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Guest
Guest
I offered, and DaveS and BarryD called me. Do come along and help with the boat trip, they said. We’re going on Friday, returning Saturday or maybe Sunday. So I did. Firefly (hereafter MV2) is a Rinker 250, 25 foot with little convertible cabin/saloon, and mid cabin too under the cockpit. Plus monster-looking petrol engine 5.7 litre with sterndrive, and perhaps unassisted or very stiff steering . BarryD opened the rear hatch to check the engine, and it was still there from last time. What a relief, but it’s always worth checking.
You don’t look like we thought you would, said BarryD. Colin_Maslen said you had a pony tail and looked a computer nerd. Um. BarryD is almost larger than his boat, 6’4” gentle giant computer person with auxiliary scheming brain for devising DFL scams. We all chucked our gear in the boat at Bradwell, essex nr colchester, and boat sat down another foot in the water.
DaveS is skippering - he bases his own boat in Ramsgate, halfway around the trip that we are due to make to Chichester where Barry plans to base his new boat. I thought it a good idea to check if the anchor was tied on or shackled on for sea trip (it wasn’t) so won an instant 100 brownie pts. Then practised moving along 3” wide side decks before rather than after moving off (another 20 brownie points) . I also did a one-handed bowline (2 points cos nobody noticed ) after brushing up knots last week cos I hardly ever do a thing fenderwise other than say “no, further up” or “yes, we should have eight” and such.
DaveS is a “switch on and go” man. Dumps his bag below, engine on, backs out of berth, and oops sorry Matts he says, I thought you were on board. Ooer. Anyway, out of the marina, all very jolly, so I announced that seeing as how we had made such good progress (almost turning into the fairway by now, see) I think it’s time for a celebration beer! This crewing lark is very easy, I think.
Anyway tum tee tum out of the flat estuary, into bit of sea and waves. The promised North-east is in fact East. Small boat leaps into air and bang slams. Ah well, says DaveS, we’ll turn south soon, so much better ride. Yes I said, trying to sound useful or intelligent whilst chomping sandwich and slurping beer, soon we’ll turn south and the waves won’t be so erm wavy. Dave cursed the weather forecast and we all blamed the stupid git Michael Fish. BarryD smiles politely, but doesn’t look well. I suspect that his main and auxiliary brains are wondering if we are all mad. Dave S notices that my gps does indeed have all the waypoints stored on, but one of them hasn’t been entered in the sodding route. My brownie points instantly return to zero. We break out more beers to confirm no hard feelings.
Hard feelings of a different kins return within 10 seconds as we approach the middle of the Thames estuary: the boat leaps in the air very high and lands on what feels like concrete. Not concrete: this is repeated every 100 yards for the rest of the trip . DaveS starts saying that skipperish “ten more minutes and then we’ll turn, and then I think we’ll have a comfier ride” rubbish. Bang bang ooh maybe that was the last one ? bang. Bang bang . Another gap BANG. And so on. His initial promise of “only ten more minutes” without a result ....forces him along the usual sequence of “hmm the wind has moved around” and “it’s definitely freshening” and “there always a nasty tide over these sands” and “wind over tide, ysee”. Continuous nodding and agreement between DaveS and myself, as DaveS drives on over nasty choppy waves, whilst I ably drink beer and laugh as Bang! nearly broke my teeth over that one.
Both DaveS and I know that this is the first real trip that BarryD has been on the boat, so we have to simultaneously Have a Good Time, yet Make It Clear It’s not Usually Like This. We can slow down to 8 knots instead of 19, but will use almost as much fuel and perhaps take five hours. We finally manage some time-filling chat concerning the general point that “it’s good to get this bit over with, as tomorrow is a forecast 3ish North_East”. There’s discussion over the landscape of bottom of sea, or perhaps North Foreland, or perhaps yes indeed both being entirely to blame for the nasty force 4ish. When in fact it’s that stupid Michael Fish.
BarryD looks a bit green sitting in his side seat , so I offer to swap places with central rear seat, bit more airy. Large Barry siting in middle also helps level the boat. I blither to Barry about the ever-nearer calm waters of Chichester Harbour, and summer barbecues on the beach at West Wittering, so dreamy. But I secretly wonder if BarryD will trade MV2 for a taxi home immediately upon arrival at Ramsgate. So does BarryD.
