members, rescued us but not before ignominy had been earned and a couple of small scuffs administered to the parked boats. We set off into the Colne to enjoy the superb sun and fine breeze, while others took time finishing lunch. In due course Nirvana, Charm and Sheila were cavorting round on the Mersea Flats with Nirvana disappearing off to Bradwell to seek Firefly who was coming down from Maylandsea.
My crew decided that much was to be said for getting back into Brightlingsea for a late lunch, long before there was too little water for sailing manoeuvre, so we tacked back as far as we could up the creek (wind and tide now strong against) then accepted a pluck to the moored boats from the Harbour-Master; it could have been done under sail (just) but would have required tacking amongst the other moorings directly onto the moored boats under full sail — and the wind was being too knocked about by the various buildings to guarantee its reliability; making a fool of myself on the Deben is OK but different considerations are proper on foreign territory so daring was dispersed by discretion. We sat down to a late lunch discussing a fine pie, good home-made bread and Brie and a bottle of rosé to oil what became a splendid intellectual discussion — good people, those who associate with AS boats. Firefly’s (and Louie’s) arrival back with Nirvana completed the‘official’ party. This was added to in period style by Fabian Bush (Dick Wynne’s builder of Constance) who had paddled down from Rowhedge in a fine wooden canoe looking curiously like MacGregor in detail and dress — all he lacked was the ‘tracts’ but he does have the right evangelising attitude for the real thing; Fabian has been building boats on the Blackwater and theColne for a very long time, a thoroughly proper chap. I have a feeling that just this sort of thing took place in the era after Sheila had earned some notoriety and AS was designing, and Dickie’s building, more AS canoe-yachts; “Strangeistas” met once a year at Dickie’s to admire the new ‘member of thefamily’ just built and to swap cruising stories (and indeed go sailing) asfriends joined a common cause to good company – about 1908 to 1914 I fancy.
After the usual slightly crossed wires about where we were actually to dine it was agreed to go with what had been booked, so ‘the party’ took the harbour ferry across the creek to the real world to assemble in The Yachtsman for a pre-prandial pint. Winkies did us a magnificent fish-and-chips but the planned trip to a local micro-brewery afterwards died as everyone agreed they were too tired. Sheila’s crew were more than delighted as they were looking forward to a quiet night, unbounced; we had been much bucked during dinner by a call from the Felixstowe police (to whom I had reported the dinghy’s loss) that it had been recovered by the contractor’s men reinforcing the Felixstowe shoreline and was carefully locked up in their compound. The Sheila crew reported having really bad sea-legs (that sloppy night at sea) while Fran and I both felt the restaurant go ‘bump’ as we ate our meal, in exactly the same motion as we had been bumping on the sand at Landguard Point – one’s subconscious plays extraordinary tricks!
Sunday dawned doubtful followed by the usual heart-searching about when to go home. The hefty traditional ketch alongside which Sheila was moored was one we had ‘scuffed’ but the owner turned out to be one of those wonderful paragons of the real old boat world; his parents had commissioned the ship from Arthur Holt at Maldon in the early ’70s then sailed her in the Hebrides into their 80s; their son, Alistair Mackenzie, had then taken her over, brought her south and sails her alone on the East Coast; he was entirely unfazed by the scuff as a highly civilised and charming enthusiast with a long history of real sailing skills; sailing what must have been 15 tons on his own (OK with an engine) brought sailing Sheila’s 2½ tons into sharp focus. Like MacGregor evangelising, I gave him a ‘tract’.
The plan had been for Nirvana and Sheila to go back north on Monday but forecasts were (as usual) telling of impossible and uncomfortable conditions so Pete decided that he was going pronto even if it meant some severe motoring. Charm had more time so was going to take things easy while amongst the focus and angst of decisions I did not find out what Galatea’s plans were. Jamie in Firefly had to leave early on the flood to ensure getting up the Blackwater — nemesis got him too; there was a little wind so he set full sail, untied and set off into the creek, whereupon the wind died and Firefly began to drift backwards; us engineless guys have been here before. A launch was quickly marshalled and Firefly was towed out into the Colne to set off South, into a weak Southerly! Seeing this my crew decided to accept Pete’s tow offer so we strung aft of Nirvana to set off out of the Creek and down the Colne. There was a short time when it looked as though sailing would be possible but by mid-morning the sun had killed the wind and the weather looked ‘spooky’ to the South so we hitched back up and set off up the coast under tow. My two got some sunbathing on the deck as we alternately steered — steering under tow is tedious for requiring far more concentration than sailing. Sheila is so fine that she tows like a dinghy so we made good speed as the tide up the coast turned to ebb in our favour somewhere about Jaywick. At Walton there was enough wind, well free, to sail so we separated, Nirvana sheering East to take the outside passage round the shipping lane out of the Orwell, but we set into the coast under Walton cliff with about 2½ hours of ebb to carry us onward. Us Debenites are always confounded by the entrance for going out South it is provident to have the full Southerly flood so need to leave at low water while coming North we need the ebb up the coast so arrive at low water! – “how much water in the entrance at LW” is the vital local knowledge.
