There was a short lull in the turmoil as Kudu pulled away from her temporary residence, just a few seconds to absorb the peacefulness before a violent tug shuddered the little boat as the warps reigned tight and we smashed back against the steel work boat at Thurrock Yacht Club; such a stark contrast to the previous evening.
She floats
Kudu was lifted into the water at Essex Marina on Friday 29th August, that week had seen quite settled and warm weather and once Kudu was towed to her pontoon I set about rigging the sails for the first time. As I was working around the boat, trying to figure out which lines went where in the myriad of cleats and blocks strategically fixed around the deck, I heard a splash as the wake from a motorboat caught Kudu off guard. I looked around wondering what had gone in the river and realised it must be the screwdriver I was using since I could no longer see it where I left it. Annoying, as I’d grown quite attached to that screwdriver. I’d bought a pack of four from Tesco as part of my onboard tool kit and loosing one them seemed like breaking up the team, “Goodbye Mr Small Philips” I murmured.
About 30 minutes later I was sat in the cockpit, admiring in genuine awe the fact that I had actually managed to get the genoa up and the roller furling working. My little boat and me were now theoretically capable of sailing! Surely deserving of a beer, especially since the sun is so very warm and I have no work for the foreseeable future, if only because I’m quite short sighted in terms of time.
Just as I reached for a refreshing bottle of fine Kentish ale I found Mr Small Philips, hiding under a plastic bag. “Nice one, Team Screwdriver is back in the game” I thought, followed instantly by a vocal “oh bollocks” as I realised the splash was caused by none other than the stern locker lid. The cord that attached it not so firmly to the boat must have broken and down it went – in 4 knots of spring tide. It wasn’t ever coming back.
I estimated that the stern locker of the Corribee will hold about 2 tons of water, which wouldn’t be of great benefit to her buoyancy. This was a fairly major problem and I racked my brains for a solution, “hmm”, I gave up racking and sprinted into the boat yard, where I told one of the lads what had happened, and promptly got laughed at.
“It is quite funny though mate, innit” he teased as he took me over to one of the workshops. I was inclined to agree, although not enough to raise a chuckle since I was still worried about being on a sinking boat if it rained or the very low stern of the Corribee got pooped by some rogue wave.
At 17:10 on a Friday afternoon I explained the problem to a guy in the workshop, who was fitting out a massive Fairline motorboat. By 17:15 I was sprinting back to Kudu with tape measure in hand to measure up the void of the locker lid. Back in the work shop, the guy, Martin I believe was his name, grabbed an off cut of half million pound motorboat quality marine play and wizzed out a circle with his jigsaw.
Kudu now has a marine play locker lid attached with gaffer tape. If it’s good enough for Apollo 13, then it’s good enough for my Corribee! 
To the sea!
I have sailed before, I know how to sail, I can even work out where I am on a chart without GPS which seems to be a rare skill these days, but yet I had never undertaken a passage on my own before. I had always been on a dinghy or on somebody else’s (larger) boat with a crew. The idea of completing my first ever passage with me in charge, single handed, was a tempting prospect although quite frankly a bit too daunting. I had no doubt in my mind that I could get to boat up the Thames, and even to St Kat’s, but trying to handle the mooring lines and get into the lock on my own seemed like a challenge best shared, and so I invited Huw, one of the sales guys at work and somebody who had done quite a lot of sailing in the past.
Huw announced himself with his booming public school accent with a phone call early on Saturday. “Nathan. Huw. Where the bloody hell am I going?”
“erm, Liverpool Street to Rochford then get a taxi to Essex Marina”
“Bollocks, I just bought a ticket to Rochester. I’ll change it. See you at half nine”
From 5 minutes after the boat had been delivered at Essex Boatyard I’d been making regular trips to the onsite chandlers, Mailspeed marine. I had spent a small fortune in there buying anti-foul, bits of rigging, cups, books & DVD’s (I was bored at night), and other assorted items that I really needed and some that I really didn’t.
I didn’t have any life jackets on Kudu, and since I was running out of money a bit too quickly for comfort I made the slightly relectant decision that I would sail without them. With Huw on his way I had a change of heart. It wasn’t fair, and frankly quite unreasonable of me to expect him (or indeed me) to sail out into the estuary without them. I headed back to the chandlers and grabbed two life jackets from the self and took them over to the counter, where John the manager took pitty on my serverely depleted debit card and offered me a little discount. I paid for the jackets while having a bit of a chat with him and then he paused.
“Have you got flares?”
“erm, no, I suppose I should really shouldn’t I”
He walked over to the flare box and hunted through it, eventually pulling out three flares close to their expiry date.
“You can have them.” he said handing me the orange, red, and white flares. “they’re not good for long, but they’ll do for your trip and it’s better to be in the estuary and have them and not need them than vice versa”
Lovely chap, and I recommend Mailspeed if you’re in that area, actually, they deserve a free plug because so far I’ve had nothing but great service from them, so clicky here to give them your custom, which believe me, is well deserved.
As I proudly marched out of the shop with a couple of new life jackets in hand, I saw Huw at the end of the carpark with a copy of a Simone de Beauvoir book in hand.
“I have some light reading for you, Nathan. Simone de Beauvoir feminist texts, you’ll love it!”
Looking bewildered and turned to continue my march to the boat, now with Huw tagging along.
This was it. The crew was complete, Kudu was ready. In a few minutes we’d be off up the River Crouch to begin our lengthy sail out into the Estuary before turning South West and heading back inland, up the Thames, wearing life jackets.
The sobering fact that I was about to not just sail my boat out to sea but my home began to set in, but then I was calmed by the other fact that no matter what suffering, bad luck, or near deathness may occur, I would at least be able to have a whinge to Huw about it.
(TBC)
The following code gets you an extra 5% off IWOOT goodies AOFF5
Nice one Nathan – you’ve really captured the way I felt when I sailed my boat from the south coast into St Kats a couple of months ago, that terrifying and exhilirating feeling that everything’s down to you.
I’m often down on the boat, drop me an email if you fancy catching up for a beer.
Neil