When I arose, Rex was nowhere to be seen. Invisible Man strikes again. But I noticed the gas bottle had been removed from its locker, and an assortment of tools were scattered about the locker. I deduced he had tried to make his early morning cup of tea, but had discovered the gas had run out.
As I went for a shower I found him chin-wagging with an old salt ashore. The old fellow did not have a boat of his own, but crewed for others. "How often do you go out?" asked Rex. "Oh, about ten weeks at the start of the season and ten weeks at the end," he replied. "I get involved in a lot of yacht deliveries. I know a little, and people like what they see, so I always get asked to crew for folk." "Blimey, you get ten week slots at a time," piped up Rex. "I'm lucky if I get four weeks allocation from my wife. Does your wife not mind?" "Well she doesn't like sailing, she doesn't like boats, and she doesn't like golf," he replied.
On my return from my shower, Rex had installed the spare gas bottle into the locker. He was over the moon now since he was able to make a cup of tea again. However, there was a faint smell of gas, so we knew we had to attend to that later.
We wasted no time, and left the marina in bright sunshine and not a trace of wind. Crane activity was oddly at a standstill in Felixstowe Dock. Ships had departed and arrived during the night. Three catamarans sped past us on their way from Parkeston Quay to the Galloper Wind Farm. The Galloper Offshore Wind Farm is a 353MW wind farm project, comprising 56 wind turbines located 30km off the coast of Suffolk.
Once out in Harwich Bay, we hoisted the sails and slowly drifted down the Wallet past Walton. It was at this point when we heard a message on VHF channel 16, from Havengore Bridge which spans Havengore Creek. The bridge provides the only vehicle crossing point to Foulness Island, and is only passable when the MOD Shoeburyness Range is NOT ACTIVE. The lady who was manning the bridge was informing the Dover Coastguard that she had spotted a boat aground on the mud within the firing range, and she could not contact the vessel by radio. The coastguard wanted to know more about the vessel: number of persons on board, their condition, its name, size, condition of the vessel, reason for being within the firing range etc. Since she could not establish radio contact, most of these questions could not be answered. In addition, she could only see the vessel stern on, so she could not furnish details about the craft. After several more messages passed between the lady and coastguard, it was agreed by the coastguard that the vessel would be lifted by the tide later, and they requested the bridge advise them of the outcome once the tide had lifted the vessel.
 Brightlingsea from the Air |
 House on Copperas Road |
As we entered the Blackwater Estuary, the conversation regarded the grounded vessel picked up again. This time, another vessel, Predator, was involved in the communications. A voice from Predator boomed over the airwaves in an old sea salt turn of phrase. "I came alongside the boat, and I boarded her, that's what I did, I boarded her. There were only one little, old fella on board, and he say he only bought the boat yesterday. 'Ooher,' I said. He say he were trying to get to West Mersea. You know what, his radio wasn't working, no, not at all. I checked his fuel, and I didn't find a lot there. I said to him, 'There's not enough to get you to West Mersea, bor'. I don't know what else to say." He wound up his monologue, with a resigned tone as he said, "Over." With that tone I could tell he was really implying, "We have a right Charlie bor here."
A few minutes later, Dover Coastguard asked Predator if he could hang around and assist the stricken vessel should it need assistance. "Well, I'm here to patrol the firing ranges, that's what I'm here for bor. I don't know if I can look after him, I have my job to do bor," was Predator's considered response. I could detect an unspoken undertone as if to say, "If this Charlie runs aground on the firing ranges, he deserves to be shot at." A short while later the coastguard tried to contact Predator several times again, but he never responded. Eventually we heard the patrol boat respond with, "Dover Coastguard, Predator," and that was the last instalment we heard of this story, all communication stopped.
We followed a coastal cargo vessel into Brightlingsea. The pilot on board very gingerly edged it to a wharf. In the fullness of time, the harbourmaster came alongside us in his RIB and guided us to a space on one of the long pontoons, and with a wee bit of magic we were soon moored up.
It was hot, 33.5 degrees, with not a hint of a breeze. Our first priority was to check the connections around the gas bottle in its locker using liquid soap as our detector. No leaks were detected. That put Rex's mind at ease, he must have tightened up the connections sufficiently.
We headed early ashore for an explore of the industrial area, and sustenance. It had to be early because the water-taxi stopped operating at 18:45!.