Taming the Thames

Part 2

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So we got our 14-foot sailing dinghy to Havengore Creek in the early hours of the morning.
Havengore Creek taught me that that you can actually be f*cked by a swing bridge which doesn’t at 4 in the morning.
I kid you not.
To those of you who read the enthralling first part to this epic saga, and are back for episode two.
For those of you determined to read on, despite having read the first episode, I sincerely hope you recover with treatment. Time they say is a great healer.
Anyway, I digress.
We had sailed proudly into Havengore Creek, ready to continue on our journey in a fourteen-foot dinghy to Hullbridge in Essex.
I say sailed proudly, anyone is entitled to a little journalistic licence.
We were cold, tired, soaked to the skin and suffering from third degree burns from that joyous instrument of terror, the Primus Stove.
We had failed to heat the tin of curry, and had eaten it cold, heavily seasoned with a teasing sauce of agua de sea.
Apparently the Americans have devised a method of extracting information from terror suspects enjoying their free holiday in the Hotel Guantanamo Bay.
It’s called the water torture, and has caused questions as to its legality to be raised worldwide.
Has no one told them that five minutes with a Primus Stove can reduce a grown man to the status of a well done BBQ sausage.
And it’s legal.
Did we make it? Read on...

Taming the Thames

I was asked recently if I was a “yachtie”. Me!
Me what sailed the squalls and tempests of the Regents Park boating lake reliving Swallows and Amazons.
Me that had the distinction of sailing my full rigged schooners so fast I beat the Isle of Wight ferry.
OK , I was rowing and the first I knew about the ferry was when his air horns nearly blasted me out of the water coz I was rowing right across its path!
Me what sailed from Old Leigh in Essex to Hullbridge in a 14’ dinghy.
A trip we’d planned to take 4 hours.
We cast off, ramming very few moored boats, and set our sails towards the setting sun.
Actually the sun was behind us, but it didn’t sound so good, and you couldn’t see it anyway as it disappeared after an hour as mist closed in.
So we headed towards our destination sailing serenely along the Essex coast.
Maybe 5 hours into our 2 hour journey I began to suspect that my seafaring mate was not the old sea dog he’d professed to be.
I was even more sure when he brought out his nautical map, an A to Z of London streets.
Give him his due, there was a blue line which said river Thames.
Then the rain started.
Not gentle little drops, but the sort of rain that fills a little dinghy in a matter of minutes…so we both sheltered snugly under a paper carrier bag.
We got wet!
By the time the rain had stopped, the skipper announced that we would not reach our destination in the time allotted, highly perceptive of him as it was now 9pm and we’d been sailing for seven hours!
So much for two hours.
I forgot to mention that my mate, the skipper, was employed by Fords as scheduler…no wonder they had difficulty in making cars on time!
Read the rest of the sail of the century!