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Our holiday July 2008
The weekend dragged slowly
as I impatiently waited for Monday when I would once more pit my wits against
the wrath of god, and go forth into the watery unknown. Well in fact the first
port of call was Tollesbury, but that was the watery unknown as far as I was
concerned. When Monday morning eventually arrived it came along with some great weather hovering around a 3-4, and the week seemed full of fun and excitement. Our plan was to follow the tide out, round the Whitaker spit and soon after catch the incoming tide up the Blackwater. It was a wonderful day and all of our worries drifted away, but like so many of our trips the finger of god appears when you least expect it. At about 2.00pm the finger of god turned up and sadistically flicked Ann’s hat clean off her head and into the water. There was no chance on the face of the planet that I was going to loose another hat off my boat, and the crew (Ann and the cat) were suddenly running around the deck to the roaring commands of the captain (me) stating that we were now having an emergency hat overboard. With expert control and an incredible amount of luck we spotted the hat sloping off back towards Sheppey, and within minutes had completed a text book hat rescue.
We were making reasonable time and though we were heading up the South channel of Tollesbury creek it was evident that we would not have enough water to go all the way to the marina. I have a friend that lives in Tollesbury and he suggested that I pick up a mooring in the South channel as the tide would not be in until 10pm that night. We agreed that we would take
a mooring and then jump into the dingy and fetch him from the ‘hard’. As the
tide was coming in I automatically went passed the mooring and swung around to
come up to the buoy. I was only five feet away from the buoy when the
unmistakable and familiar lurch of running aground reminded me that we had not
shook off the finger of god. I knew the channel was narrow, but I naively
believed that the channel was wider than a bicycle tyre. For forty minutes I
waited for the tide to lift me back off so I could complete the task of mooring
up. Once I had made fast I looked around and found the ‘hard’ my friend had told me about, and there he was waiting for me to pick him up. I jumped into the dinghy and headed towards the hard. As I approached it became apparent that the hard was in fact made up of sandbags that had been thrown there over generations. Though the dinghy can float on a damp sponge and came happily alongside, the prop which draws a good four inches rapidly dug into the mud. My friend then jumped into the dinghy with the result that even the dinghy found it self completely aground. After much paddling and the sound of scraping we finally escaped the torturous grip of the bottom and made our way to the boat. Tollesbury was beginning to leave a marked impression that would leave a permanent scare on my memory. This was further reinforced as after a cup of coffee on the boat we decided to get into the dinghy and motor up the creek to the yacht club. Tollsbury has a lot of moorings made by people who seemed to just dig out their own little dock out of the mud. Closer inspection suggests that any boat that is unfortunate enough to be placed in any of these docks find that it has become their final resting place. As you pass these once majestic vessels you cannot avoid the feeling that you are somehow motoring through a graveyard. My friend reassured me that the hard by the marina was much better than the one I had picked him up from, and I was looking forward to getting ashore and getting to the yacht club. Little did I know that my friend’s idea of a good hard was muddy gravel, and once again the sound of my precious inflatable dingy scraping along gravel filled my ears and made my stomach churn. Once ashore we brought the dinghy to the top of the hard and removed the outboard which we then left in my friend’s shed for safekeeping, and headed for the yacht club. As we approached the yacht club we noticed a sign stating that dogs were not allowed inside. I didn’t think this was much of a problem as we had a cat, and the sign was species specific. Ann went inside and asked if our cat could come in. I found myself insulted on behalf of Smudge when we were told he could not come in, but he was allowed in the garden. After we had eaten it was getting dark, and as we decided to head back to the boat. By the time we had retrieved the outboard and made our way back to the dinghy it was totally dark. We said our fair wells and told our friend that I would return in the morning to get some diesel before heading off. The trip back to the boat was more eerie that the earlier trip and as we left the lights of Tollesbury behind us a suffocating darkness rapidly surrounded us. We managed to negotiate the channel out but on reaching the South channel all signs of moored boats were gone. As we motored into the
darkness Ann expressed her belief that the boat was further down stream to where
we were heading. In the almost total darkness I retorted that I would be most
disappointed if she was wrong (or words to that affect). This turned out to be
another time in my life that I will never live down as she directed me straight
to the boat.
The following morning I motored back to the marina and after filling up two five litre fuel cans headed back to the boat. On the way back I noticed that no water was coming out of the engine and it dawned on me that mud had clogged up the water inlet. This was now turning into a trip from hell. I managed to clear out the pipe by blowing through it, and was now determined to get the hell out of Dodge. Our next destination was Burnham, the weather was still warm though a bit cloudy. As we progressed the horrors of Tollesbury slowly ebbed away and when we finally entered the Crouch we were once again looking forward to the promise of a nice marina. As we progressed through the
channel up the Crouch the sight of another boat that was obviously having a
worse day cheered me up no end, I know that sounds bad but other peoples
misfortune has a habit of putting your problems in perspective. It appears he
decided to cut across the mud on a falling tide with a fine keel. We entered the marina and headed for the berth we had been assigned, with perfect precision we manoeuvred the boat into the birth and Ann jumped off to tie up like she had been doing it for years. This is when the holiday really did begin. The cat had already been to Burnham once and immediately felt at home, even doing a final patrol of the boat before turning in.
Unfortunately the following day turned into another finger of god type day, firstly, after contacting Havengore bridge and being told it was broke we were forced to continue to the Whitaker spit buoy. As we emerged from the Crouch Estuary we were reminded that we are a very small boat surrounded by a lot of water. Even so we were quite happily making our way around the Whitaker spit buoy and then heading for the Maplin Sands, when a boat approached us. A lone figure emerged from the wheel house and leaned over the guard rail. His voice was muffled with the sound of wind and waves but I could just about make out enough to understand what he was ranting on about. Apparently it was target practice day and they only had one shot left to fire, and I was going to slow. I think they were worried that they would have to go home without firing their last shot, though I can’t see why they couldn’t save it for next time they were playing. The gentleman on the boat asked me to go due south, and feeling a little apprehensive due to the GPS telling me not too I did what was asked. For quite a while I followed
the motorboat until I heard the shot. With a wave the motorboat turned and was
soon out of sight. I turned back to my original course, when I reached the
Maplin Sands I headed south towards Harty.
By the time I cut across the sands between the Red Sands Towers and the Shivering Sands Towers it was getting dark, the sails had been lowered and I was under engine power. By the time I reached Harty it was totally dark but I had bought a high powered torch in Burnham and had no problem catching a mooring buoy. The following morning it was still blowing hard but the trip through the Swale was pleasant and we decided to just stop off a Queenborough for some provisions before heading to Stangate creek where we spent our last night. The holiday was pleasant despite Tollsbury and the heavy weather, and though I vowed never to return to Tollsbury I will without a doubt return, though a little wiser regarding the channel being as wide as a bicycle tyre. Eddie Johnson |
Last modified: August 31, 2008 Eddies Holiday
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The sail continued with some
of the best sailing we had experienced since buying the boat, even the cat got
into the sailing spirit and spent most of the time looking over the side. So we
were not too disappointed when as we headed towards the River Blackwater we had
to start the engine and continue under power.
