February, like January and the last two months of 2021 were particularly windy.

I had a splendid over-night run with my eldest brother, Graham, while he was in England for our mother’s funeral, but nothing since, for this last month produced four names storms, with three, one after the other, a week or so ago.

The first of two storms during the week ending Friday 18th were largely elsewhere, but the last originally had winds of 85 mph. By the time the forecast hardened up, it was a little less…

On the day, I visited the creek to check on Whimbrel and other vessels. All was well as the moorings were well protected from the wind’s direction. The tide too did not make and was nearly a metre below prediction.

My wait for a sail continued…

Finally, the wind looked as if it would ease sufficiently at the same time as there was a tide to get a sail.

Today, Monday 28th February, the wind abated. A southerly 4-5 was on the forecast, but it was much lighter and I set out with a gladdened heart for the creek, waving my good mate a sweet goodbye (off to London to meet an old college friend).

The tide was dawdling, clearly, as I stepped aboard, so after getting things ready, I fitted a new 12 volt socket with a double USB outlet. I had made this up over the previous weeks. It now graces the fore cabin, ready for my crews this summer!

It was with a little butterfly bouncing around in side me that I eventually slipped out of our berth some 30 to 40 minutes later than usual for the tidal prediction. Later, I heard it was just over 30 cm shy.

Brent geese poked along the mud edges and amongst the cord grass as Whimbrel forged out over the flood. Curlews and oystercatchers announced their territorial presence too.

It was good to feel the boat lifting to the wavelets caused by a touch of east in the southerly wind. Clear of the creek with the tail of the point marsh astern, the boat revelled in it, going along at close to five knots over the tide.

There was no malice in the wind or any measurable sea either, just a ‘popple’ which ‘pinged’ inside the cabin from time to time. It was, however, enough to send up some spray from the bow setting up a foaming stream along the clinker lands.

I cracked on eastwards to off the Westcliff shore before turning to run along the shore to Leigh-on-Sea.

Just before the Essex Yacht Club a group of sea swimmers were either in the water or preparing to enter. Mad!

Closing Bell Wharf, at Leigh-on-Sea, the depth began to be dicey, so I bore away for the Ray Channel, skirting the Leigh Flats – two turns of plate were too much!

I had not been up into Hadleigh Ray beyond the Old Salvation Army Jetty for some time. I used to sail ‘west’ up to the barrier frequently, but since the threats made to the boat and the verbal abuse to ourselves afloat during the earlier Covid-19 lockdown periods of 2020, sadly, I (we) have all but ceased going beyond a certain point upstream.

Passing along Two Tree Island, I looked north and waved at a friend who may have been watching from a window along the housing line on the hill above!

The island of mud named Bird Island was just covered with a group of gulls semi-paddling on its top. A cormorant had no problem standing in the shallow water letting a meal slip down…

It was so lovely to slip along the edge of the saltings bathed in sunshine. Along the sea wall the odd walker stopped to stare. A couple of all-terrain cyclists went by whilst another sat resting upon a log seat. A seat which the mate and I have often used. The chap was holding his camera aloft, in a slow swing down stream. ‘Send me a shot…’ I felt like calling!

I heard the radio give the tide height for 1100, some fifteen minutes beyond high water. It was low … no time to dawdle on. It was time to head home!

Turning by a Benfleet YC racing buoy, below a creek chicane below the moorings, it was more of a hard reach back. A few tacks were needed along the run of Two Tree Island and to work south to the entrance to my creek, inside the eastern point.

The drifts and whirls of the wintering waders was largely missing. Numbers seemed to be low. Maybe next time…

After dropping the main, Whimbrel forged over the ebb, up the creek to her berth – the merest touch of engine was needed for the final manoeuvre…

It was Bloody Marvellous…