Chapter 2

The garage was done, including the flood barriers which were supposed to seal the interior against inundation. Iron Horse Motorcycles had done the necessary to the Venom and the model 18, and they, with the LE and the AJS were installed in there. It seems that there are still funds set aside which would pay Iron Horse for maintenance for quite some time since there would be no more rent to pay. I was very happy for them to look after my... ‘Iron Horses’. They seem both honest and competent. All my machines were old enough to be tax and MOT exempt, but as advised they would have at least an annual check over. I was advised to have them serviced every couple of thousand miles or annually, whichever came first. (I have.) The Venom was (still is) a lot of bike for me, but I could manage. It got me to Ipswich to visit family quicker than either the AJS or the LE (not that almost anything wouldn’t be quicker than the LE. The AJS will do seventy, but that Venom does it apparently without effort. I enjoy it).

That yacht – the one which belonged to Sam, which I thought had been sold and which was now mine – was checked over, anti-fouled, and put in the water. It’s Bermudan cutter rigged, meaning it has one mast, with a mainsail, fore-stay sail and jib, though without a bowsprit. Additionally to the mainsail, there’s a trysail, basically a small sail in case of a gale, and as well as the standard staysail, there is a Genoa, a very powerful foresail, and a storm jib, so there’s a good suit of sails and they’re in excellent condition thanks to Sam’s provision with a local sailmaker. I was a lucky girl. At least, I, if I had the skills to manage her. As a dinghy sailor, I knew the basic principles, of course, but had no experience of skippering a keel-boat, or any powered boat. There are peculiarities to managing a boat intended for sailing, under power, so I consulted Tom.

“You’re wise not to take off without some training,” he told me. “You just need someone with some experience for a few days until you get the measure of your vessel. I can think of several ladies who would help you out – Pippa Henderson, Cherry Thornton, Nadiya ... um, can’t remember her surname – but all of those are away at University or College except during holidays. Would you mind a man? I can recommend Rusty Ironside. Steve Ironside, that is. He’s got his Offshore Skipper and just passed the Barge-Master board. He’d welcome some income. I take it that you could afford to pay an instructor? A week would set you back about five hundred, I should think.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Tom. Thank you. Can you put me in touch with him?”

He chuckled. “Since you mention it, if you wander down to the Hythe Quay, I rather think you’ll find him wrapping up some routine maintenance on board SB Thistle.”

He was, indeed, ‘wrapping up’ on board Thistle. I watched as he finished ‘wrapping’ an eye-splice. He looked up and smiled. “Hello! Can I help you?”

“I don’t know. Tom Carmichael suggested you might be interested in helping me learn my way round my boat – Sea Scout – I’m okay in a dinghy, but have no experience of keel-boats.”

“Sea Scout? Sam Carter’s boat?” He examined me, head cocked. “I thought I recognised you. You and your husband brought Sam cruising on board Repertor. And you were with Tom and his family the other day.”

“That’s right. He left his boat to me – us – my husband died a few months before Sam.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Not entirely sure. A week’s cruising? It’s not really practical to do day sails with the tides the way they are, do you think?”

“You could certainly learn a lot in a week. You’d be happy sharing a thirty-foot yacht with a random man?”

I laughed. “Random man? Recommended by Tom and Chrissie? I don’t know that I would go off with just any man, however qualified. Still, I’m not exactly Playboy material.”

“Actually,” he said seriously, “you’re a very attractive woman – not that physical perfection is necessary to a predator. But if you feel safe with me, I’ll be happy to offer my services.”

His compliment stirred something inside me. Surely he couldn’t be interested in a woman at least ten years older than him? Whatever. I did feel safe with him; he had a lot to lose if he pushed things further than was appropriate.

“Okay, then. When might you be available?”

“I’m out this week and the weekend, but next week?”

“Sounds good. Anything you don’t eat?”

He laughed. “Oh, no. Omnivorous, that’s me. Don’t get too carried away with provisions, though. I’d expect to land from time to time and pick up fresh produce; Harwich, Woodbridge, Mersea. And there are some good places to get a meal – Stone, Pin Mill. Think about whether you want to do some night watches and go further afield – Lowestoft, for example.”

“I will! I’m excited! Thanks!”

For the rest of the week I stocked up on preserved food, filled the diesel tank, rinsed out the drinking water tank. I took the Morris and bought a couple of bags of smokeless fuel, knowing that even in late spring it can get cold on board a boat. I also got a second bottle of propane. I made sure everything was working and learned which ropes did what. (I know – no ‘ropes’ on board a boat). I hoisted (and lowered and stowed) sails in the light winds alongside the boatyard quay. High water the following Monday wasn’t until nearly mid-day, so I left shopping for perishables until first thing on Monday. Rusty was on board with his dunnage when I got back from shopping.

“Time for a cuppa before we leave,” he said, “and we can stop for lunch if you like about Osea Island, or have sandwiches under way.”

I showed him the location of the gas bottles and gas shut-off, and lit the gas under the kettle. “Tea or coffee?” I asked, fetching a bag of beans, a small grinder and a cafetiere out of a locker.

“If that’s real coffee, then coffee, please. Mostly we drink tea on the barges, but anyone who’s sailed with Jenni Peters knows about good coffee.”

“Jenni Peters? Would that be who Tom’s youngest is named for?”

“It would. She’s quite remarkable. Imagine a barge-master with a doctorate in mathematics.”

