Classic Boat — March 2018

“Watching

us sail in

was a young

mother, who

turned the

pram to face

the water so

baby could

watch too”

Sternpost

F

elixstowe was the fi rst container port in the

country when it opened half a century ago and yet,

as the great cranes were being built, I was aboard

the vessel delivering the port’s last freight under sail.

Standing on the mast-deck of the 91ft Thames Sailing

Barge Cambria, as the narrow dock entrance neared,

was the 18-year-old mate, myself, anxiously awaiting the

order to stow sail. At the wheel was the 63-year-old

skipper, Bob Roberts, carefully judging the ebb which

was running across the mouth of the dock entrance.

And with a glistening nose poked through the rigging

deadeyes was Penny the Border Collie, as alert as I was,

tense to the rapidly approaching need for action.

Cambria was already long out of her time, other

Sailing Barges had been converted to power, houseboats

or yachts, while the majority had been hulked in lonely

creeks. So a crowd of bystanders had gathered to watch

us sail in. This did not help my growing nervous tension.

There was even a young mother who turned her pram to

face the water so baby could watch, too. “Come on,

Bob,” I said under my breath, “give the order.”

I had a mainsail to brail up, a topsail to lower and a

foresail to drop: around 4,000sq ft of canvas, then a

quarter-tonne anchor to deploy on the end of several

fathoms of heavy chain and all before the barge reached

the far side of a very small dock.

“It’s no good, she won’t make it this time,” said Bob,

“stand by yer bowline.” And I moved to the leeward side

to hold the rope which backed the foresail, helping the

barge round as she tacked away. As we swung into the

wind I could have counted the bolts on the wharf piles.

Again we sailed out into Harwich Harbour, again we

tacked, this time a little up the river to allow for leeway.

We made the approach. By now spectators had grown in

number, even dock workers had halted their labour for

an interval with history. Now plumb in the entrance, Bob

said: “Right-oh, pick up your mainsail.”

Feverishly I wound the brail winch, which bunches up

the belly of the sail, then leapt across to the middles and

lowers – hand-hauled ropes which draw in the lower

cloths of the sail, but before it was all in came the next

command: “Down tops’l.” I jumped to the halyard, cast

it off as the next command came: “Down fores’l.” The

barge was rushing into the dock, past the spectators, the

young mum turned the pram to follow us in. I wound

the pawl on the foresail halyards and fl icked them off.

“Stand by yer anchor,” as the foresail collapsed on the

hatches I leapt over it to the windlass... “Let go.”

Tearing at the massive links I threw them around the

splintery barrel until in my haste I threw the last turn

over the second and as the anchor dragged away the

loosed chain, the whole system jammed. I stared at the

approaching dock wall computing the dynamics of the

immovable object of Victorian brickwork and the

unstoppable force of 79 tonnes of British oak laden with

160 tonnes of Canadian wheat.

As Bob strolled forwards he noticed it, too. What he

said is unrepeatable and not because I’ve forgotten it.

But, with the luck of youth, I had let out enough

chain before jamming the windlass to allow the anchor

to set in the dock mud. Cambria slowed and turned. We

were in. Having discharged the freight, a winter storm

developed and we turned in, until a tap on the side and

the cry of the harbourmaster had us on deck. The berth

was required for a motor-ship. Bob said we couldn’t get

out in such conditions, so a tug was sent for and we were

towed out into Harwich Harbour where we anchored,

but dragged regularly throughout the night.

In the morning the wind had gone and I cursed the

harbourmaster of Felixstowe, willing him to be aboard

and help wind it all back in. But we were in the way of a

motor-ship, which could eschew bad weather: we were

in the way of progress, you could say. We were obsolete.

That dock is fi lled in now as gantry cranes discharge

the containers. And for the sake of the 2,500 dock

workers and the 32,500 people across East Anglia who

rely on Felixstowe for their jobs, I sincerely hope their

superannuation is a long way into the future.

As the UK’s biggest container port, Felixstowe, marks 50 years of handling cargo, Dick

Durham recalls bringing in the last freight under sail

KENTISH TIMES DICK DURHAM

Half a century on

Above: Cambria

passes modern

container

gantries in the

Thames Estuary.

Inset: Penny,

Bob Roberts

and Dick aboard

Cambria in 1970