As we swirled down past Egypt Point in company with 70 or
so others, the mark was in clear view a mile ahead over the glassy
waters (no big Sunseekers to cut it up in those halcyon days). It
was becoming obvious that unless we fancied a trip to the
Needles, we’d better rouse out our kedges. Somehow, a lot of the
experienced skippers were working their boats into Gurnard Bay
whose shoal waters offered a realistic chance of finding the
bottom with an anchor. The more naïve, or those with no choice,
which included us on both counts, continued to barrel westwards
with eighty feet under us.
“No use mucking about with the kedge, Norman,” I said.
“Why don’t we give her the big CQR and the chain cable?”
Norman and Jack, also on the foredeck, expressed doubts, but
I was having none of it. As we discussed this pressing matter we
were interrupted by a shocking clang that sounded for all the
world like someone hitting a traditional galvanised dustbin with a
sledge hammer. Glancing behind we realised we were witnessing a
battle of the Titans. Fifty yards inshore of us, a 70-foot (21m)
steel Dutch sailing barge had successfully kedged. She had been
minding her own business winding up her leeboards when a
full-sized Brixham Trawler which was, I think, Vigilance but may
have been Terminus, came down on her out of control. It’s too
long ago for me to recall the details of this memorable incident
but I’ll never forget the richness and seamanlike creativity of the
string of oaths issuing from the Dutchman.
For a while, the two mighty craft drifted together, locked in a
grisly embrace, until the trawlermen produced a massive
booming-out pole and shoved off. The barge’s kedge took a fresh
grab on the seabed and the trawler anchored astern of her.
By now the buoy was only a few hundred yards off and our
time had come to put up or shut up. “Leggo,” I bawled. Jack
slung the hook over and Norman slipped the brake on the
windlass. We had 35 fathoms of three-eighth cable in that locker
and I swear the first 25 ran out in half as many seconds.
“Snub it off when you see the big red mark!” I hollered to
Norman over the roar of the cable. He did. That added up to 150
feet over the side and it made no difference whatever to our
inexorable progress. Indeed, you could hear the anchor singing as
it bumped along the rocky bottom.
“Give her the last ten fathoms then.” I ordered.
“Is the bitter end secure?” asked Jack sensibly.
“It’s on a socking great bolt through a frame,” I replied. I
knew, because I’d put it there myself. So Norman let off the brake.
The chain now continued its mad dash for freedom and we
watched, fascinated, as the bitter end came whipping over the
windlass followed by a length of finest polyester pre-stretched. All
well so far, but then the end of the rope shot into view, bent neatly
to a large galvanised bolt complete with nut and washer. Having
wrenched itself out of a hefty pitch-pine futtock this had no
further interest in staying on board and over the side it plunged
with the rest of my ground tackle.
Everything went very quiet. I looked at Norman. He looked at
me, while Jack, ever ready with the right remark, quipped,
“Didn’t you want it, then?”
We slid on in grim silence. As the buoy disappeared to the east
and Yarmouth approached, diplomatic relations were re-
established with the foredeck and we lunched on spam
sandwiches and brown ale. We were just clearing up off Hurst
when, in a failing tide, we spotted the dark water of a sea breeze
coming up from the Needles.
“Buckets out again, lads,” said Norman and we fell to heaving
the heavy cutter round so she’d be stern to the southwest breeze
when it arrived. By the time the first cool air twitched the topsail we
had the main squared away on a preventer and the ghoster boomed
out on the other side. As the wind filled in, it brought the east-going
tide with it and soon we were foaming along with a bone in our
teeth making a good eight knots over the ground. A water-sail gave
us nothing much extra but did wonders for morale and in no time
flat we were bringing the wind up with us off Gurnard Bay where
the rest of the fleet still lay becalmed. The committee boat signalled a
shortened course and we took the gun for our class.
This was the only time I won a gaffer’s race until 35 years later
in another life, and we’d sailed four times as far as the next boat
to finish. I don’t remember which cup we were awarded but I have
perfect recall of the large case of beer that came with it from a
proud sponsor, or the first half of it, anyway...