A quick slurp of coffee, then to work raising the anchor. This was easier said than done. The trick is to get the bow over where we think the anchor is dug in, then raise as much of the chain by hand as possible. Progress is eventually halted by the anchor being dug into the mud. Rex's remedy for his is to move the boat under power to rip the anchor out of the mud, then the remainder of the chain can be pulled in and the anchor secured. All we succeeded in doing was to lose all the hard-won chain that was on deck. After much shouting we managed to pull up some of the chain, which we then secured to a cleat, then motoring helped free the anchor from the mud. Then it was possible to recover the anchor. During all this exercise I became painfully aware that I was trying to pull on the chain whilst the boat was moving under power; increasing the probability of losing a few fingers. By this time the deck around the chain was completely covered in mud, as were we. A securing pin for the anchor had completely disappeared: a problem to be resolved in daylight.
Hoping we had not woken up our neighbour with the commotion, we slinked off into the inky darkness. Invisible buoys betrayed their presence by flashing their lights as we headed off to the narrow channel between the Wallet Spitway and the Swin Spitway, to give us access into the Barrow Deep. This led to the King's Channel which followed a north easterly direction behind the Gunfleet windfarm. The sun lazily popped his head on the horizon as we forced our way through the wind behind the windfarm; always a magical moment when the sun slowly climbs up from below the horizon.
 Sunrise Behind the Gunfleet Windfarm |
At the top of the King's Channel, the Sunk, we veered off onto a course of 113 degrees, which we would hold for about 56 nautical miles, and would bring us to the outskirts of Zeebrugge. I was amazed to find quite a few fishermen's buoys this far out. The clouds in the sky gradually melted away leaving us with a beautiful, if somewhat cool, day.
We were kept entertained by the endless messages carried over the ether on VHF channel 16. Some unfortunately were informing the coastguard of difficulties folk were getting into. We skated around windfarms, crossed the shipping lanes, and when we arrived at the West Hinder anchorage, Rex pointed out that the tide was really driving us hard in a southerly direction. It became apparent that we would be really struggling against the tide and arrive at Zeebrugge well after dark. However, if we opted for Ostend instead our fight with the tide would be reduced since we would be heading in a more southerly direction. We had a quick summit meeting, and decided to head for Ostend. The screaming tide and choppy seas showed their disapproval of our choice, and in protest they managed to bounce the complete contents of Rex's evening meal onto the cockpit floor. Call him lucky.
We entered into a game of cat and mouse with a survey vessel leaving the port of Ostend as we lined up for the channel into the harbour. The sky above the Ostend was dark, and lightening forked its way onto the town. At first, we nudged our way into the North Sea Yacht Club marina. It soon became clear it was very popular and rammed full of sailing vessels rafted up. We meandered around it in the rain, and asked a Dutch crew where the harbour master was. "He's gone home for the night," was the response. Did we want to try and raft up in the marina? No. We were getting wet and despondent when Rex tried the lock keeper for the lock into the Mercator marina. We got no response; had he gone home too? We hunkered down in the rain and headed up to the Royal Yacht Club of Ostend at the top of the dock, where Rex, Meryl and I had based ourselves for a few days in 2014. We motored past the industrial port and eventually installed ourselves on a pontoon. It was well after 9pm Belgium time.
I fell into conversation with a friendly Dutch sailor who advised me of the keypad codes for access to the pontoons and the facilities block, and where we could moor Duonita.
The next important thing to do was to get our passports stamped. The border control police were based near the main train station in town. They advertised being open 24x7, so I thought I'd check first just to be doubly sure. The click on links from their website did not link, so I rang them and amazingly got through. A pleasant voice from a young man explained that their front door was closed now, but if we made our way to it and called again, he would come and open it for us. I thanked the man, and advised we would be there in a short while - wishful thinking. We had stayed in this marina in 2014, so we already had the route to the station in our heads. We set off hiking in darkness through the rain. We reached the road that ran parallel to the train tracks, and knew that this would lead us in a straight line to the station. However, disaster struck, our progress along this road was halted some distance along the road; the brand-new AZ Damiaan hospital blocked our way. We were forced to backtrack, and soon found ourselves having to skate around the huge Maria Hendrikapark park to reach the town centre. It was after 40 min of hiking when we reached the border force office.
The same young man promptly answered his phone, and was soon leading us down a series of corridors to his office, outside of which were a line of chairs. "Give me your passports please and take a seat, I won't be long." In moments we heard heavy stamps being pressed home, and he reappeared. "Are you travelling further?" he asked. "Yes, we will head north," we replied. " When you return to England will you leave from Ostend or somewhere else?" he queried. We knew what he was getting at, and replied that we'd most likely return via a different port. "You must get your passport stamped again at your port of departure," he stated. We replied that we already knew that. He was satisfied, and led us back to the entrance, advising that we were in for a week of good weather. He also pointed out where we could get a cab back to the marina. He wished us luck, we thanked him, and we headed off to get a cab. It was 11pm on a Sunday night, and there would be no bars or restaurants open, so back to the boat.
The lively cab driver soon deposited us just opposite our marina, and we squelched back on board and chilled out with a bottle of beer each. It had been a long, long day and we were shattered, so we retired to our bunks shortly after midnight.