I found Rex hunched over his laptop in his study, checking the status of the wind. We had originally planned to leave at 05:50 on the 26th May, but wind forecasts predicted a Force 7 when we would be two thirds of the way across the North Sea. We had experienced a Force 7 on the way to Holland before; a rather unpleasant experience and to be avoided if at all possible. Since the weather was set to deteriorate after the high winds, we decided to advance our departure by one day, and hope we would have crossed to Ijmuiden before the storm reached us. Hence our departure was revised to 05:00 from Tollesbury. Rex looked up as I entered his study, and confirmed the forecasts were still valid.
We had a quick slurp of coffee, grabbed the fresh perishable food from the fridge (non-perishable food and luggage had been stowed on board the evening before), and by 04:20 Meryl was driving us to the saltings where Duonita was moored. We stopped off on the way at Richard's house. The only life on the street at that untimely hour was a solitary black cat who cautiously padded in our direction to inspect the invaders of his territory. Rex alighted to summon Richard, whilst Meryl murmured to me, "No dropkicks," as I fixed my gaze on the cat.
Richard is a friend who had expressed a desire to experience a North Sea crossing in a sailing boat. He is a learned researcher at Southampton University, specialising in waste management (as Rex would put it "deals with the load of crap that the rest of us produce"). He was due to be engaged in collaborative work through the following week at a waste site at Bergen op Zoom near the Markiezaatsmeer in Holland. Thus this crossing would be an ideal opportunity to combine the experience of crossing the North Sea with his need to be there for his work.
Rex returned to the car, but a crunch of gravel betrayed Richard's footsteps heading in a different direction. "Where is he going to?" asked Meryl. Then it dawned on her, "Oh, he's gone to say goodbye to Edgar." "Who's Edgar?" I asked, somewhat perplexed, wondering if a tramp had taken residence in the shed. Rex and Meryl responded in unison, "Edgar is the cat!"
A short while later we arrived at the saltings, just as another car turned up. Its occupant was Mick the fisherman, who was catching the same tide to get out to his favourite fishing haunts. Poor Meryl who had got up at this unearthly hour to drive us down to the saltings was whacked and looking to return to her bed, so we bade her farewell, and set off to walk along the boardwalks to Duonita.
The air was still and cool, carrying the salty tang from the myriad of muddy creeks to tantalise our nostrils. The serenity was pierced by the cry of numerous oystercatchers. Above them a sprinkle of clouds masked the location of the sun.
We robotically went through the usual preparations before slipping our lines, and as we glided out, a crew of three appeared from the innards of a boat two berths along and busied themselves with ropes. They must have slept on board overnight.
 Rex and Richard in the Tollesbury South Channel at 5am; Do these Guys Look Tired? |
 Solitary Yacht on the Blackwater |
By now, banks of clouds were rolling across the sky from a westerly direction, and the air had deteriorated to a cold breeze. Whilst motoring up the Wallet, we enjoyed bacon and egg sandwiches kindly prepared by Richard, who curiously adopted the name of "cabin boy". The lad's curiosity also extended to navigation, and he amused himself for hours investigating the intricate details of the chart plotter. That was what I thought, until he commented that it was just like playing space invaders, except that the idea was to try and miss the dots on the screen. He thought this should be added to the RYA’s Navigation course as part of the core curriculum. "Cabin boy" or "James Cook"?, perhaps "cabin boy Cook" covers all aspects of his expertise, a real accompaniment for "Rear Admiral" Davenport. We encountered several fishing boats and the usual minefield of lobster pot buoys. I set about cleaning off the copious amounts of gull droppings that splattered the decks below the mast, not an easy task since gull's poo seems to transform into a resin on landing; it was the bane of Rex's life. Skirting Rough's Tower, we spied a huge containership leaving Felixstowe. Several large vessels were anchored to our starboard. The Harwich-Hoek van Holland ferry steadily caught us up, overtaking 0.4nm away on our port side. It ambled up to the Shipwash Buoy, and then turned east. At a more leisurely pace we followed the same route, but we cut the corner on our approach to get onto the next leg of our course: a 31nm straight run to our next waypoint.
 Stena Line Ferry on its Way from Harwich to the Hoek van Holland |
The wind was light and fickle. We tried sailing with the genoa for a while, but eventually it was just collapsing, so we abandoned the idea and rolled it away. It was a glorious evening; blue skies criss-crossed by vapour trails draped above us. The sea was a gentle swell dissolving into the sky at a hazy horizon. Meryl's tasty lasagne, lovingly warmed up by Rex, in the cockpit tasted like a feast.