Taming the Thames
Part 2

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So we got our 14-foot sailing dinghy to Havengore Creek in the early hours of the morning.
Havengore Creek taught me that that you can actually be f*cked by a swing bridge which doesn’t at 4 in the morning.
I kid you not.
To those of you who read the enthralling first part to this epic saga, and are back for episode two.
For those of you determined to read on, despite having read the first episode, I sincerely hope you recover with treatment. Time they say is a great healer.
Anyway, I digress.
We had sailed proudly into Havengore Creek, ready to continue on our journey in a fourteen-foot dinghy to Hullbridge in Essex.
I say sailed proudly, anyone is entitled to a little journalistic licence.
We were cold, tired, soaked to the skin and suffering from third degree burns from that joyous instrument of terror, the Primus Stove.
We had failed to heat the tin of curry, and had eaten it cold, heavily seasoned with a teasing sauce of agua de sea.
Apparently the Americans have devised a method of extracting information from terror suspects enjoying their free holiday in the Hotel Guantanamo Bay.
It’s called the water torture, and has caused questions as to its legality to be raised worldwide.
Has no one told them that five minutes with a Primus Stove can reduce a grown man to the status of a well done BBQ sausage.
And it’s legal.
I’m lost. Ah yes. The swing bridge that didn’t!
We dragged the dinghy through the Essex mud, it is thicker than an Essex girl I promise you, and probably smells worse too.
And there in front of us stood the Havengore swing bridge in all its glory.
And, oh joy, next to it, the bridge keeper’s lodge.
Easy, ring the bell, bridge keeper opens the bridge, and we can go back to dragging the boat towards our goal.
That was the theory.
Enter the buggeration factor.
Murphy’s law to those who have never been buggered.
The bridge keeper was obviously a lot more sensible than we were, the note on the door informed us that he was at home having his well deserved weekend off.
Nice thought, he signed it “Happy Sailing”
Bastard!
“No problem,” said my nautically challenged skipper. "We’ll step the mast.”
“Why do we want to step on the mast?”, I asked. “We want to get under the bridge, not climb onto it.”
“Git,” he said in his normal friendly tone. “Step the mast means take it down, remove it, lower it!”
“And how do we do that?”, I whimsically enquired.
“We unscrew it you jerk”
“With what?” I helpfully enquired.
He looked at me just like the wife does when I suggest starting a home repair. A look of aloof disdain teasingly tinted with just a hint of violence.
“With the screwdriver,” he advised.
By now his face had gone bright red and the veins were standing out on his neck as he prepared to belt me one.
I wondered if now was the time to point out that the screwdriver was buried deep in the mud of the Maplin Sands. Left where it fell as we dived out of the boat filled with blazing water.
The fate of the screwdriver appeared to seep into his memory as he quickly changed the subject and clambered up onto the bank.
If you remember, I did mention earlier that my geographically challenged skipper had charted our course taking us through War Department property.
We were smack bang in the middle of Her Britanic Majesty’s Atomic Weapons Research Establishment on Foulness Island.
Marked on the charts with a skull and crossbones bearing the legend “Keep Out.”
I joined him sitting shivering on the muddy bank as we decided what our next move would be.
In my case it was to find myself suddenly and violently lying on my back with my shipmate attempting to give me a tongue sandwich.
Funny what flashes through your mind at times like that, he didn’t look gay and he’s got dogs breath, were but two of them.
I opened my eyes to find myself staring at what must have inspired Conan Doyle to write the Hound of the Baskervilles.
This “thing” had one foot on my chest and its teeth but inches from my throat. And the bloody thing was salivating as it eyed its next din dins, me.
Then this voice screams out, “Don’t move for chrissake he’s new!”
Is he real?. Moving was near the bottom of my to do list. Controlling bowel movements was my number one priority, that and survival.
“War Department police,” the voice said, “And I’ve lost his handler.”
“Oh dear how careless to lose the doggie’s handler”, I said. Or words to that effect.
“Has it eaten,” I asked.
“This isn’t a time for joking, “ said the copper.
I’m sure they only recruit the brain dead. Twelve stone of teeth is about to give me a love bite, and he tells me to stop joking.
Suddenly a piercing whistle broke through the noise of my tears.
Enter one dog handler shaking almost as much as I was.
Fang looked lovingly at my throat, but backed off slowly, much to my relief.
“Had me a bit worried there,” said the handler.
“No worries,” I said, “It had me terrified."
Anyway once things had settled down, Mr Plod reveals that they had picked us up on their “sensors.”
“Is that like KY jelly?”, I asked.
“The sound sensors,” was the mirthless reply.
What followed for the next twenty minutes was two Ministry of Defence policemen, bored to %%%%, who have come across a sailing boat at 4am with two evil spies in it.
