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Under leaden skies with a fresh chill in the air which threatened rain, Rex, Meryl and I trundled wheelbarrows full of baggage and provisions over the boardwalks to the good ship Duonita. The saltings appeared deserted, with only the calls of the odd solitary oystercatcher to anchor this ethereal place to reality. I adore the evocative mood this setting conjures.
My mind wandered back to earlier in the day, when sunlight graced the earth. I had visited my sister's to leave an advance birthday card and present for my niece, and then popped around to see my son in Colchester. Dan had fond memories of Rex when he joined us in St. Petersburg. That was two years ago; how time flies.
Crossing paths with Barry on the boardwalks pulled my feet back on the ground. An unassuming New Zealander with a mop of silvery hair and weatherworn features, Barry, the saltings' marine engineer, lives with his wife Yvonne, on a barge moored near the slipway. Yvonne was from the Netherlands and had brought the barge across to England many years ago. Being Dutch, she had provided us with valuable support and advice on our forthcoming adventure. Barry had carried out some alterations to the fuel system in Duonita, and she was now in fine fettle for the journey ahead. He shivered in the rapidly cooling afternoon, and grimaced at the thought of doing some work on the roof of his barge.
Once we had stowed away our kit and provisions, Rex and I walked with Meryl back to the car park, popping in to say our farewells to Barry and Yvonne on the way. We then exchanged fond farewells with Meryl, who would be joining us in 60 hours in Den Helder.
Once back on board Duonita, an 8.8m Westerly Konsort Duo 29, Rex ran through the final passage details with me before we made our final checks. The wind had shifted around from the direction predicted 24 hours earlier, and would be on the nose for most of the night. Its speed had also dropped, so it would be a case of motoring for the first leg of the journey.
Without further ado, at 18:30 we cast off our lines and slipped gracefully into deeper water, Rex skilfully handling the tiller to overcome the differing influences of wind and tide. As we crossed the Blackwater Estuary, the solitude of the saltings was echoed by the empty expanse of water, with just a single set of sails on the horizon.
We motored along the stretch of water off Clacton known as the Wallet, with bright town lights on our port side, and a forest of lights from a wind farm on our starboard quarter. Off Felixstowe, we negotiated our way across the busy shipping channel. With ships steaming in and out of the channel, plus a bevy of ships at anchor, all festooned with enough lights to cover a whole village, this patch of sea resembled Piccadilly Circus.
I took the first watch until midnight, and gazed across to the coast, which I knew so well, on our port side sliding past and behind us.
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