However, all is well immediately upon our arrival at Ramsgate outer harbour. I’ve only been thru Ramsgate to catch a ferry, but arriving in the marina in a boat under 300 feet long is very pleasant. The place has a seaside town "holiday" feel, with grand old houses staring down with interest at us from all around the little bay. It’s very Devonish, except that all the shopkeepers who ever used the words “orginal” or “olde” or “famous” in their advertising or in the name of the shop have been taken away and shot. Secretly, lots of places like Brighton, Cherbourg and Cowes want to have the same feel as Ramsgate, at lreast around the marina but they don’t . The main fault that I can see concerning Ramsgate is that awful name. It should be called Sandcombe, or perhaps Wittlingsham.
DaveS is very knowlegeable about his home marina, of course. We agreed to his suggestion to overnight here instead of bigger and grimer Dover. Better to have a short hop on the first day that to flog along. We’d have to stop anyway, for fuel. And this stop also allows us to use his boat, a Turbo 36, as an overnight base camp instead of all squeezing on to MV2.
First stop ashore is the very smart Yacht Club. Ooh. The Temple yacht Club harks back to the 19th Century, with much involvement in the Dunkirk rescue of 1940, and although some boats in the harbour probably failed surveys even in 1940, there are several Genuine Little Ships hereabouts. So best behaviour and no slagging off the old junk. We have hang up our coats, cos that’s the rules. We mustn’t have mobile phones switched on either, oh dear me no.
I offer to buy some drinks. After that I buy some more drinks, despite the protests of the other two. I explain that I have to buy the second round too – otherwise I wouldn’t have actually have bought them a drink – I’d have simply bought the first drink, see? I used to have a boss who’d always “buy us all a drink” but then he sat there until everyone else had bought him a drink too. Barry and Dave seemed to quietly reflect on the number of times that people have (not actually) “bought them a drink”. Or maybe they were thinking that I am a bit mad, again.
We sit down, and lots of DaveS’s boating and yachting friends stop by our table to chat. We’re introduced, and our plans for the following day to Chichester are discussed intelligently by all. There’s no “yottie v power” animosity here whatsoever. The mood is light, restrained yet relaxing, with small groups of men and women happily spending a late-autumn afternoon, contemplating the weekend, comfortable in the well-kept main lounge, with a beautiful view of the harbour: a Friday afternoon in a quintessentially English Place, a quiet drink and pleasant conversation. “Shut yer bleedin’ legs you old slappers - I’m gonna throw up if I see yer knickers again!!” or suchlike, yells DaveS in his friendly way to the group of smartly dressed ladies at the other end of the room. Everyone laughs good-humouredly.
Barry and I sign the visitors book, and have to make up a yacht club to which we belong. Barry writes Chichester. I write Antibes, and noseyly flick through the pages of the huge book. It mostly says Dover. I wonder what they do with the information?
It was almost dark as we left, found fish and chips and returned to the boat. Dave and I decamped to Oddyssea, (sp? Dave’s Turbo36. BarryD sorted things out on his boat, and came over later. He brought presents! A bottle of Balvenie for DaveS - “You’ll never write a letter that they can publish, Dave…” some Glennfiddich for me too. How kind. I reciprocated with a bottle of port for Barry to celebrate his maiden voyage, and kindly opened the bottle and assisted in consuming the contents before we went out for dinner. Dave showed us around the boat. He also triumphantly showed us a rubiks cube-type puzzle and an amusing surprise “live” Scorpion trick wrapped in paper which rattled alarmingly as I unwrapped it, later to find that it was actually powered by cardboard a rubber band. How we all laughed, especially Dave, yer blimmin grrr shaddup shaddup.