My ‘proper’ navigation is poor, since I have only ever really run up and down the Essex coast to race on the Blackwater — but I know the coast and its marks very well. Setting off out to sea following a faster boat, with a sea-mist beginning to form, is a recipe for a good deal of terror, if not actual disaster; sailing without an engine I have learnt not to go where there is any possibility that you can not get out, whatever reasonably happens. My visual pilotage is fine but even the land across Pennyhole Bay was very hazy so there was a time when we were wondering if we would lose the other side in the rising mist — with the shipping channel dead ahead. The worst scenario was that we would be fogged, whose exit point was to sheer off and anchor up on the flats of the bay, where nothing of any size could get at us; I have fond memories many years ago of tacking out of the Crouch into a thick fog, missing the timing of one tack and ending up on the Buxey Sand where we lay most of the night listening to the goings on of those lost in the fog while delighted that, lying on the sand, we were as safe as possible – no mean reckoning in fog.
The wind, dead behind us, kept us going gently while the mist ahead dispersed a little so we could see the dock cranes above it to keep our bearings. Crossing the shipping channel close in to Landguard in reasonable style (though dead downwind so a little freaky) we could see Nirvana well out to sea ahead of us. We passed Landguard Point (a sort of Rubicon for us Debenites going home or away) to set off up the last leg to the Deben entrance in the late afternoon with some 1½ hours of ebb still carrying us along. When suddenly Landguard Point appeared behind us both Fran and I admitted that we had lost its exact position in the peculiar visual disorientations mist creates. Off Felixstowe town we could just see Nirvana address the entrance ahead of us. A little short of the Deben Bar buoy the sun poked out and the wind perked up as we hauled wind onto a perfect reach into the entrance – God had decided to smile a little. The tide was still pouring out so entering was a very slow business, always disquieting from the horrible pitchings and swirlings that occur where the outside and inside tide meet in a miniature maelstrom. Although I have been entering the Deben on the ebb for 30 years (inevitably having taken it up the coast) it never fails to have one on edge, as if the wind fluffs everything gets nasty suddenly, so there is a tooth-sucking quarter of an hour as the landward mark creeps, extraordinarily slowly, towards one as the swirling pushes Sheila about like a cork — and the depth sounder mesmerises with its readings. We came in with 2ft under the keel at the lowest point — the “will it rise or go on falling” question keeps the adrenaline flowing hard. The tide remains at full speed until nearly up to the Ferry itself so, if one has been blown in upon the essential fast reach, the last leg dead downwind becomes gnawingly slow, only marginally faster than the seagulls walking along the shingle.
On getting inside at Felixstowe Ferry we decided to pick up a mooring, tuck Sheila up, call the Ferry and drop ashore, having arranged a lift home (now only 10 minutes away at Walton) by telephone rather than take the two hours up the river in a failing evening wind at what would be dead-low water.
A weary bunch were picked up by Margaret, in relays as our Smart only takes one plus, for short journeys, one squeezed into the ‘boot’; all were sent to shower then a take-away was ordered from our local “Bombay Nite”. No late-nite parties were had. We awoke on Monday morning to what would have been (and indeed remained all day) a perfect sunny breezy day for a trip home from the South! I went to make my thank-you offerings to the chaps who had rescued the dinghy, deciding that the regulation bottles of wine would be inappropriate for blokes driving ‘dozers so ‘12s’ of high quality lager were purchased. A group of absolutely charming Geordies would not hear of me taking the dinghy round by sea to Felixstowe Ferry, so put it on their little truck and drove it round instead – to restore my faith in the innate virtues of the human condition so badly battered today.
It was a “Proper Little Passage” because, though things had gone wrong and there many imperfections (and some incompetence) there was never “danger”, that bogey that rides the H&S tyranny of today. No “Emergency Services” had been called (upon whose dependence we have become an irresponsible childlike society) because Individual Responsibility had been maintained at all points; we took the mistakes and solved their problems ourselves; thus are formed the only worthwhile endeavours, for if we are never “at risk” we neither achieve nor learn anything worthy — while a tranche of humiliation keeps one sharp. I have known for many years that it is not ‘not making mistakes’, nor buying into all the ‘safety bollocks’ that is important, but developing the skills and experience, under as many conditions as possible, to be able get out of nasty corners under one’s own steam, for: Seeking Self-Sufficiency is the Absolute of Adulthood.