Dave Selby
Dave’s still having a lot of trouble dragging himself away from his River Ore adventure
There are three kinds of sailors: those who’ve done night classes, those who haven’t, and the third kind. I’m the first kind: cautious, bordering on prudent, I like to think; my mates Mark and Dave are the second kind, reckless bordering on insane. Between us we’ve never agreed on anything, but the third is a greater menace than the first two combined.
It was the last cruise of the year on Mark and Dave’s Jaguar 24, and so far none of us had been arrested. But there was still hope for, as explained in earlier episodes, I’d applied everything I’ve learned to produce a comprehensive passage plan to the notoriously tricky River Ore entrance based entirely on Edgar Allen Poe’s A Descent into the Maelstrom. My plan was basically not to go, but Mark and Dave were thrilled at the prospect, and here we were, heading for the Ore. I had one last hope. Prison.
The official-looking launch with its dark blue hull was scything its way across Harwich Harbour in a rather urgent fashion, bow raised, sea thrust aside, white spray flying, diesel fumes trailing.
As all three of us are self-employed our initial fears were that it was HM Customs & Revenue, but we could make out no lettering on the flanks of its white superstructure. Mark, who’s now retired and so less concerned with such matters, offered: “The binoculars are downstairs, if you guys are interested.”
The other Dave, known as ‘quiet’ Dave, said nothing.
“I think you mean ‘below’,” said noisy Dave – that’s me – as I’ve done night classes and know the importance of using the correct nautical terminology to belittle those who haven’t.
“Woteva,” Mark said, while quiet Dave, whose actions always speak louder than words, brought in the fenders to make boarding less inviting.
For once it seemed we were in agreement, as none of us reached for the binoculars which, as they cost money, are best kept in a cupboard to avoid both saltwater damage and the intrusion of reality.
Instead, using a tripod, theodolite and a hand-bearing compass, I took a series of bearings, and announced: “It’s coming straight for us.”
“I can tell that by using a specialist piece of equipment known as eyes,” said Mark, adding “Doh!” as quiet Dave’s big toe quietly nudged the throttle lever forward.
“Could be Harwich Harbour Pilot,” I suggested. “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Mark countered defensively, which is typical of people who haven’t done classes, as they don’t realise that anyone on the water is always doing something wrong, as taught in theory classes and reinforced on practical courses.
“OK then, how about UK Border Force?” I surmised optimistically, hoping I might be detained, as I’m from Essex which is illegal in Suffolk.
“Border Force, pah!” snorted Mark. “You reckon we’re in the Med, do you then, Mr night school navigator?”
Dave disappeared below – possibly to make tea, he didn’t say – brushing the throttle lever a little further forward on his way past. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not.
Still the blue-hulled launch was gaining. Mark, who always takes the helm in a crisis meaning Dave and I never get a go, turned to port; the blue boat turned to port. Mark turned to starboard; our pursuer responded.
“Coastguard? Lifeboat?” I ventured, hoping we might be impounded or rescued, or torpedoed, then rescued.
“Nah,” said Mark. “They’ve got orange topsides.”
I couldn’t let that go so started to explain: “Actually, the correct term is...” “Shut up,” barked Mark.
“... Superstructure,” I persisted. “Double shut up.”
“OK then, it’s got to be a police boat?” “That’s the stupidest thing you’ve said all day,” said Mark, a fair point as police boats are all in museums.
As the sinister craft drew alongside we slewed about in its bow wash. But what was it? It was my so-called mate Mike McCarthy in his Seaward 23, just like the police used to have when they had boats.
“I hear you’re off to the Ore,” he said. “I’ll call you when I’m in. Leave it an hour after that and you’ll be fine. I’ll tell you where the best water is.”
And that’s the third kind of sailor: the ex-sailor-turned-motorboater. They’re a menace. They spend all their time ‘helping’. That was the last thing we wanted.
‘Mark turned to port; the blue boat turned to port. Mark turned to starboard; our pursuer responded’