Sail training on a thameS barge
Trust, a charity, has already raised half a
million pounds and needs £180,000 more.
Authenticity will be important. Her sails are
planned to be something special – woven
from linen with a selvedge instead of a hem
at the Whitchurch Silk Mill with the help of
Richard Humphries, Upper Bailiff of the
Worshipful Company of Weavers.
But linen sails are by no means the
whole of it. As we walk through the
cavernous spaces of the raw hull, Richard
points out the sites of her future
accommodation, and a huge void in her
mid-section which will be the most
authentic feature of them all: a cargo hold.
Sea-Change trainees who sail on Blue
Mermaid will not only work with a
minimum of engine power, they will work
whatever cargoes Titchener can find up
and down the East Coast. The object of
sailing, he reckons, is to take people out
into the middle of nature.
His trainees do not use mobile phones,
because they interfere with the group
dynamic and the sense of here-and-now.
Similarly, engines can if overused make life
too easy. He will use them if absolutely
necessary – it is after all the 21st Century,
and there are schedules to be kept. But
on the whole he would rather not. So Blue
Mermaid will carry her cargoes without an
engine, and will rely on the traditional barge
skills of towing, drudging and warping.
Meanwhile on Reminder it’s time to
anchor. Some skippers would start the
donkey, jam the boat up head to wind,
give her a blast astern and drop the hook.
Not Richard. He puts the helm down.
The luff of the mainsail bulges aback, and
the 100-odd tons drifts to a slow halt.
Hilary and the anchor crew have made a
beautiful square flake of chain aft of the
windlass drum, with a turn on the drum.
She drops. The chain roars out. A couple
of trainees put buckets of seawater over
the drum to lubricate it. The barge drifts
astern. The chain lifts from the sea,
straightens a moment, dripping, and sinks
again. The anchor is set.Time machine
Time moves at a peculiar speed when you
are living in a sailing machine built 100
years ago. It is a surprise to see that the
sky over the land is already turning pink,
and to feel an evening chill in the breeze.
Smoke is fluttering out of the flue of the
saloon wood stove as we tally on to the
brails for the mainsail. The topsail comes
down, and stays aloft, held to the topmast
by its rings. ‘We should put a gasket on
that or it’ll go flap flap all night,’ says
Richard. ‘Who wants to go?’
The trainees are somewhere around 16
years old. Eight young eyes seem to be
looking at me. I have been asking
questions all day. It is my turn to suffer.
‘All right,’ I say. This is not exactly CapeHorn. The mast is only 40ft high, and I
have a safety harness on, and the sea
makes millponds look rough. But as I
beetle up the shrouds I am thinking, why
the hell did I open my stupid mouth? And
when I get to the hounds, where the
shrouds are too close together to get a
foot on to a ratline, and my spectacles are
falling off, and it has taken five minutes to
get the first turn of the gasket on to an
oil-drum-fat lump of unyielding canvas,
and the gasket itself is the only thing that
is keeping me suspended in mid-air, I
notice that the safety line is doing its bit as
well. I look down and see that in charge of
the line is Dan. Dan is 15. He has a turn
and half a figure eight on the cleat. He is
in full control of the situation, because he
has done it dozens of times before, the
way Hilary and Richard have shown him.
And I find myself thinking that any
combination of vessel and organization
that will allow you to trust your life to a
15-year-old stranger after six hours’
acquaintance must have something pretty
special going for it.
But there is not too much time for
ponderings of that nature, because it’s
supper time, and everyone has to think of
three things they’d take to a desert island,
after which there is a passionate and
uproarious Sevens tournament. And so,
with minimum engine and maximum sailing
and manoeuvring and anchoring and
serious fun, the week roars on. Everyone
on board will be back. Including me.n Find out more and donate to
Sea-Change Sailing Trust at
http://www.seachangesailingtrust.org.ukHis trainees do not use mobile phones,
because they interfere with the group
dynamic and the sense of here-and-now
Welded plates and stringers of the Trust’s
new-build Thames barge Blue Mermaid
BELOW: Hilary Halajko and Richard
Titchener of the Sea-Change Sailing Trust
BELOW RIGHT: Mealtime aboard Reminder