“No I don’t have a passport, identification, a camera or a police record.”
“Yes I am British”
“No I didn’t know I was trespassing.”
“No this is not camouflage cream covering my entire body, its mud.”
“Yes I did realise that the mud is wet.”
“I’m very sorry for upsetting your nice dog.”
“No I do not have a nervous tic, I’m shivering.”
“Yes it was silly to wear wet mud at night.”
And so it went on.
Eventually we managed to convince these idiots that they had not stopped a Russian invasioniary force of two from taking control of their “patch.”
“You’ll have to sign the official secrets act confirming all you have just told us.”
“Fine, where do we sign?” They had no idea.
It soon became clear that nobody had ever made it through the obstacles below the water line designed to sink boats like ours before.
And we did it at low tide too!
Anyway, our two new best friends took us back to their Police Station, known aptly as “The Coppers Rest,” and produced the official looking documents to sign.
Give them their due, they also filled a thermos flask with coffee for us to take with us, and gave us coffee and bickies while we were there.
So now we go back to our boat, faced with the problem of getting a twelve-foot mast under a five-foot clearance bridge!
But that's another story!

Taming the Thames
Mike Samuels

I was asked recently if I was a “yachtie”. Me!
Me what sailed the squalls and tempests of the Regents Park boating lake reliving Swallows and Amazons.
Me that had the distinction of sailing my full rigged schooners so fast I beat the Isle of Wight ferry.
OK , I was rowing and the first I knew about the ferry was when his air horns nearly blasted me out of the water coz I was rowing right across its path!
Me what sailed from Old Leigh in Essex to Hullbridge in a 14’ dinghy.
A trip we’d planned to take 4 hours.
We cast off, ramming very few moored boats, and set our sails towards the setting sun.
Actually the sun was behind us, but it didn’t sound so good, and you couldn’t see it anyway as it disappeared after an hour as mist closed in.
So we headed towards our destination sailing serenely along the Essex coast.
Maybe 5 hours into our 2 hour journey I began to suspect that my seafaring mate was not the old sea dog he’d professed to be.
I was even more sure when he brought out his nautical map, an A to Z of London streets.
Give him his due, there was a blue line which said river Thames.
Then the rain started.
Not gentle little drops, but the sort of rain that fills a little dinghy in a matter of minutes…so we both sheltered snugly under a paper carrier bag.
We got wet!
By the time the rain had stopped, the skipper announced that we would not reach our destination in the time allotted, highly perceptive of him as it was now 9pm and we’d been sailing for seven hours!
So much for two hours.
I forgot to mention that my mate, the skipper, was employed by Fords as scheduler…no wonder they had difficulty in making cars on time!
I did start to wonder if things were as planned, when a passing tanker called us on their loud hailer, and asked if we needed help!
We thanked them and said no, as we merrily sailed through the waves at the tanker's stern.
Such fun as the water leapt over our little boat. I now know what a car feels like in a car wash.
We sailed on, soaking wet, and shortly afterwards, the tidal Thames did what it does best, and changed tide, going out just when we wanted it at its deepest to allow us to pàss over the mudflats and sail into Havengore Creek..
There is a notorious area at the mouth of the Thames called the Maplin Sands. Maplin Mud more like it. When the tide goes out, the mudflats appear.
And small boats which are caught out there tend to act in a strange way.
They sink.
Discretion being the better part of valor, we decided to drop anchor and wait for the tide to come back in.
Anchor?
Ever seen the wheels on a tractor? OK.
So we dropped the middle bit of a tractor wheel, which was tied to a length of string that he called rope, which was tied to the boat...and waited.
It worked, we stopped and, by way of celebration and relief, our intrepid skipper broke out the rations and we moored up to a mud flat.
Curry was on the menu which we cooked on a small primus stove.
Not an easy task as the boat was still half-full of water.
No problem said my intrepid sea dog friend.
We can get out of the dinghy and stand on the mud flat while we balance the primus stove on one of the two planks which served as seats.
Now I don’t know if you have ever used a primus stove, but they are lethal.
Never let yer granny near one unless she’s made a will.
The idea is that you put your saucepan full of food on a small ring on top of the stove.
Then you have to light the burner.
But in those days these contraptions from hell burnt paraffin.
No problem, just prime it.
So I started pumping this little lever to bring the paraffin up to the top and my mate had a match out to light the stuff as it appeared.
Now I know that sounds simple, but we were standing on thick mud in maybe 18 inches of water.
The boat was rocking as boats do in the gentle breeze.
But a gentle breeze in the Thames estuary is what you’d call a storm if you experienced the same force of the wind ashore.
