EAST-COAST SAILING
Nick Ardley helps a New Zealand expat relive some of his memories of sailing along the Thames Estuary as a boy
Nick Ardley helps a New Zealand ex-pat relive some of his childhood sailing
‘I’ve never seen Iken Church from the water,’ Paul Mullings wrote in an email, long before he arrived from down-under for an English summer away from a New Zealand winter. I gave him a slot with favourable tides to enter the Rivers Ore and Alde and it was booked into
Whimbrel’s family summer sailing calendar. Paul is a seasoned sailor, downsizing to a Farr trailer-sailer. He’s part of an active group around New Zealand’s North Island. Essex born, he reappears now and then. On his last visit in 2017 he caressed the time worn stem of the famous spritsail racer, Veronica, in her marshland grave at Bedlams Bottom, Stangate Creek, and sailed the Medway’s inner passages. This voyage would be far more adventurous and weather dependent.
On a glorious Friday morning, late August, Paul’s lovely wife Shona delivered him to Bradwell. After coffee and chat, the girls departed just before noon to visit Bradwell’s air force memorial upon which New
Zealanders are named. Boat briefing over, we slipped the lines and were away.
Our Finesse 24,
Whimbrel was under sail before clearing Bradwell
Creek and we enjoyed an uneventful sail to
Brightlingsea, marvelling at the stately spritsail barge
Centaur inbound for
Maldon. The tender’s bottom needed scrubbing, once done we had tea. Later, over a beer we toasted, ‘Iken or bust!’ It was a glorious sunset, rowing back after supper ashore.
Our planned departure was earlyish, so after ensuring morning readiness, the bunks were soon listening to our slumbering snores.
The screaming alarm woke me the following morning and I put the kettle on. Outside there was no wind. I shortened lines and streamed the tender astern. I called ‘Tea!’ to Paul and he swiftly appeared, grabbing a mug. A brief discussion and we were away, clearing Brightlingsea beacon shortly after 0600. We sneaked round Colne Point, my usual route with enough tide. We motor sailed for five hours. Our only disconcerting moment was when a large yacht chased up our stern and raced by on autopilot.
Before Orford Haven, we were sailing and soon swept past the weir with an hour of flood. The bar was quiet, but a heave along the shingle threatened swell. In glorious sunshine we delighted in a sail into the Butley River. Soon after anchoring off Boynton Dock, Paul was away in Twitch, Whimbrel’s gunterrigged tender. Paul later commented on the noticeable lack of birds. But we saw seals galore.
That evening we enjoyed a brace of lamb chops marinated in red wine, rosemary and garlic, a
Whimbrel special, washed down with a glass or two. Sunday dawned in glorious fashion with a mistiness over the low land. We sailed off our anchorage and up past Orford and its castle. We lost the wind near Aldeburgh and motor sailed. Passing through the moorings I spotted a sister Finesse. Later while navigating carefully along the torturous withymarked channel we passed another. Reaching Troublesome Reach, Paul was beaming. Close under Iken’s St Botolph’s church, he went forward to gaze and drink in the wondrous view; it’s only in the upper reaches one can appreciate the shallow valley’s beauty. I was, however, twitching a little: the tide was ebbing, so we turned towards Aldeburgh, stopping for a walk into town, lunching at the yacht club.
We sailed slowly down to Orford, nattering, eventually mooring to a buoy with an orange pick-up as advised by the chart. Wrong! The harbour master promptly dispatched us to another buoy at the outer northern reaches. The Jolly Sailor was more accommodating, where we had a fine fish supper.
After a leisurely New Zealand-style fried breakfast we crept down Narrow Cuts on an idyllic Monday morning. It was an uneventful passage to Languard Point, through Harwich harbour and up the Orwell with its soft rounded hills reminiscent of The Three Graces’ curves. We moored off Pin Mill’s hard, fittingly amongst many wooden sisters.
SING AFTER SUPPER
‘Cheers,’ said Paul over a beer, a precursor to supper ashore at the Butt & Oyster. The tide was right for the floating pontoon, saving a slosh up the tidewashed hard. Heading back to Whimbrel we spotted the welcoming lights of the Pin Mill Sailing Club. Over a nightcap Paul joined in with a sailors sing-song. I listened!
Another scorching day greeted us on Tuesday. Whilst preparing to depart, we watched the timeless sight of the engineless spritsail barge Cambria being plucked off her berth, setting sail as she passed by under the ancient wooded hillside.
We slowly tacked seawards astern of Cambria, my thoughts on time and tide. Outside Harwich Harbour, the engine was started, and we motor sailed under main sail. It was clearly one of those weeks. Passing The Naze, in four metres, it was so quiet the bottom was visible. We spotted crab pots strung out and then the unmarked run of floats ahead.
Cruising leisurely close inshore past Walton, Frinton, the low seawall hiding Holland Haven and Clacton, we discussed the coast’s changes.
A breeze arrived and we closed Colne Point, sailing serenely up to Mersea Stone, stowed sail and prepared for berthing. Originally West Mersea had been the plan but flexibility is my key, especially when wind is in short supply.
It was dark for our early departure to Queenborough. Dawn rose as a suffused light, hinting of rain. The deluge was to come later. Brimming with his infectious spirit, Paul donned his full set, whilst I, taking my time, only needed a jacket as I watched the squall dissipate.
Refreshed, we sallied forth in pleasant conditions for a celebratory jar or two in the Admiral’s Arm
EARLY BIRDS
We crossed the Swin Swatchway around low water. ‘Head south,’ I said, as Paul quizzically studied the Garmin GPSMAP. We swept over the Whitaker Spit with a metre under us. Munching bacon sandwiches, the Cambria was seen setting sail from deep within the East Swin, an ancient bargemen’s anchorage.
We couldn’t clear the Swin’s foot without tacking, so I used a swatchway through the Barrow Sand, tacking before the deep-water ship route, then west of Blacktail Spit. Just 30 minutes later, off Garrison Point, we resorted to our iron-topsail.
After mooring, tea was enjoyed. ‘Birds,’ said Paul as he munched cake. I looked at the mud flats, alive with feathered friends. As much as it would have been nice to watch them longer I was too tired. Rest and sleep was needed.
Refreshed, we sallied forth in pleasant conditions for a celebratory jar or two in Queenborough’s finest pub, the Admiral’s Arm, where I enjoyed a pickled egg too. For supper, we trusted the Flying Dutchman.
Our last day dawned. Breakfasted and tidied we readied for the short cruise across the Thames’s Sea Reach. We had an hour of ebb left as we sailed off the buoy. Reaching outbound under a friendly southwesterly, Queenborough and Paul’s beloved Admiral’s Arm diminished in sight, if not memory.
A little after low water we swept past the Leigh Buoy, west of Southend Pier, skirting new buoys marking a hooked sand bank. I was pleased to see one corresponded to my GPSMAP input. We were in home waters and enjoyed a cracking sail up the Ray to Smallgains Creek on the eastern tip of Canvey Island as a finale.
The boat was left ready: on the morrow, Friday, Christobel and I were off again to attend Queenborough’s traditional boat rally.
It was then I saw Paul’s note in Whimbrelõs log. I read his words: ‘Mission Achieved!! Thanks Nick, it was fun, and I’ll remember it for years to come.’