The Crew in their new shirts
It
took only a small amount of persuasion to elicit the assistance of my old friends
Messrs Duncan N. Brown and Lee J. Harris to be pressed as crew for my Yachtmaster
assessment in the second week in February. They arrived late on Friday night
after a long and hard journey down from the north of England in heavy traffic,
but after a visit to the local kebab shop and a few cans of lager it was not
long before they were feeling that all was once again right with the world.
In the last few sailing sessions prior to the exam I had experienced a seemingly
never-ending string of minor disasters. The weekend before I had inadvertently
fouled the main bower anchor in Sharfleet creek and, after an unsuccessful two-hour
attempt at recovery, I finally had to give up and cut it loose, leaving a rather
expensive piece of debris stuck in the mud. The loss of the anchor, along with
a broken autopilot, a damaged mainsheet traveller, and a problem with the engine
control lever, and I was beginning to think things were conspiring against me.
It was therefore of little surprise to me when on the morning of the assessment
the diesel-powered cabin heater refused to start.
After a short investigation it looked as if it was in need of some obscure spare
part that could not be ordered until the working week began, so after some moderate
swearing I informed my loyal crew that once we disconnected from the shore side
mains supply at the marina, we were in for a chilly weekend.
To nip any thoughts of a mutiny neatly in the bud I cooked a full English breakfast,
and as Lee handed out a set of embroidered crew shirts he had had made especially
for the occasion, we lined our stomachs for the adventure ahead.
The Crew in their new shirts
The forecast was good, promising fair weather and fresh easterly breezes of
no more than force six Beaufort. We were to make our way to Queenborough and
collect the examiner in the early evening, which meant leaving Hoo on the lunchtime
tide into a freezing headwind blowing against a spring tide.
As we worked our way along the River Medway past the decrepit Bee Ness jetty
we enjoyed steaming hot chocolate drinks on deck despite the rough conditions
before arriving at Queenborough Harbour and tying up to one of the visitor’s
moorings in the shadow of the Radio Caroline transmitter ship the Ross’s
Revenge. We had a long five hour wait before we picked up the examiner, and
I was really missing the boat heater as we sat in the cabin in our thermals
and wet weather gear, watching darkness close in around us as the cold winters
afternoon turned into a cold winters night.
I expected to be much more nervous than I was when I finally pulled the examiner
aboard over Enigma’s bows as we nosed onto the all tide landing that was
packed with anglers preparing themselves for a session of drowning maggots in
the dark. He introduced himself as Trevor and we all shook hands, and then went
about the business of re mooring the yacht on the visitor’s buoy.
It felt very like a driving test with the examiner explaining what would be
expected of me and how he would conduct the test. He also checked my other qualifications;
first aid certificate, Radio operators licence, proof of course completion of
the various RYA theory papers and a brief scan of my pile of old log books to
confirm my qualifying mileage. All was in order and he studied the charts
“I would like you to take us somewhere around here” he stabbed a
finger on the chart. “Find somewhere safe to spend the night and we will
sail back in tomorrow.”
I looked at the familiar shapes of Imray chart 2100.2 covering the River Thames,
Sea Reach. The examiners finger had landed a few centimetres to the left of
Southend Pier.
I rallied the troops, gave them a brief plan and we cast off. Trevor quietly
settled himself on the seat on the starboard pushpit, adjusted his clothing
for comfort and then with a particularly loud and ominous metallic click, doubled
his harness line fast around the rail and fell silent. We motored out of Sheerness
harbour, as I insisted it was safer than sailing if there were unexpected shipping
movements in the narrow entrance off Garrison Point, and we turned head to wind
to meet the chubby swells coming with the wind from the east.
We hoisted sails and had got things in order when Lee emerged from beneath the
spray hood after a stiff bout of winching the headsail sheet in.
“I’m not feeling to good” he commented, which knowing Lee
probably meant he was feeling bad.
“What, sick?” I asked
He nodded his reply through a grimace,
“Take a spell on the helm, it might do you some good.”
