ONE DOOR
CLOSES
by Renee Cuthbertson
We had been sailing for the
best part of thirty-five years so most Friday nights were often spent
propping up the bar at the Yacht Club .All the usual crowd were there.
“What’s happening at Whitsun?” Terry enquired. “Same old thing,
over for the Calais Rally weekend then back” Jerry sighed. Every body
moaned. “Seen that, done that, and got the tee- shirt four times” a
wag joked. John my husband said “I’m looking to go somewhere
different; how about Gravelines? It’s just down the coast from Calais,
not so busy, and we can achieve it on one run. As the tide is early
morning we will easily arrive on the afternoon tide”.
Saturday
dawned bright and clear. We awoke on Catareta our thirty one foot
Catamaran, which is a twin hull yacht. At four am we upped anchor, gunned
the motor and headed towards Southend pier on the outgoing tide, sails
hoisted we turned the motor off and had ten quiet hassle free hours of
sailing. We each took a hand at the wheel and with a good southwesterly on
our stern we headed for the French coast, a run down the Thames and a
reach across the channel. We arrived just before high tide, motored up
river for a mile before we reached Gravelines marina, tied up, then sat
down for a welcome hot cup of tea. All the other boats reached harbour
safely, the tide ebbed and we settled in for a happy and slightly boozy
weekend.
Monday morning dawned sunny
and bright. Four boats were heading home and one decided to sail along the
coast with us towards the Belgium port of Newport for a few days. We
berthed one night at Dunkirk on the way. It was an enjoyable and
uneventful trip and several days later we journeyed towards home via
Dunkirk and across to Ramsgate.
We
berthed at Dunkirk on a fine Thursday evening had a very enjoyable meal
and then went straight to bed. We got up bright and early for the channel
crossing. All went well the first two hours. Suddenly the slight breeze
became a light wind, the sea state increased into a heavy chop and we had
to decide whether we carried on or went back to Dunkirk. We chose to go
forward. The wind grew stronger and stronger, the sea wilder, the waves
began to pound over the boat like Niagara Falls in full flow. The wind
roared through the rigging impersonating a pack of demented lions. An
almighty crash could be heard over the weather noises. “ What’s
that?” I yelled. My husband who had been fighting the wheel called “I
don’t know”. There was a long, long pause. “ I think the anchor has
fallen of its front mount. Could you grab the wheel while I go forward and
see”. I suddenly became
frozen, I could not move, I sat on the cabin step unable to move or help
in anyway. John called louder thinking I had not heard. “I can’t,” I
stammered. “I’m too scared”. After thirty-five years my nerve had
gone. John was nonplussed, he had to go forward but he could not just
leave the wheel. “Sit where you are, just hold the wheel tight, you
don’t have to move”. I understood, my grip must have been like steel
it was the only thing I thought of, hold the wheel, hold the wheel, it was
like a mantra. I shouted “John are you there”. No reply. I yelled
again “John, John”. Suddenly a head appeared over the cabin roof.
“I’m here, I’m here”. I nearly cried with relief.” I thought
you’d gone overboard as you hadn’t answered me”. “I could hardly
reply while I was pulling up a great big anchor and thirty metres of
chain.” he gasped and collapsed on the deck. I still clung on to the
wheel. It took him several gasp- retching
minutes until he got his breath back. He prised my fingers from the
wheel and regained control, after a few moments of silence he laughed. “
Well done you’ve steered a beautiful course not one degree off, straight
as a die”. I didn’t care all I wanted to do was to get home to Canvey.
For five more hours John helmed the boat with no break while I sat rigid
on the step. Luckily the weather did not get any worse but by the time we
arrived at Ramsgate we were saturated, frozen and decidedly very, very
miserable.
As we docked I went down
below and stripped off my clothes as quickly as possible. But as I entered
the cabin I was ankle deep in water. The force of the waves had found a
weakness in the boat, so I was cold, wet and miserable and had to bail out
the bow of the boat to get rid of lots and lots of water. In my wet
underwear and bare footed, I filled and emptied buckets, it seemed for
hours [I guess it was for about fifteen minutes]. As we finished with a
sigh of relief, my damp foot met the sodden step to the galley; I slipped
and hit my foot on the galley unit and acquired one broken digit. Ouch!
Everything in the cabin was drowned in seawater. We managed to
rescue a pair of trousers and a top each that the other boat dried off for
us. They walked, I hopped, to the shower and spent half an hour of utter
bliss under very hot water, a decided change from the previous seven
hours. After a hot meal and a couple of drinks we slept the sleep of the
exhausted. Morning arrived with clear blue skies and a pleasant breeze. If
only I had insisted we turned back and we had sailed a day later. “Do we
sail, or go back by bus?” John asked. I pondered “sail, but for the
last time. I’m sorry I couldn’t go through that again I don’t feel
safe on the boat any more” I replied. We motored silently towards home
and our berth. Six hours later we docked at Canvey. John sadly left the
boat for the last time saying “that’s it I will put the boat up for
sale”.
One door closes I wonder
which door will open?