At 8 on Friday, we departed on a jolly night around Ramsgate town centre. First we have dinner and a good chat at The Office Brasserie. Then to a pub with live Heavy Metal. Barry seems to carry the air of being perhaps the new youthful city type who owns the place. Dave almost fits in by also being youngish, swaying and having an earring, and although it’s in his his ear which seems passé, he cuts ther mustard amongst the sea of black-tee-shirted teenagers and slightly bikerish crowd in the bar who know all the words to the Iron Maidenish racket. Despite having managed to order some drinks from three rows back from hoding two twenty poiund note up, I feel like a bit of a twat, cos I have an M+S jumper (1997) slung casually around my neck. We agree to leave, DaveS looking a little disappointed, Barry and I readily agreeing to a retrun to the Yacht club for a final drink. Later , on Dave’s boat, after only one bottle of the known two bottles of scotch, Dave decides he’s going to bed, and Barry departs for his first night aboard MV2. I have a shower, although that was probably the following morning.
Bright and early the following morning, the sun rises over the Dover Straits. We wake up three hours later, find another greasy spoon breakfast, refuel the boat and leave at 9.30. The sea doesn’t look as friendly as the forecast. Stupid Michael had promised a North East, but it’s South East. Chichester is around 100 miles away.
This time, DaveS wisely refrains from any promises of improvement in the next twenty minutes or whatever. Instead, he uses plan B for Skipper Talk in Crap Weather. This involves fulsome praise for the solidity and sound construction of the boat. I'm really impressed and so on..It is indeed a very sound boat, or at least, it was until we smacked it from ten feet onto the next wave every ten seconds for several hours. After an hour, near Dover, Dave broaches the subject of a forced stop in Dover – the next port is almost 40 miles ahead at Eastbourne. Unless we can plane and achieve 18 knots, we’ll be safer to stay at Dover and leave the boat until the folowing weekend.
Suitably threatened, the weather and sea improved and next ten miles seem distinctly flatter, still lumpy for the small boat but at least slam-free. We make up lost time. But once Dover out of reach upwind, the sea cuts up and we grind past Dungeness. Poor old Barry feels sick and throws up. Unfortunately, although he chooses the correct downwind side of the boat (NickR) he fails to allow for the wind component cause by our travelling forward at 20 knots. The side of MV2 is christened. This isn’t really how we planned the trip at all. Dave knows that he has to continue and concentrate on the sea ahead, so I monitor Barry and keep the skipper suitably informed: “He’s honking Dave!! Look!! All over the blimmin boat! Bluuuurgh! Uurgh Flippinek Barry, new boat too!! Bluuurgh!” “ Barf Barf Barf!!” shouts Dave at the top of his voice. “Diced carrots is it??!! And all over the boat too!! Bluuuurghh!! You’d be in the dinghy by now if it was my boat!!”
“You aren’t being very nice to me, really” says Barry, recovering yet saddened and almost shocked at our appalling outburst by people he had thought were his friends, and he was right. “Sorry Barry” I said. “ Are you ok? Actually, when my kids are ill, I sing to them” Barry was visibly touched at the thought. So, Dave S and I sang three loud choruses of “You’re Siiiiick, And you know you are! - You’re siiiick, And you know you are !!”. Ooh no Barry, we won’t tell a soul.
Not having done a fat lot so far during the trip, other than tie three fenders on and slightly cocked up the nav, I took over the driving after Dungeness. This time neither the weather nor the sea state respond to verbal abuse. The boat grinds over the tops of waves, then screams down the other side too fast. There isn’t a suitabel steady speed. It’s ten miles to our refuelling stop at Eastbourne. Dave S isn’t happy at the idea of going around Beachy head. On the way to eastbourne and with a folowing sea and wind blowing over 20knots, I teach my self to surf in a small powerboat, gunning the engine boat to catch a wave, then backing off to run nose-down on the front of a wave. I comment to Dave that this isn’t actually frightening, then shriek as the boat points downhill even further.
And so we stopped in Eastbourne.
Barry’s uncle came all the way to pick us up from Eastbourne. I wondered if we would get a lift back, since we’d only part delivered. Barry joked that he was firing us and getting GrahamW to get the boat there properly. Maybe a professional skipper would have pushed harder and further on the first day, but wouldn’t have had a fun time in Ramsgate, and now GW can have a go too. Barry’s mobile phone is a computer as well, and cost nearly as much as his boat. I met a friend in Sovereign Harbour. My gps 12 and the top of the thermos must be still on MV2. jfm and Colin_maslen were on another boat, secretly trying to rendezvous with MV2 by texting my phone, but with no recharger I had to turn it off every so often and hope for Priddy-style texts every hour, until the weather forced them and us to turn back. BarryD leaned back in a restaurant seat and smashed it. Dave bet Barry £5 he’ll have upgraded it inside a year. Lots of other things happened, of course, as they always do on boat trips. What fun.