Lee shuffled around to the wheel and began guiding our progress through the
night. Sailing was brisk and exciting, over twenty knots of breeze and Engima
with two reefs in the main and a full headsail was going like a train. I was
sat under the spray hood having checked the trim and was watching the red flash
of the Nore Swatch buoy ahead when Lee passed the wheel to Duncan and heaved
spectacularly over the side.
We got cleaned up, which was not too onerous a task as we had been heeling over
quite a way and Lee had managed to miss the boat completely, but we also needed
to get him safe, warm and get plenty of fluids inside him. The sail across to
Southend Pier was a bit of a blur, making sure that my crewmate was all right,
checking our course and keeping an eye on the shipping traffic, by the time
we turned to run downwind towards Southend Pier I had almost forgotten I was
under assessment.
With nothing to steer towards but darkness I took a back bearing off the Pier
to keep us steady as we entered the Leigh channel, and we dropped the hook in
a regular but not uncomfortable swell, the flooding tide and stiff breeze quickly
locking our anchor cable as taut as a banjo string.
It was about ten o’clock now and I served pot noodles, our breath steaming
in the clammy cold of the damp cabin, Lee did not join us and was still feeling
very ill, though he hadn’t actually been sick for quite a while.
We were heaving around on our line as the breeze continued unabated outside,
and under the current circumstances I was poised to recommend we did not attempt
to stop here for the night as planned, when Trevor stole my thunder and suggested
we sail back to Queenborough.
Although
I had three layers of good quality breathable clothing and was not really that
cold, Duncan whose summer weight jacket had never really been bought for night
sailing in February was staring to feel the chill, Lee was still very ill and
although it meant sailing on for a few hours more, we were all glad to be heading
back to more sheltered water.
Enigma blasted along perfectly, despite the cold it was a good night to be sailing
as we sliced through the ink black waters of the Thames. The horizons all around
us were speckled with the electric lights of human existence, people warm and
cosy in their houses, but out there in the middle of the darkness, the spray
flying and the boats wake creaming from our stern, It felt good to be alive.
We passed Garrison point just after midnight and the ships and buildings of
Sheerness docks sheltered us from the easterly wind. We slowed in the wind shadow
and Trevor disappeared below decks. He emerged with an inflated flesh coloured
balloon and began tying it to a small pebble he produced from his oilskin pocket.
After the creation was completed he threw it nonchalantly over the side and
quietly said “Man Overboard!”
I hove to and started my ‘recovery under sail’ procedure. In the
pre exam discussions my crew had all agreed to take certain tasks but Lee, still
incapacitated below decks, would not be available to join us and Trevor certainly
wasn’t going to be getting involved for this exercise, so Duncan and I
had to improvise.
Enigma is a light, shallow draft yacht with a fin keel and typical of modern
yachts she does not carry her way very well. We approached the balloon with
Duncan standing on the foredeck, boathook in hand, and I knew for this manoeuvre
to be successful we would have to be quick with the recovery before the boat
was blown away by the breeze.
Duncan has worn glasses for as long as I have known him, but living and working
in a city with a good enough public transport network he has never felt the
need to learn to drive, the upshot of this is until that night he had no idea
how badly his night vision could be affected by the glare of streetlamps on
his spectacles.
From my position at the helm I could see the balloon floating off the bow as
we made our approach, the glow from the docks was sufficient to pick out our
target without the need for a torch of any kind. However when the casualty disappeared
from view under the shadow of Enigma’s hull I could see Duncan stabbing
feverishly at the balloon but in the few seconds before the Legend’s light
hull was blown off its mark by the breeze, my foredeck crew was unable to elicit
a rescue.
I was mortified, and I think Duncan was too, did this mean I had failed my exam?
“It’s OK” said the examiner responding to my unanswered question
“You haven’t failed. You stopped the boat next to the casualty and
if this was a real situation you could have thrown him a lifeline and started
the engine, so don’t worry, but I would like you to try the manoeuvre
again, it would be nice to prove you can do it.”
