Re-evolutionary

A River Ore adventure – one almost as long as time itself – finally comes to its conclusion

Although Darwin’s On the Origin of Species does not form part of the Day Skipper syllabus there is much for the sailor to learn from his crackpot musings, most of it cautionary. For example, just because life started in the water, that doesn’t mean it also has to end there. Classes teach you how to avoid this outcome by using dividers and an HB pencil.

Moreover, in evolutionary terms, as omitted in his book, lemmings are closely related to meerkats who interbred with three wise monkeys which in turn, by a process of natural selection, went on to produce a particular mutation known as the leisure sailor. This took place shortly after the invention of fibreglass.

And there we three were, me, Mark and quiet Dave, on their boat, approaching the fabled and feared entrance to the River Ore, our very location and demeanour living proof of the fallacy of evolution and that monkeys aren’t that smart. For in the outrageous understatement typical of pilot books the Ore entrance is most commonly described as ‘challenging’ when it is in fact a euphemism. The correct nautical term is ‘suicidal’.

Inching against the south-going flood towards Orford Haven safe-water buoy our sails were slatting to and fro, filling and collapsing monotonously, powered only by the unpleasant rolling of the boat. This technique, known as ‘motorsailing’, is favoured by sailors who enjoy the sport of ducking under the boom every three seconds.

Officially you’re supposed to raise an inverted cone to denote that you’re motorsailing. We weren’t displaying one. And as I’ve done courses I was fearful that my certificate might be confiscated if our transgression was spotted by the sailing authorities. I pointed this out to Mark, who said belligerently: “It’s bleedin’ obvious the sails aren’t doing anything,” which is the kind of response you get from people who haven’t done courses. Quiet Dave remained neutral on the matter.

Nevertheless, we had other things on our minds. As we approached the turn at the safe-water mark the outboard was spluttering and stuttering, the revs spasmodically surging and then dropping off. Mark, who’s a retired engineer, and so much prefers fixing things than having them work properly, placed a damp rag on the fuel pump, and as the revs stabilised it was only our heartbeats that raced.

Now all we had to do was fling ourselves over the precipice, in other words consign ourselves to the in-rushing flood that swirled around the ever-shifting shingle banks, and navigate between buoys ‘that don’t necessarily mark best water’, using charts that said ‘not to be used for navigation’.

Then my phone rang. It was my mate Mike McCarthy who’d entered the river an hour before and was anchored safely in the far distance. Ever since he gave up sailing and bought a motorboat Mike’s taken it upon himself to be guardian angel to his sailing chums. Mostly that means he spends most of his time helping sailors whose only distress is the proximity of his motorboat. But on this occasion his intervention was very welcome. He said: “OK, you’ve got six and a half metres at the safe water mark so you should be fine as long as you give the port hand buoy a good offing. That’s the red one.”

I relayed this to Mark who said, rather defensively I thought: “Well, I wasn’t planning to give it an ‘onning’.” Mark, who’s tallest, was on the helm at the rear; Dave, next tallest, stood in front of him on the seat to get a clear view, and I stood in front of him on the bridge deck to get a better one. Mark had none. This isn’t something you learn in theory classes but is standard procedure on practical courses and sailing in general. We all craned our necks, and with eyes open so wide our eyeballs were in danger of falling out, glanced rapidly from side to side as if we were watching a tennis match on Wimbledon’s centre court. Meerkats couldn’t have done it better.

As I was the only who could see the instruments I called out the depth, which remained reassuringly constant at five until Mark pointed out I was reading the log. I didn’t learn that on a course. And then we were in. “Simples,” said quiet Dave smiling quietly.

The River Ore is spine-tinglingly beautiful. Later, as three jolly meerkats and Mike enjoyed a pint at Orford’s Jolly Sailor I asked Mike how come he knew where the best water is. “Simples,” he said, “I phoned the harbour master.” Good advice. That makes me think Mike has taken a different evolutionary path.

‘I called out the depth, which remained constant at five until Mark pointed out I was reading the log’