Chapter 2

I busied myself about the boat. It was a clear night (therefore chilly) but as hoped a pretty good moon – there’d be no trouble finding the way downstream. The wind was North-westerly, which seemed odd. It was forecast, yes, but it suggested that the anticyclone was moving north somewhat. I really should look at a weather chart ... When I went below Jenni was busy in the galley.

“Hot chocolate!” she announced.

“Perfect,” I smiled. “Did you get everything you wanted?”

“Oh, yes, thanks. Food?”

“Baguettes while they’re fresh, and ham?”

“Is there any mustard?”

“If you want to mix some – I only keep powder; in the cupboard above to your left.”

I put red shades on the lights, explaining that it would help our night-vision when we went on deck, and suggested some music; I was a little surprised when she suggested Simon and Garfunkel, but put on “Bridge over Troubled Water”

We were under way by 1, and as soon as we passed Martlesham Creek, we were under sail and I stopped the engine. Sailing at night is, well, different. Tonight, with a decent wind (not too much) and the bright moon, it was almost magical. We were at the Ferry by 4. Conditions, I thought, couldn’t be better, and kept going; we crossed the bar before half-tide and with wind and tide more or less in the same direction it wasn’t very choppy.

It took us about an hour to reach the SW Whiting cardinal and the wind was increasing, and if anything, veering. It was more like NW than Westerly. I left Jenni at the wheel and switched on the radio for a forecast. Sure enough, the “Low, Bailey, moving East, expected Cromarty 0900...” was not behaving as previously forecast.

English weather is notoriously difficult to forecast, but usually follows a pattern. In this case, I was facing a deepening depression with winds increasing and veering. As it was, the North-Westerly gave me a beam reach, more or less, as I was intending to head North-East. But if it continued to increase and veer ... I’m really not that experienced as a skipper, and what of my crew? She was good, no doubt about it, but not good enough to make up for my inadequacies.

There is no shelter before Lowestoft – the entrance to the Ore is difficult in ideal conditions, and this was far from ideal.

The time to reef is when you first think of it. I thought of it.

“Jenni!”

“Yes, Dave?”

“I want you to luff – to turn in to the wind so I can wind down a reef or two. Can you do that? If she falls away, just let her pick up speed and luff again. OK?”

“OK, skipper! Now?”

“Give me a moment. Wait until I get to the mainmast.”

I could reduce the foresail, it’s on a roller, so I did.

I eased the mizzen sheet and ... changed my mind.

Eirene is a ketch. That means she has three basic sails. A fore-sail or fore-stay-sail in front of the main mast, set on the wire stay that supports the mast, a big mainsail behind the mainmast, and a smaller sail set on a smaller mast behind the helmsman, called the mizzen. If you’re facing bad weather, the easiest way to reduce sail and keep the boat ‘balanced’ – so it’s easy to steer – is to drop the mainsail altogether and sail under foresail and mizzen alone. So that is what I did. It was a bit of a struggle to secure the flapping, fighting mass of the mainsail, but I did, and Eirene rode much more easily.

Now what? Sea-room or shelter?

A seaman would usually say “Sea room”. But in the North Sea, that’s not that easy and there’s a lot of traffic; a yacht like Eirene could disappear under the bows of a container ship and not be noticed.

The passage to Lowestoft in good conditions would be about 10 -12 hours in Eirene. These were not ideal conditions. I am not a seaman, just an amateur sailor. Returning to the cockpit, I told Jenni to turn to port, so we tacked, then bore away until the wind was on our starboard quarter. I eased the sheets until I was satisfied with the set of the sails and gave Jenni a course that was a little east of south, and told her that as the weather seemed to be deteriorating I was going to head south to the Orwell and shelter. She nodded.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m ok. Enjoying it, actually. There’s no danger, is there?”

“At the moment, if we keep a good look out, no.”

It took over an hour before we could come up to the now northerly wind and head west, just south of the deep water channel, into Harwich Haven, and it was almost two more hours before we felt the shelter of Landguard point. Then our course was directly into the teeth of the wind; I started the motor, furled the foresail and lowered the mizzen. We turned into the Stour and dropped anchor well clear of the traffic behind Shotley point in Erwarton Bay. I gave her plenty of chain and hoisted a white riding light above a black ball (actually two discs hinged together).