“I don’t think I can!” I busied myself with the grinder, grinding enough coffee for two mugs as the kettle boiled. I’m told that it’s better not to put water which is actually boiling on the grounds, so I made a judgment that the water was just short of there, poured some over the grounds, stirred, and topped up. Like tea, coffee is best not ‘stewed’ – at least, not unless you like it that way – so after two or three minutes I pressed the plunger gently down and dispensed two mugs of coffee. I fetched milk out of the little fridge and raised an eyebrow at Rusty.

“Not in coffee, thanks.”

We sat companionably in the cockpit, sipping black coffee and nibbling chocolate digestives, and watching the river level rise. By the time we’d finished our snack, it was time to start getting ready to go; we hoisted the mainsail and singled up to the bow line, which Rusty told me to double and secure both ends to our bitts. Sea Scout lifted and the stern swung out so we were pointing into the wind and she was about at right-angles to the boatyard.

Rusty called out, “Let go forrard!”

I released one end of the bow mooring and pulled at the other; the warp slid round the shore-side bitts and I pulled it in and coiled it as Sea Scout drifted backwards. The bitter end dropped into the river before I could get it all inboard, but I finished coiling it.

I made my way aft, and watched Rusty push the tiller across to set us across the wind. He managed the main-sheet, pulling in until the mainsail was drawing.

“How about setting the staysail?” he suggested.

I could do that. Both the staysail and jib were on rollers, so it was just a matter of releasing the furling line and tightening in on the sheet. “Jib?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

Setting the jib was equally as quick and easy as the staysail. I knew enough to go round the boat getting fenders inboard and stowing them, and Rusty smiled when I finished and joined him in the cockpit. “I’m not sure how much I need to teach you,” he laughed. “Probably you know the stuff – it’ll just be a matter of confidence, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” I responded, uncertainly. “This boat is more than twice the length of the dinghy I’m used to, and a very great deal heavier.”

“And that’s all. You just need more water, and things happen slower, really. Of course the boat will sail faster in a decent breeze, but she’ll be slower in a tack or gybe. Come here and take the tiller, Captain.”

I was nervous at first, but yes, she responded to the tiller much like a dinghy. The westerly wind made things easy as we sailed past the Hythe and bore away to parallel the prom. Rusty adjusted the sails as we did so and I could see that they did, indeed, work just like the dinghy’s – of course. Physics. The dynamics of wind and water do vary with the size of a boat, but not that much.

By the time we rounded Herring Point and headed past Heybridge, I was feeling pretty good. Good enough to wave to a couple of kids in a little Mirror dinghy. Rusty was smiling.

“See?” he laughed. “It’s about taking your time and being confident. You haven’t done anything wrong yet. That was a nice gybe round Herring Point. Do me another one when we get to Hilly Pool Point.”

I did. Free down to Osea, then another (perfect) gybe at ‘The Doctor’, the green conical at the point.

“Do you need a break?”

I thought about that. I was enjoying myself. We were on a broad reach, with little chance of an involuntary gybe. “I’m okay, thanks.”

“Then I’ll make the sandwiches, okay?”

Mature cheese and pickle between slices of stone-ground brown wholemeal bread. Crusty bread. Earl Grey tea, but in travel mugs. Happily, we’d finished eating by the time we’d reached the old nuclear power-station and had to bear away. A gybe was necessary to fetch the Bench Head buoy, which we rounded about four hours after leaving, necessitating another gybe.

“Well, Norma. How are you feeling?”

“Loving this! I’ll sleep well tonight, though.”

“There’s about ... how much time for the ebb to run?”

A quick calculation. “An hour?”

‘Yep! Just about. It’ll take a couple of hours to get into Pyefleet Creek for the night. But continuing on would take us about five hours to the Shelf off Harwich.”

“Let’s head in. I don’t want to try to sleep next to the container terminal, or get into Hamford Water. Let’s have a quiet night and time to cook something for supper.”

Pyefleet creek separates the east of Mersea Island from the mainland. A similar channel on the west doesn’t quite meet it, except at high tides, and is crossed by a road called the Strood. (The Strood is sometimes covered by a high tide). But Pyefleet Creek is a secluded and fairly sheltered anchorage. We dropped the anchor there just after six in the evening, did a rough stow, hoisted a black ball, and set about preparing a hot meal. We ate that sitting in the cockpit with mugs of tea before retiring to our bunks early. To actually get out of the creek in the morning we needed to leave before low tide, which meant we needed to get up early.

I’ve never been able to sleep heavily or even well before an early start, so I was up and moving at four o’clock, with the kettle on and, after a brief hesitation, sausages under the grill. Rusty probably slept lightly too and was disturbed by my activity, so he appeared as the kettle was boiling.

“Whereaway is the wind?” he asked, yawning.

I blushed. “I haven’t checked.”

He tutted, but smiled. “Better take a look, then,” he opined, climbing barefoot out of the cabin to the cockpit. The sausages were about ready when he returned. “South-west,” he informed me. “What does that mean?”

The question took me by surprise, but I frowned in concentration. “I suppose it’s going to tend to push us onto the mud, and the tide is falling.”

“Very good! So?”

“I suppose it’s the engine, then.”

“Just so. We might manage, or we might not, and be stuck here for six hours or so waiting to be floated off.”

“Apparently I’m supposed to grease the glands before starting the engine. They showed me how. But have a sandwich.” I handed him a sausage sandwich and a mug of coffee, but left mine on a plate as I climbed out into the cockpit and opened a hatch aft. I only needed to turn a knob a couple of turns. I started the motor from the panel by the tiller and let it run. My return to the cabin permitted me to wash the grime of the engine compartment off my hands and pick up my sandwich.