You don’t look like we thought you would, said BarryD. Colin_Maslen said you had a pony tail and looked a computer nerd. Um. BarryD is almost larger than his boat, 6’4” gentle giant computer person with auxiliary scheming brain for devising DFL scams. We all chucked our gear in the boat at Bradwell, essex nr colchester, and boat sat down another foot in the water.
DaveS is skippering - he bases his own boat in Ramsgate, halfway around the trip that we are due to make to Chichester where Barry plans to base his new boat. I thought it a good idea to check if the anchor was tied on or shackled on for sea trip (it wasn’t) so won an instant 100 brownie pts. Then practised moving along 3” wide side decks before rather than after moving off (another 20 brownie points) . I also did a one-handed bowline (2 points cos nobody noticed ) after brushing up knots last week cos I hardly ever do a thing fenderwise other than say “no, further up” or “yes, we should have eight” and such.
DaveS is a “switch on and go” man. Dumps his bag below, engine on, backs out of berth, and oops sorry Matts he says, I thought you were on board. Ooer. Anyway, out of the marina, all very jolly, so I announced that seeing as how we had made such good progress (almost turning into the fairway by now, see) I think it’s time for a celebration beer! This crewing lark is very easy, I think.
Anyway tum tee tum out of the flat estuary, into bit of sea and waves. The promised North-east is in fact East. Small boat leaps into air and bang slams. Ah well, says DaveS, we’ll turn south soon, so much better ride. Yes I said, trying to sound useful or intelligent whilst chomping sandwich and slurping beer, soon we’ll turn south and the waves won’t be so erm wavy. Dave cursed the weather forecast and we all blamed the stupid git Michael Fish. BarryD smiles politely, but doesn’t look well. I suspect that his main and auxiliary brains are wondering if we are all mad. Dave S notices that my gps does indeed have all the waypoints stored on, but one of them hasn’t been entered in the sodding route. My brownie points instantly return to zero. We break out more beers to confirm no hard feelings.
Hard feelings of a different kins return within 10 seconds as we approach the middle of the Thames estuary: the boat leaps in the air very high and lands on what feels like concrete. Not concrete: this is repeated every 100 yards for the rest of the trip . DaveS starts saying that skipperish “ten more minutes and then we’ll turn, and then I think we’ll have a comfier ride” rubbish. Bang bang ooh maybe that was the last one ? bang. Bang bang . Another gap BANG. And so on. His initial promise of “only ten more minutes” without a result ....forces him along the usual sequence of “hmm the wind has moved around” and “it’s definitely freshening” and “there always a nasty tide over these sands” and “wind over tide, ysee”. Continuous nodding and agreement between DaveS and myself, as DaveS drives on over nasty choppy waves, whilst I ably drink beer and laugh as Bang! nearly broke my teeth over that one.
Both DaveS and I know that this is the first real trip that BarryD has been on the boat, so we have to simultaneously Have a Good Time, yet Make It Clear It’s not Usually Like This. We can slow down to 8 knots instead of 19, but will use almost as much fuel and perhaps take five hours. We finally manage some time-filling chat concerning the general point that “it’s good to get this bit over with, as tomorrow is a forecast 3ish North_East”. There’s discussion over the landscape of bottom of sea, or perhaps North Foreland, or perhaps yes indeed both being entirely to blame for the nasty force 4ish. When in fact it’s that stupid Michael Fish.
BarryD looks a bit green sitting in his side seat , so I offer to swap places with central rear seat, bit more airy. Large Barry siting in middle also helps level the boat. I blither to Barry about the ever-nearer calm waters of Chichester Harbour, and summer barbecues on the beach at West Wittering, so dreamy. But I secretly wonder if BarryD will trade MV2 for a taxi home immediately upon arrival at Ramsgate. So does BarryD.