While I’d been settling Eirene, Jenni, bless her, had been heating tomato soup. It was delicious.

It rained. Hard. Despite the shelter, there was enough wind to drive the rain against the cabin, but I was so tired, all I could think of was sleep.

“Bed,” I said to Jenni, who smiled.

“What, no anchor watch?” she asked.

“I just want to sleep!”

So I went to my cabin, removed the top layers, and fell into bed. I was almost asleep when Jenni slid in behind me, spooning up to my back, and draped her arm over me. I was too tired to protest, and was instantly asleep.

I woke just before midday – I am, after all a middle-aged man with a typical middle-aged man’s prostate gland – slid out of bed to a mumbled protest from Jenni though she remained asleep, did the necessary and put the kettle on. The weather had not improved. Lunch seemed like a priority, but supper would need thinking about, too. I fiddled around preparing a casserole with some fresh mince; I’d pop it in the oven this afternoon, and when I heard Jenni moving, put sausages in the pan. She walked through the saloon into the forecabin, and emerged just as I was placing sausages between slices of bread.

I suppose she was wearing some togs of Donna’s. By no means glamorous, but much more feminine than I’d seen her in before; a snug long-sleeved polo-neck top, slacks that fitted pretty well. I hadn’t really looked at her as a young woman before. She was medium height ... five foot five or so. Chestnut, straight hair with a natural gloss. Brown eyes (mine are blue... ) in a sweet, round face. Features, well, average, lips neither thin nor particularly plump. Straight, white teeth, straight nose. Figure? Nicely curved, neither thin (remarkable, given her story) nor over-weight. Small breasts, but large enough to shape the jumper pleasingly. An average, attractive, teenager ... but in no way was she average to me...

“How long have you been with me? Is this really only the fourth day?”

“Yep. Seems longer, though, don’t it?”

We spent the day talking and listening to music. I found she was eclectic in her tastes. We listened to classical composers, old and new, folk and country, even a little metal. Most of all, we talked.

“I need to talk to the Police, don’t I?”

“I think so, yes.”
“Will you come with me?”

“If that’s what you want; of course.”

She nestled up to me and, almost automatically, my arm went round her shoulder. You might think I’d be aroused; am I wrong? Well, I wasn’t. I was, however, content; happy in a way I had not been for a very long while. As we listened to Rodrigo’s Concerto d’ Aranuez, I chewed it over. Even before the divorce, the stress at work and the poisonous atmosphere at home, I’d suffered from impotence. I know about erectile dysfunction. I know it happens to most older men at some time, and it’s usually psychological, but it was easier to avoid involvement. I’d experienced no intimacy for years. I was scared. I was scared of changing from ‘protector and father-figure’ to ‘user’. I was scared I would be unable to perform – which is usually a self-fulfilling prophecy. Most of all, I realised I was already thinking of Jenni as a daughter, not a sex-object. I was scared of losing the possibility of a relationship that could replace my lost family.

After supper, the weather was moderating. I suggested to Jenni we had two options. One, we could leave on the next tide for Lowestoft as originally planned. Two, we could move to one of the local marinas, or sail up to Ipswich wet dock – which would probably be better as we’d be close to the town centre.

“You wanted to go to Lowestoft, didn’t you?”

“I did, but I haven’t got any firm appointments; that’ll wait. Besides, if you want my company, I’ll not be working anyway, will I?”

“Can we go to Ipswich, then?”

“Absolutely! But I’ll make a phone call or two to make some arrangements.”

My first call was to Jim Webb. He handled my divorce. He was very good, and we became friends, though my move meant we didn’t get together very often. But I told him the story and he suggested the name of a solicitor in Ipswich he felt would suit, experienced with child-protection issues. I checked with the Wet Dock and was promised a place near the old customs house, though it could mean rafting up outside a couple of other boats. We were all set to ride up on the morning tide.