Dave Selby
Only hardened cruisers know how little effort actually goes into yacht racing
‘My mooring was the one with tangled rope more slippery than a doubleglazing salesman’
Cruising, the very pinnacle of human sporting endeavour, is often dismissed by racing sailors who think all it involves is reading a Sunday paper while laying hove-to on the start line of a race.
As if that’s not challenging enough, variations include doing the same at anchor, on someone else’s mooring, or, at its most adventurous, in a marina. But there’s more to it than that. In fact I’ve completed crosswords in all of those situations, and that is real pressure, particularly if someone wants their mooring back and it’s a cryptic crossword.
As a cruiser I’m always looking to stretch myself as long as it doesn’t involve stretching myself, and the opportunity came this summer when I accepted the ultimate sporting challenge, ‘The Cruise in Company’.
The gauntlet was laid down by my mate Tommy the racer, who lied: “Fancy a gentle little cruise up the east coast?” I knew it was a lie because I’d done a spot of so-called ‘gentle racing’ with him, and, sensing an opportunity for revenge, I puffed out my chest and said: “You, a mere racer, dare challenge me, the ultimate cruiser, to a duel. Your accursed ‘cruise in company’ holds no fear for me, puny earthling.”
In retrospect I think that might have been a slight overreaction, as became apparent when Tommy proposed leaving Maldon at midnight, dropping down river to anchor in the dark and waiting for the ebb.
Fortunately Tommy has a wife, so that didn’t happen, but the rest of it did.
My Sailfish is 18ft long, Tommy and Karen’s Samphire 29ft. For the first day Tommy proposed a ‘gentle jaunt’ from Maldon to Felixstowe Ferry at the mouth of the River Deben, which just shows how little he knows about cruising.
In the first place it was off the edge of my chart. Second, he was talking about 40 or so miles, a distance no self-respecting cruising sailing would attempt in a day, although I’ve heard the total was once racked up on a two-week flotilla by a boat that didn’t put its sails up. Credit where credit’s due.
Next morning I set off hours ahead of Tommy, only to be quickly overtaken, and spent the rest of the day with sails up and my Mariner 3.3hp running flat out as I trailed further and further behind.
The meal at the Ferry Boat Inn was fabulous, everyone agreed, and I really enjoyed hearing about it when I’d got back from a taxi run to Felixstowe for petrol. Tommy’s wife Karen saved me three chips and some bones.
That kinda set the tone. Next day, by the time I got to Ramsholt they were drinking tea in their cockpit, and, motoring flat out against the ebb as I inched past the stern of Tommy’s moored boat, he said “Get a hurry on, Dave, I’ve saved you a mooring.”
By the time I got abreast of their beam Karen had laid out nibbles and they were on to the gin and tonics, as Tommy said “chin, darling, get a move on, Dave, you’re blocking the view of the sunset.”
Karen, rather more considerately, said: “Dave, how do you want your steak done? I’ll put the order in for you.”
The mooring Tommy had so thoughtfully reserved for me was the one with tangled rope more slippery than a double-glazing salesman, and by the time I’d subdued it I looked like the creature from the black lagoon.
Nevertheless, the steaks at the Ramsholt Arms were extremely succulent, everyone agreed, and I was eager to tuck into mine. As my meal arrived Tommy said: “There you go, Dave, medium rare, just how you like it.” It was vegetarian moussaka – they’d run out of steaks.
When I arrived at Waldringfield the next day Tommy and Karen were moored so close to the Maybush Inn they could reach the peanuts at the bar.
This time Tommy had saved me a mooring “just round the bend,” and by the time I rowed back to the pub the kitchen was closed.
As I stood there panting and dripping in sweat, Tommy said: “What a pleasant surprise, I thought you’d eat in Woodbridge. It’s much closer to your mooring.”
Years ago, when I first started sailing I overheard a couple in Maldon Little Ship Club plaintively bemoan: “We no longer have holidays, we have to go sailing.”
I didn’t get it then, now I do. They’d been on a cruise in company with Tommy.