However, all is well immediately upon our arrival at Ramsgate outer harbour. I’ve only been thru Ramsgate to catch a ferry, but arriving in the marina in a boat under 300 feet long is very pleasant. The place has a seaside town "holiday" feel, with grand old houses staring down with interest at us from all around the little bay. It’s very Devonish, except that all the shopkeepers who ever used the words “orginal” or “olde” or “famous” in their advertising or in the name of the shop have been taken away and shot. Secretly, lots of places like Brighton, Cherbourg and Cowes want to have the same feel as Ramsgate, at lreast around the marina but they don’t . The main fault that I can see concerning Ramsgate is that awful name. It should be called Sandcombe, or perhaps Wittlingsham.
DaveS is very knowlegeable about his home marina, of course. We agreed to his suggestion to overnight here instead of bigger and grimer Dover. Better to have a short hop on the first day that to flog along. We’d have to stop anyway, for fuel. And this stop also allows us to use his boat, a Turbo 36, as an overnight base camp instead of all squeezing on to MV2.
First stop ashore is the very smart Yacht Club. Ooh. The Temple yacht Club harks back to the 19th Century, with much involvement in the Dunkirk rescue of 1940, and although some boats in the harbour probably failed surveys even in 1940, there are several Genuine Little Ships hereabouts. So best behaviour and no slagging off the old junk. We have hang up our coats, cos that’s the rules. We mustn’t have mobile phones switched on either, oh dear me no.
I offer to buy some drinks. After that I buy some more drinks, despite the protests of the other two. I explain that I have to buy the second round too – otherwise I wouldn’t have actually have bought them a drink – I’d have simply bought the first drink, see? I used to have a boss who’d always “buy us all a drink” but then he sat there until everyone else had bought him a drink too. Barry and Dave seemed to quietly reflect on the number of times that people have (not actually) “bought them a drink”. Or maybe they were thinking that I am a bit mad, again.
We sit down, and lots of DaveS’s boating and yachting friends stop by our table to chat. We’re introduced, and our plans for the following day to Chichester are discussed intelligently by all. There’s no “yottie v power” animosity here whatsoever. The mood is light, restrained yet relaxing, with small groups of men and women happily spending a late-autumn afternoon, contemplating the weekend, comfortable in the well-kept main lounge, with a beautiful view of the harbour: a Friday afternoon in a quintessentially English Place, a quiet drink and pleasant conversation. “Shut yer bleedin’ legs you old slappers - I’m gonna throw up if I see yer knickers again!!” or suchlike, yells DaveS in his friendly way to the group of smartly dressed ladies at the other end of the room. Everyone laughs good-humouredly.
Barry and I sign the visitors book, and have to make up a yacht club to which we belong. Barry writes Chichester. I write Antibes, and noseyly flick through the pages of the huge book. It mostly says Dover. I wonder what they do with the information?
It was almost dark as we left, found fish and chips and returned to the boat. Dave and I decamped to Oddyssea, (sp? Dave’s Turbo36. BarryD sorted things out on his boat, and came over later. He brought presents! A bottle of Balvenie for DaveS - “You’ll never write a letter that they can publish, Dave…” some Glennfiddich for me too. How kind. I reciprocated with a bottle of port for Barry to celebrate his maiden voyage, and kindly opened the bottle and assisted in consuming the contents before we went out for dinner. Dave showed us around the boat. He also triumphantly showed us a rubiks cube-type puzzle and an amusing surprise “live” Scorpion trick wrapped in paper which rattled alarmingly as I unwrapped it, later to find that it was actually powered by cardboard a rubber band. How we all laughed, especially Dave, yer blimmin grrr shaddup shaddup.
At 8 on Friday, we departed on a jolly night around Ramsgate town centre. First we have dinner and a good chat at The Office Brasserie. Then to a pub with live Heavy Metal. Barry seems to carry the air of being perhaps the new youthful city type who owns the place. Dave almost fits in by also being youngish, swaying and having an earring, and although it’s in his his ear which seems passé, he cuts ther mustard amongst the sea of black-tee-shirted teenagers and slightly bikerish crowd in the bar who know all the words to the Iron Maidenish racket. Despite having managed to order some drinks from three rows back from hoding two twenty poiund note up, I feel like a bit of a twat, cos I have an M+S jumper (1997) slung casually around my neck. We agree to leave, DaveS looking a little disappointed, Barry and I readily agreeing to a retrun to the Yacht club for a final drink. Later , on Dave’s boat, after only one bottle of the known two bottles of scotch, Dave decides he’s going to bed, and Barry departs for his first night aboard MV2. I have a shower, although that was probably the following morning.
