Ah yes, it’s been a lousy start to the year around the Thames estuary. We’ve enjoyed bucketful’s of wind and Whimbrel has sat in lonely ‘silence’ awaiting her day. Last year we were out on day one!

Last year (2017) had been one of the best sailing year’s we can remember. The boat was in use on 115 days, not a record by far, but she covered 1070 nautical miles, which is thought to be the most the old girl’s done in a year.

Any way, the Mate and I spent Saturday morning ‘slaving’ with our club’s work party, during which I watched a sluggish tide come and go. It was only a 5m and there wasn’t a lot of wind … but we gained a few ‘brownie’ points.

Sunday dawned grey, but dry with a gentle breeze. On the way to the creek, looking eastwards, the dawn sun was just creeping under the layer of low cloud.

Walking to the boat, Kent was bathed in a golden glow…

Kent glowed ‘gold’…

Reaching Whimbrel, covers were soon stripped off. The genoa bag was heaved through the fore hatch by Christobel before she got our bacon under the grill. It wasn’t long before both bacon and boat were readied.

Boat and breakfast ready…

The tide seemed to take an age to rise. During neaps there is an advantage: the tide takes equally as long to ebb. In the event we had three hours out sailing by the time we returned.

Eventually, with an audible sigh from the centre plate case, Whimbrel rose and was afloat in its gloopy mud hole. A burst astern and she glided into the run of the tide. Whilst the Mate helmed I soon had the mainsail set and we motor-sailed out of the creek. Passing a motor boat, an ex Northern Lights tender, we were hailed and saluted by the boats kindly owner.

I noticed something unusual. It was unusually quiet around the saltings and tide edges. Brent were conspicuous by their absence and the normal cries that generally emanated from the purslane and cord grass were missing. Perhaps it was too early!

Headsail set, Christobel comes aft…

Clearing the inner creek the Mate set the genoa and I began to tack lazily eastwards, drinking the last of my coffee.

After a little while, astern of us, another boat was seen to motor out. She set a head sail and motor-sailed close by – for a short natter – before stowing sail and motoring away to the east towards Southend Pier. Beyond the pier, the sky was perceptibly lightening up.

Tacking eastwards…

Out on the Thames highway there was a steady stream of shipping heading inbound and outbound. There were two motor boats about and a lone paddle boarder, other than those we were essentially alone.

A happy skipper…

Closing the shore east of Chalkwell Station the whines and yaps of dogs could be heard: they have the run of the beaches during the seasons either side of summer… There were an unusual number of people treading the familiar ‘cinder’ path along the front between Leigh and Chalkwell (It isn’t made of cinders any more but the name has stuck…).

Awaking from a reverie, we turned westwards to ‘salute’ the ‘Essex’ and ‘Leigh’ clubs. All appeared quiet…

Christobel having a trick at the helm, calling, ‘don’t take my picture…’.

On the way back out towards the Ray Channel, the thin cloud was finally pieced by the sun. It streaked across the water and its warmth was immediately apparent. The Mate had got chilled … silly girl! Earlier, whilst running a bit of film I’d caught her humming and singing quietly whilst jigging about. ‘It was because I was cold,’ she said, grimacing a little.

The sun pierced the cloud…

The sky all of a sudden became blue above and the line crept rapidly westwards so that we were sailing towards a blued sky. The mate opened her arms and soaked the sunshine … more in hope than the warmth it had, yet it could be felt. I must admit, even I had begun to feel the chilliness…

Astern a blue sky opened up and enveloped us…

The tide was on the ebb and had been for a little while. It was time to organise fenders and stow the mainsail. This activity enlivened my slightly numbed toes. With the sun, the breeze seemed to ebb too, and we crept slowly into the creek.

Astern, all was blue and the sun lit the tan genoa…

Approaching Smallgains Creek’s entrance I spotted a fellow boat owner standing in the well of his ‘fishing sloop’ taking pictures. he saluted us. We returned in a ‘silly’ manner, feeling exceedingly happy. Along the saltings edges there were a few Brent about, but the saltings themselves had a quietness that was strange.

Whimbrel creeping into Smallgains… Picture: Simon Lawrence.

The Mate had gone forward in readiness to drop the genoa. I called, softly, ‘Leave it … we’ll sail in…’ I did start the engine, just in case!

Gliding across tide we slid gently alongside our mooring finger and came to as stop. Grand.

Bagging and covering sails I wondered quietly whether or not there weren’t a just a few other local sailors who’d wished they’d grabbed the opportunity too.

We were glad of it…