We went around again, keeping my eye on the little balloon bobbing in the orange
water. We came alongside again, stopping a little further from the casualty
than previously, but Duncan’s prodding was once more unsuccessful and
we paid off empty handed.
Trevor was full of helpful constructive criticism and offered to demonstrate
how I could refine my technique. We sailed around again, this time with the
examiner at the helm. Again the yacht stopped right next to the casualty and
again Duncan fruitlessly waved his stick over the side for a few brief seconds
before Enigma’s bows turned away from the wind.
I felt a little happier having watched a Yachtmaster Examiner do no better than
I, but we both exchanged glances when Duncan returned to the cockpit stoically
cleaning his spectacles, and muttering something about the light.
I took over the helm again for another try, and shortly after the boat had come
to a stop, we once again paid off without our balloon.
After another attempt where once again our balloon headed casualty evaded Duncan’s
boathook, Trevor looked at his watch in disgust.
“Well I think he’s caught Hyperthermia by now, so lets call it a
night”
We passed Queenborough Spit inbound for the river Swale, since we had started
the Man Overboard drill the water had been gradually getting calmer and by now
it was a flat calm and Lee emerged on deck apologising for his affliction, hinting
that had he been fit he might have been more use than ‘Blind Man Brown’
in rescuing the balloon. To back this bold statement up with actions rather
than words, and in an attempt to make up for his earlier absence, he strode
purposefully to the foredeck wielding the boathook with the confidence of a
seasoned warrior preparing for battle. We moored under sail with consummate
ease and the boys dropped the main into the lazyjack bag whilst I was taken
below for a grilling. I looked at the clock on the bulkhead, it was two in the
morning and I was growing tired, Trevor had begun asking me flashcard questions
about lights and shapes and I was about to beg him to let me continue in the
morning when he said
“Right then John. I am pleased to inform you that you have passed your
Yachtmaster assessment. Well done”
I shook the man’s hand, hugged my crew and poured a celebratory dram of
single malt whiskey, though Lee abstained as his stomach was still feeling a
little worse for wear.
Trevor said that normally the exam would take longer, but since we had done
the whole trip under sail and in the dark, had a crewman badly seasick and still
managed to sail onto the mooring buoy at the end, there was little left to test
me on that would be more difficult in the light of day.
After that there was another round of whiskeys and Trevor declared he would
like to leave early, though we all hid our shock when he announced he was setting
the alarm for 06:00.
The following mornings reveille was a sorry affair, and we sat warming our hands
around mugs of hot coffee, the steam rising in huge clouds in the freezing damp
air of the cabin.
On schedule we nosed the boat into the all tide landing and Trevor shook our
hands, threw his sea bag ashore and then leapt over the rail after it, waving
his final goodbye as I reversed Enigma off the pontoon.
We motored out of Queenborough as the darkness of the night gradually turned
into the grey of the early morning and by 07:30 Enigma was inward bound at the
No14 buoy just off Sharp Ness. Lee took the whole of the watch despite the numbing
cold, calling it penance for his lack of contribution the previous evening.
Duncan and I should probably have been more chivalrous, but it was absolutely
freezing and since Lee insisted neither of us was in the mood to protest too
much.
I cooked breakfast but it was so cold it was difficult to even enjoy sausage
butties, and we arrived back at Gillingham Reach with about three hours to wait
before we could get back over the mud flats and into the marina. We huddled
in the cabin, putting the stove on briefly to try to raise the temperature,
but that made things even damper and we had to have the hatch open so we didn’t
suffocate, so we turned it off, clambered into our bunks and shivered until
it was finally time to get back in to Hoo and get the heating on.
* ‘Selective Availability’ was an error intentionally introduced into the system to avoid it being useful to unauthorised weapons builders. It was turned off in May 2000, but before that GPS sets were nowhere near as accurate as they are today.