Bright and early the following morning, the sun rises over the Dover Straits. We wake up three hours later, find another greasy spoon breakfast, refuel the boat and leave at 9.30. The sea doesn’t look as friendly as the forecast. Stupid Michael had promised a North East, but it’s South East. Chichester is around 100 miles away.
This time, DaveS wisely refrains from any promises of improvement in the next twenty minutes or whatever. Instead, he uses plan B for Skipper Talk in Crap Weather. This involves fulsome praise for the solidity and sound construction of the boat. I'm really impressed and so on..It is indeed a very sound boat, or at least, it was until we smacked it from ten feet onto the next wave every ten seconds for several hours. After an hour, near Dover, Dave broaches the subject of a forced stop in Dover – the next port is almost 40 miles ahead at Eastbourne. Unless we can plane and achieve 18 knots, we’ll be safer to stay at Dover and leave the boat until the folowing weekend.
Suitably threatened, the weather and sea improved and next ten miles seem distinctly flatter, still lumpy for the small boat but at least slam-free. We make up lost time. But once Dover out of reach upwind, the sea cuts up and we grind past Dungeness. Poor old Barry feels sick and throws up. Unfortunately, although he chooses the correct downwind side of the boat (NickR) he fails to allow for the wind component cause by our travelling forward at 20 knots. The side of MV2 is christened. This isn’t really how we planned the trip at all. Dave knows that he has to continue and concentrate on the sea ahead, so I monitor Barry and keep the skipper suitably informed: “He’s honking Dave!! Look!! All over the blimmin boat! Bluuuurgh! Uurgh Flippinek Barry, new boat too!! Bluuurgh!” “ Barf Barf Barf!!” shouts Dave at the top of his voice. “Diced carrots is it??!! And all over the boat too!! Bluuuurghh!! You’d be in the dinghy by now if it was my boat!!”
“You aren’t being very nice to me, really” says Barry, recovering yet saddened and almost shocked at our appalling outburst by people he had thought were his friends, and he was right. “Sorry Barry” I said. “ Are you ok? Actually, when my kids are ill, I sing to them” Barry was visibly touched at the thought. So, Dave S and I sang three loud choruses of “You’re Siiiiick, And you know you are! - You’re siiiick, And you know you are !!”. Ooh no Barry, we won’t tell a soul.
Not having done a fat lot so far during the trip, other than tie three fenders on and slightly cocked up the nav, I took over the driving after Dungeness. This time neither the weather nor the sea state respond to verbal abuse. The boat grinds over the tops of waves, then screams down the other side too fast. There isn’t a suitabel steady speed. It’s ten miles to our refuelling stop at Eastbourne. Dave S isn’t happy at the idea of going around Beachy head. On the way to eastbourne and with a folowing sea and wind blowing over 20knots, I teach my self to surf in a small powerboat, gunning the engine boat to catch a wave, then backing off to run nose-down on the front of a wave. I comment to Dave that this isn’t actually frightening, then shriek as the boat points downhill even further.
And so we stopped in Eastbourne.
Barry’s uncle came all the way to pick us up from Eastbourne. I wondered if we would get a lift back, since we’d only part delivered. Barry joked that he was firing us and getting GrahamW to get the boat there properly. Maybe a professional skipper would have pushed harder and further on the first day, but wouldn’t have had a fun time in Ramsgate, and now GW can have a go too. Barry’s mobile phone is a computer as well, and cost nearly as much as his boat. I met a friend in Sovereign Harbour. My gps 12 and the top of the thermos must be still on MV2. jfm and Colin_maslen were on another boat, secretly trying to rendezvous with MV2 by texting my phone, but with no recharger I had to turn it off every so often and hope for Priddy-style texts every hour, until the weather forced them and us to turn back. BarryD leaned back in a restaurant seat and smashed it. Dave bet Barry £5 he’ll have upgraded it inside a year. Lots of other things happened, of course, as they always do on boat trips. What fun.
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