Dave Selby is the proud owner of a 5.48m (18ft)
Sailfish, which he keeps on a swinging mooring
Mad about the boat on the picturesque Blackwater estuary in EssexDave Selby
“Left a bit... no, right a bit...
sorry, left a bit more...”A
s an albatross wheeled in
lonely circles high above
the square-rigged masts of
Lady of Avenel I couldn’t
help but ponder things
larger than myself: the universe, nature,
the miracle of flight, the fact that it
might actually have been a pigeon, and
how much alike are golf and sailing,
apart from the fact that golf actually
improves your dress sense.
Contentious, I know, but true.
The sea air prompts the contemplation
of such eternal mysteries, but just then I
was shaken from my reverie.
In a single athletic bound, which included
a series of dainty steps, groans and oaths
and a slight trip that nobody noticed,
skipper Rob mounted the poop deck, spilt
most of his tea, swore again, surveyed the
surrounding sea and exclaimed: “Blimey,
it’s a bloody minefield.”
“Yikes,” I said, “I thought they were
lobster pots!”
“They are, but it’s a minefield of them.”
“I didn’t know they catch lobsters with
explosives,” I replied.
What he uttered next cannot be
repeated in a family sailing magazine.
We were somewhere off the coast,which is generally recommended in
sailing, and I was at the helm, which is not
so commonly recommended. All around
us were lobster pots. They are a menace.
You’ll have seen them hanging on pub
walls where they lend an ambience of
nautical rusticity, but don’t be fooled; if
they fall off they hurt.
They can also be found in the water,
where in the past I’ve found them quite
convenient. Before
I’d done any
courses and knew
any better, I once
tied up to a pot
marker for lunch,
until a bloke in a workboat aggressively
fendered with tyres whose tread depth
was a sure MoT failure explained that
although it wasn’t strictly a visitor’s
mooring he’d make an exception for a
small fee; he didn’t take debit cards or
give receipts, by the way.
Slightly less convenient was the time
one snagged my keel. I brewed a cup of
tea, had a think, wound the keel up on my
18ft Sailfish, tilted the rudder and outboard
up and slipped away. On a bigger boat, in
a blow, or with the outboard running it
would have been a different matter.Pitch and pot
Spot the birdie... or is that an albatross?
Earlier on in the Lady of Avenel’s
passage we were delayed when we
caught a marker that no one could have
spotted. Fortunately it didn’t snag the prop
but we had to launch the RIB to free it.
Now before us, as we
motorsailed north towards
Whitby, was a vision that
looked like a submerged pitch
and putt golf course; most, but
not all of the pots, were well
marked with clear black flags.
Andy, on the bow, was a
demon pot spotter whose
feedback was clear and calm,
though less helpful was the
observation “if it’s a bird it will
get out the way”.
I filtered the input and kept
my eyes on everything that
was spotted.
A tall ship responds slowly to
the helm and it’s easy to overcorrect.
Others also had their problems. In the
low sunlight it was not easy to make
things out. Seals were spotted that were
definitely seals until they definitely became
footballs or water melons, then
transformed into party balloons and
eventually turned into pot markers,
beachballs or pumpkins. The mind plays
tricks. It was more like crazy golf. I’m
surprised no one spotted an open-
mouthed clown or a windmill.
Skipper Rob instructed the spotters not
to try to identify objects, merely to point
them out. It worked. We threaded our way
through the ‘minefield’, thankful to the
fishermen who’d marked their pots clearly
with flags, but not so warmly disposed to
those who hadn’t.
Then I returned to musing. It was like my
best ever round of golf. I didn’t aim for the
pin, but laid up left
and right, threading
the boat down the
fairway. It’s also the
closest I’ll get to an
albatross, which as
sailors know, is three under par.
And if you doubt golf improves your
dress sense, it’s well known that most
golfers were formerly sailors who pitched
up on pontoons in the eye-popping
combo of red trousers and two-tone
correspondent deck shoes until they
discovered the tasteful restraint of tartan
slacks and Pringle diamonds.
For me it happened the other way round.
When I played golf I also wore an orange
buoyancy aid, as I spent so much time in
the drink. And that’s the origin of the term
slack water. Sailing owes a lot to golf.‘Before us was a vision that
looked like a submerged
pitch and putt golf course’
Pot marker disguised
as a seaweed-covered
plastic milk bottle