Chapter 3

When I woke, she was gone. Oh, not far ... just to the galley. Get up, lazybones! Roll up that bedding, reinstate the table, now you can use the head.

The rain had cleared and bright sun was peeking through the cabin windows. A mug of coffee materialised in front of me as, dressed, I slipped into the seating by the table.

“Thanks,” I croaked, cleared my throat, “Thank you, Clara.”

“Porridge this morning?”

“That’ll do nicely.” Neither of us mentioned her sneaking into my bed in the night.

By lunch-time (tuna rissoles) I knew there would be no productive writing that day. I read through what I’d written thus far, and was quite pleased with it. Made a few corrections. Re-wrote an awkward passage, but no. No spark.

“It’s no good,” I sighed.

“What’s the problem?”

“It happens,” I sighed again, “I’m always erratic when I write. There’s nothing there today.”

“Could we sail?”

“It’s just about low water, or a bit past, so we’d be fighting the tide to get out. I think we’d be better waiting until high water tomorrow morning. Relaxing day. Read. Watch birds. Listen to music.”

“I’d like for you to explain how a sailing boat works.”

“I can do that.”

So we spent an hour or so, after washing up, on the theory of sailing. She was very quick on the uptake and I saw the light of understanding in her eyes. Then, mugs of tea, sitting in the cockpit with the binoculars and a bird-book. Most of the time I was content with what I could see with my model zero eyeballs, but from time to time Clara would ask something and I’d take the glasses to look and be sure of what I thought. For the non-birders out there, I should explain that wading birds feed at the edge of the water as it rises or ebbs. Low tide is good, partly because that’s the best time for the birds, and partly because an anchored boat is closest to the edge of the water then.

There were redshank – the ‘sentry of the marsh’, so called because they are the first to call when disturbed – oyster-catchers, with their distinctive red bills and back and white plumage. Curlews, large, with their curved beaks, and their haunting call. Little Dunlin, in winter plumage; their close formation flying a little like starlings, but the colour changing from dark to light as they swoop and turn. Black-tailed Godwits, long-legged and long beaked. Further away, Brent geese ravaged the marsh vegetation, ‘talking’ all the time in their noisy way.

A redshank gave its alarm call and many of the birds took flight, a whirling, confusing mass, as a peregrine plummeted down from the sky. Since peregrines take their prey on the wing, I’ve always wondered why birds take off when they’re around; I expect a naturalist could explain it to me. Perhaps it’s just that the wheeling flock confuses the raptor. Certainly, the constant changing of position in the flock must reduce the chance of a specific individual being targetted. Maybe the falcon was young and inexperienced, because it didn’t make a kill, and flew off.

As dusk fell, we were treated to the sight of a short-eared owl quartering the marsh, but it, too, was out of sight without any signs it had caught anything. We went below to toast muffins for tea. Later, I suggested an early night as I wanted to leave on the top of the tide, which would be before dawn.

“Okay.”

“Are you going to climb into bed with me again?”

“Oh!” She blushed darkly.

“I don’t mind,” I smiled, “but we could just climb in the bed in the fore-cabin and leave the table up.”

“Um...”

“Thermals on both of us. I think you’ll be safe.”

“Yeah...” she looked at me, head cocked. “That’s the thing. I feel safe with you. Safer than I’ve been since ... you know.”

So that is how I ended up in the fore-cabin, instead of the master cabin with the longer bed, sharing the space with a lithe, thermals-clad, young woman.

I slept well. Very well, but not too long. I left Clara in bed and went about preparing for the day. I boiled the kettle twice, and filled a couple of Thermos flasks, one with coffee, one with hot water, and put the kettle back on to heat while I worked on deck. The forecast appeared to be spot on, with only light airs before dawn, and a clear sky was decorated with a magnificent display of stars. I got the sail covers off, folded and stowed, lowered the riding light and black ball, which I folded flat and put away with the sail covers.