Anyway, I’m priming, pumping and trying to hold this stove steady while Indiana Jones lights the paraffin.
Easy stuff, we got the flame going with no problem at all.
But, nobody told me to stop pumping.
The stringy bit was burning beautifully, and as I pumped furiously, the flame followed the paraffin down the stove, along the seat and into the bottom of the boat.
Did you know water catches fire?
Neither did I, but the water in our boat was soon ablaze.
I bet you also didn’t know, that burning paraffin spreads so nice and quickly in a sea breeze.
Try pouring petrol on a barbie, and you’ll get the idea!
After having spent hours bailing the water out of our little dinghy, we now stood on the mud like two demented idiots tossing water back into the boat as we battled to put the flames out.
Then the rain started again, and far from putting the flames out they just floated higher, even the skipper from hell started to panic as our one little sail joined in the fun and caught light as the flames crawled up the ropes that were laying in the bottom of the boat.
Eventually we managed to control the inferno, and as we made a coffee from cold water from his flask, we decided to sit it out and wait for the tide to come in.
Now I’m not saying I was sailing with a nutcase, but miles from shore and sitting in 18 inches of water the skipper remembers silly things.
Unimportant things like, we can’t sail into Havengore Creek, our next point on what was turning out to be an epic voyage, until the tide is at its highest because of obstacles in the water designed to hole little boats just like ours.
He had forgotten to tell me that we were entering Ministry of Defence waters and the channel we were heading for passed right slap bang through the middle of an atomic weapons research station
Waters which are top secret, and admittance is forbidden to the unauthorised, a category which includes lunatic sailors.
Waters full of anti-submarine obstacles designed to commit atrocities to steel hulls.
Now he tells me!
Our wooden hull stood no chance, it was a breeding ground for woodworm, and the burnt bits from our cookery lesson hadn’t helped.
No problem, says he. These shallow channels are a doddle at full tide. We just sit here and wait for the tide to reach its full level and sail in under the radar.
Radar???.
I realised he was worried when a look of horror passed over his face.
Worrying about the radar I asked.
Forget the radar says he, we may have a problem.
A bigger problem than the army and the radar, and the boat bloody sinking, I asked.
Yes says he.
By now I am starting to regret bunking off Sunday School when I was a kid, and wondering if knowing the first verse of The Lords Prayer guarantees redemption.
Do you reckon our anchor rope is 4 metres long, he asked.
No idea I said, wondering if he was gonna hang himself before we drowned.
That’s good he said, it’s a 4 metre tide.
Tied to what I asked?
Not tied, he corrected, tide. T-I-D-E.
Oooo tide, I said. So what does that mean.
Well anything short of a 4 metre rope and we’d be swept into the creek where all the obstacles are, and they’d rip the bottom out of our boat.
We both jumped over the side as panic set in, to measure the rope.
Now there is this phenomenon on the Maplin Sands, which means that if you stand in 18 inches of water at low tide, over mud flats...that 18 inches deepens rapidly as the tide starts to come in.
And mud flats are certainly not flat.
And not flat mud flats have bloody great trenches around them And these trenches fill with water quicker than any other part.
And at night the mud flats and these trenches full of water all look the same colour.
Anyway, as I said, we both jumped on to the mud around the little yacht to find out how long the rope was.
And disappeared!
We both surfaced at about the same time and swam back to the side of the boat.
Pulling our way round to the front of the boat, we tugged at the rope.
No slack. We had already run out of anchor rope.
No problem, back into the boat, float in on the tide, and try to push ourselves clear of the bottom tearing obstacles with the oars.
I say no problem.
Have you ever tried to climb back into a boat which is running with the tide, dragging its anchor whilst trying to stop your wellies floating off up the Thames?
A boat where the mooring rope is now so tight that the boat is trying to act like a champagne cork trying to escape from a bottle?
It ain’t easy I can assure you.
But it is possible once sheer panic sets in.
Back in the boat, soaking wet, bloody cold and in a state of terror we sat huddled, one each side of the dinghy, with oars in our hands.
Now you’ve heard the saying about a light in the wilderness, there is such a light.
It sits at the bridge keeper’s lodge which in turn sits beside the swing bride at the entrance to Havengore Creek.
There it was, our salvation.
Now lights at sea, or rather lights on land as viewed from the sea are very deceptive.
They move, and keep moving.
At least that was what we had begun to believe as we pulled the boat out of the third creek which had suddenly ended.
More an inlet than a river.
Eventually we found the right one and the tide carried us up to the low bridge.
I say low, it was less than 2 metres above the boat.
I was about to learn three valuable lessons.
Swing bridges don’t swing at night, and masts are higher than a swing bridge.
And you can’t sail under the radar, the police are waiting for you!
But that’s another story…