Chapter 1: Pink Hair

It was a grey day, though the threat of rain never materialised it was cool and I was glad of the layers of clothing and water-proof oversuit. The fresh breeze meant I'd taken down a reef – a sensible precaution for a single-handed sailor in an unballasted dinghy – but I was still ready for a break and my lunch, so upriver from Woolverstone, just down from the Orwell Bridge, I beached Explorer and pulled her well up. There was a solitary walker trudging along the road, only yards away at that point, that I ignored as I bundled the mainsail and furled the foresail. I was shrugging out of my life-jacket when I was startled by a quiet, feminine voice close behind me.

"Is that a Wayfarer? It doesn't look quite right."

I jerked round and nearly lost my balance. She was slight, bundled in a startling pink – very pink duvet jacket; apart from that all I noticed was her matching pink hair as she swept off a stocking-hat ... and a lot of hardware in the form of studs and rings through ears, nose and lips.

Sorry, but I'm a fuddy-duddy, though only fifty. Hardware does not belong through the flesh of human beings and I much prefer natural hair to anything artificial. On the other hand, I'm a sailor and we sailors never dislike anyone who takes an interest in our crafts.

"No, it's a one-off," I said. "I used to have a Kestrel, but it was very lightly built and old, so eventually I built a hull to my own specifications out of ply to replace it and used the spars from the old boat. It's stiffer, heavier and more stable and there's more room when I want to sleep on board. On the other hand, it's slower." I was proud of my boat. I know it wasn't – isn't – perfect but it suits me and I can manage it solo whereas the Kestrel was a bit of a handful.

"You built it? Wow. What do you mean, stiffer?"

"Sailing jargon," I smiled, "it means it isn't as tippy when there's a gust of wind. The Kestrel was what we call 'tender' meaning it tipped very easily but came back easily too."

I was embarrassed. I wanted my sandwiches, but didn't want to run her off or eat in front of her. I came to a decision.

"I was just about to have my lunch," I said, "like a cheese-and-onion-relish sandwich with me?"

I recognised the look on her face because it's one I've worn on occasion. Courtesy warring with hunger. I could see the indecision in her. There was a long pause.

"If you don't mind, I am a little hungry," she said.

It wasn't really a big deal. No-one in their right mind sets out in a small boat without food and drink for a longer time than you're expecting to need. I dug out my little camp-stove, food bag, set up a wind-break, laid a small picnic blanket and started boiling water for tea. I sat down next to the stove and looked up at her, patting the blanket beside me. When she sat down I opened my box of sandwiches and offered it to her.

"Thank you," she said quietly as she took one. I checked the stove and when I looked back the sandwich was gone. My word ... she was hungry. I offered her the box again. "Are you sure? I don't want to run you short." I could hear indecision in her voice.

"I've plenty for now," I said, "go on, take one. I'm afraid I haven't any milk; I don't use it. I've got Redbush or ordinary tea."

"Thanks," she said, taking another sandwich. "Redbush is fine without milk."

We ate our way through my stock of sandwiches and a couple of packets of crisps. She didn't take too much persuasion to accept a piece of Bakewell tart. As we talked, I gradually stopped noticing the studs and rings, the startling pink hair. She had a lovely voice and, once I could see past the hardware, a sweet face. I guessed her age at mid-twenties.

"Did you say you sleep in her?" She looked puzzled.

"I don't have too much money," I said. "I live in an old houseboat that I wouldn't dare take to sea, but I like pretending to be an explorer. I can put up a boom-tent over Explorer, lay an air-bed in the bottom and be snug in a sleeping-bag. Of course the facilities are kind of primitive..."

She giggled. I liked the giggle and began looking at her speculatively.

"I can imagine," she said. "It can't be worse than sleeping rough, though."

"I suppose not. I've never been ... quite ... that low," I paused, thinking. It was my turn to be indecisive. The silence drew out and I several times drew breath to speak but let it out again. "Um ... are you ... living rough at the moment?"

She looked at me, met my eyes. "Yes."

"Um ... if you'd like to sail with me ... I can offer you a bunk back at my house-boat. I've got a spare sleeping-bag. It's pretty basic, but ... better than huddling under a bridge of something."

I thought it was to her credit she didn't jump at the offer but thought about it. Of course her next words could explain any reluctance;

"I've never done any sailing."

"It's pretty safe, really. As a crew, I'll tell you what to do if you want to come. I sail solo usually, but if there's someone else in the boat it makes things easier, but you will need to do things for me 'cos you'd be in my way otherwise." I started packing things away.

"Okay. What would I need to do?"

I explained the duties of a dinghy crew – the jib (foresail) sheet, centre-board and balance, furling or setting the jib; how to get the sail pulling just right.

"I ... I'd like to try, if that's okay. If I'm scared, could you put me ashore?"

"Sure. At least, until we pass Harwich. Once we're at sea you're stuck with me until we get to where I'm going."

"And ... I don't know your name. I'm Lexie."

"Glad to meet you Lexie," strangely, that wasn't just a politeness; I really meant it. "You can call me Bill."

I always carry a spare life-jacket and dry clothes in a 'dry-bag'. It's just common sense.

It was easy sailing. With the off-shore breeze, we were away without difficulty. There was enough wind to keep the speed up to about five knots, about as fast as Explorer will go and we were reaching, the fastest and easiest point of sailing. That meant just under two hours to Harwich. As we passed Shotley point, I said loudly;

"Decision time. Stop, or go on?"

"Go on! I'm a bit tired, but ... I love it!"

Passing Harwich we were close-hauled. We got a bit tossed about by the wash from a big container ship coming in to Felixstowe, but all it really did was slow us for a minute or two.

Past Landguard Point, I turned north-east. It was a dead run, meaning we were heading straight down-wind, and the wind was stronger. I had Lexie pull the centre-board nearly right up. Running is not a fast point of sailing and can be dangerous. To the layman, it looks as though it ought to be easy but several things can go wrong; there's a tendency for the boat to start rocking from side to side, which is uncomfortable and can get out of control, and the wind can shift and slam the sail across; that can damage the boom, rigging or sail and seriously unbalance the boat; it's the most common cause of a capsize. I kept the boat heading a little further east than I needed to give me a larger margin of safety.

"Lexie!" I called to her and she moved nearer. "I'm going to get the mainsail across – that's called gybing – I'll warn you, then call 'gybe-oh'. Duck your head, and you'll probably have to change sides with the jib. Okay?"

"Okay!" Her eyes were sparkling. Oh, the enthusiasm of the young...

Four hours after starting, I headed in toward the Deben; the tide was still ebbing, there wouldn't be much water over the bar and it was wind against tide, so it would be rough.

"Lexie, it's going to be rough for a bit, okay? But we should be alright. Just hang on. Centre-board about half-way down, please."

She nodded, trimmed the set of the jib as I turned in, and started working the centre-board down, then we were in the choppy water over the bar. There are two problems in dealing with broken water, especially in a small boat. Firstly, it really slows the boat down, and secondly, if you've got the slightest tendency to sea-sickness, it'll turn you up. We were lucky, in that we were close-reaching rather than close-hauled, but we still had about ten minutes in very unpleasant motion. Lexie looked a bit green, but I expect I did too. I had the advantage of controlling the boat, which gave me something to think about. But then, we were through, and broad-reaching up river. It was the last of the ebb which meant quite a current to fight though less than at the peak time about two hours before. It took maybe half an hour to reach the Ferry, land and park the dinghy in the boat-yard; plus nearly an hour to put the boat to bed.