By that time, the kettle was beginning to sing again, and Eirene was feeling the turning of the tide. I went below. Clara was still spark out, but jumped when I squeezed her foot with my cold hand, even through socks.

“Wakey wakey, Sweetie! Getting under way in half an hour or so. Get up now and have a hot sausage sandwich. Stay in bed and have it cold later.”

Groan. “Oh...” yawn, “kay. Coming.”

Grilled sausages between slabs of wholemeal bread. Coffee. I was halfway through mine when Clara finished waking and getting up. “Don’t rush,” I told her. “There’s almost no wind, so I’m going to motor out and get the sails up when – or if – there’s some wind.”

“You need someone on the wheel, though.”

“Can manage. Would do, if I were on my own. But if you’re willing, you can finish your breakfast at the wheel.”

I finished eating, drained the coffee, and went to the ‘engine room’. I checked the oil and so on, and fired up the ‘iron sail’, leaving it ticking over as I went forward and began to get the anchor up. It took a while, pulling in anchor-chain (Jenni’s adoptive father, Dave Yeomans, had had an electric winch mounted. Originally he’d pulled it up by hand) brushing mud and weed off before it was anywhere near leaving the ground. By that time, Clara was on deck too.

I showed her how to stem the tide with the engine, balancing thrust against current, and keeping the bows pointing upstream, then went forward again to finish weighing anchor. I have to admit, it was more relaxed knowing that Eirene was under control and I didn’t have to hurry. I finished up on the foredeck and went aft to take over from Clara, but decided to rather talk her through conning the boat out of the creek into the Colne.

Handling a sailing boat with an auxiliary engine is less straightforward than a powerboat designed for the job, but Eirene at least had a central prop, so the thrust impacted on the rudder. Even so, the maximum speed through the water is only about six knots or so. With the current flowing out into the main estuary, there were moments when Eirene was just carried by the flow without steerage way. Really, though, we had no problems staying in the channel. It took about an hour to reach the East Knoll, where we could turn into the Wallet and begin heading north-east. There, we found a light onshore breeze I thought sufficient to sail, so I went about hoisting sails. I think we could have done with the number one Genoa, rather than the number two, but I didn’t want the hassle of changing it. Besides, I remembered Jenni telling me that Eirene didn’t handle well with the big sail. With a ‘green’ crew, it was sensible to keep things simple. Did I say green? Once we were sailing and I stopped the engine, Clara went below for a comfort break. When she emerged, she really was green. I had her take the helm again and fetched a bottle of ginger beer, which I told her to sip at. Concentrating on steering, seeing a stable horizon, helped a lot, but she was glad she didn’t need to go below again while we were sailing.

By the time we reached the Medusa buoy, which marks the north end of the Wallet, the tide had turned again and the current was against us. Additionally the breeze had weakened and turned erratic, so I started the engine again. Heading in to Harwich Haven I didn’t want to lose steerage way anywhere near the main channel. The forecast suggested a flat calm was likely during the afternoon, so I left Clara at the wheel and set about lowering and stowing sails. We didn’t head straight in, as I wanted to avoid the shallowest parts, but followed the Medusa channel inshore. It took two and a half hours to rounding Navyard Wharf so we could tie up at the Ha’penny Pier, get a meal we hadn’t cooked ourselves (Clara got her appetite back with a vengeance once we were on dry land) and did some shopping.

Before it was dark we set off up the Stour to drop the hook at Sutton Ness. That took a couple of hours – under power, since it was again a flat calm. The sky was clear, and after sunset there was some light from the stars and a bit of moon. We were glad to get below and warm. We didn’t really need a cooked meal, but Clara cooked up scrambled eggs, which we consumed with hot-buttered toast. Delicious.

I’m sure there are some out there wondering about my relationship with Clara. After all, cooped up together in a space no bigger than a touring caravan, sleeping together each night ... But no. No sex, not even a kiss, though certainly there were hugs and she snuggled up to me when I wasn’t working.