Out and Away

—05.16.2000—

Elde is a beautiful boat. She’s 50 feet of sleek, cold-molded gorgeousness. The morning light glints off her stainless steel hardware. The surroundings here are less so. It’s a working shipyard, and a scrappy one at that. The Faversham Yacht Club operates out of an old shipping container and offers its members (Jack and I’m not sure who else) reciprocal yacht club usage privileges all around the world. So, for example, if Jack wanted to moor up and make use of the facilities at say the Royal London Yacht Club, all he’d have to do is say that he’s a member of the Faversham Yacht Club and they’d say something like, “Oh, do come in, old chap.” And, of course, if the members of the RLYC would ever come to Faversham, they’d have the same privileges here.

Last night I was given an informal FYC guest pass (in the form of a finger pointed at another old shipping container) and sampled the bathing facilities. They were a little rusty but adequate. I wonder what the chaps from the RLYC would make of them.

Jack gives it a 50/50 chance that we’ll be off today.

——

It’s evening now and our ship, Elde, is lying just off of the mouth of Faversham Creek. We traveled maybe half a mile down the creek this morning after having floated the boat off at spring high tide at noon today. As the tug tried to pull us off, the boat pivoted around her keel, the bottom of which must have still been a foot or two in the mud, and her stern grazed the sea wall, bending her swim ladder. We twisted down the flooded creek, which felt impossibly narrow for a boat this size. Now we’re moored near the creek’s mouth, waiting for a wind that would take us into the Thames Estuary and out into the English Channel.

We took the dinghy back up the creek tonight to a pub called the Shipwrights Arms. It was completely dark out and the creek was lying low and thin between its slimy banks as the tide had dropped again to a spring low. We had to search for the channel so as no to run aground. A wrecked fishing vessel uncovered by the receding waters passed by high over our heads far up the bank, its thick, exposed ribs silhouetted eerily against the night sky.

We were meeting Dom’s girlfriend Donna, who, earlier this afternoon, had been sitting on the steps of the pub waving a tear-jerker of a goodbye as Elde sailed past. Those steps were now thirty or so feet up the muddy bank. We moored the inflatable dinghy and trod gingerly up the slope on the rocks Dom had uncovered by sweeping away mud with the flat end of an oar. Once we were settled inside the pub with drinks in hand, Dom offered some of his pint to a friend’s Spaniel who happily lapped out of his glass. Immediately I thought, “Right on—he’s a friend to the animals.”

——

Jack and Dom are characters of the first order. Confident, capable and making jokes and jabs as they go. Very funny. I’m starting not to worry about compatibility. Dom, as the first mate, is showing me around the boat, how everything works. It should be a good trip.

—05.18.2000—

We made some headway yesterday, having come out of the mouth of the estuary sailing with only a jib as the wind was blowing SW at 30 knots. Jack asked me if I wanted to take the wheel. It felt commanding to take the helm of the ship, to give steering inputs through the large, suede-covered wheel, and feel the vessel, all I-don’t-know-how-many tens of thousands of pounds of her, move and react to my requests. In 30 knots she felt lively.

Out of the estuary we motored down to Ramsgate harbor, as the boat rose and fell over the waves. Every time the bow buried itself in the trough of a wave, spray flew over the entire length of the boat and landed in the cockpit. Dom calmly mentioned points of interest along the way.

As we were leaving Faversham Creek yesterday Dom saluted Sandra (Jack’s ex-wife) with his bare ass. She followed suit and returned a salute in kind. Meanwhile I thought, “OK—the stories are true.” In fact the other day while he was showing me around the boat Dom said something like, “So you must have heard a lot of rumors about me.”

“Nothing I’m too worried about,” I replied because by that time I wasn’t. He’s very knowledgeable—he’s has been sailing for twenty years—explains everything, runs a good ship and is really mellow about it. And he’ll share his pint with a friend’s dog. He’s a good guy.

Sandra has a little shop (well, shed) called Sandra’s Naughty Bits (as in Nautical). She sold me some deck shoes before we left. They’re just like the ones I wore in junior high except that they’re pure white and poncy as hell. They’re so over the top that I’m starting to get into them.

Last night, while we were still moored just outside of Faversham Creek, Dom and I took the dinghy to a sandbar that had been exposed by low water and I was able to see Elde for the first time from a distance. She’s a gorgeous boat, 52-ft. long, sleek, comfortable, with teak decks, a raised cabin roof, and a sheltered cockpit. Down below she’s equipt with a small galley to port, a navigation station to starboard and, further forward, two u-shaped dining areas opposite each other across the beam. Further forward again lie the two state rooms, Jack’s to port, Dom’s to starboard, and a couple of heads. Passing through Dom’s state room and through one of the heads, is the fo’c’sle (the area up in the bow). That’s where I’m staying. It’s really pretty roomy in there. Two v-shaped sleeping areas, one above the other, comprise four bunks. The gap between the bottom two bunks can be bridged with a cushioned insert to form a big, triangular bed, so there’s plenty of room to spread out. Along the wall, what I first thought was a series of small wooden shelves has turned out to be a ladder that leads up to the deck through a glass hatch. I have a sunroof! Dom’s girlfriend has been joining us aboard for the last couple of nights so that might come in handy if I don’t want to disturb them. Though I have to say they didn’t seem too bothered, “Just knock,” he told me.

It was funny. As we left that first day, she was sitting on the steps of a lonely pub near the bank of the creek waving a tearful goodbye. As I mentioned, since we were anchored just outside the mouth of the creek, we took a dingy back in and had a drink with her at that same pub. Last night she drove to Ramsgate and met us for another final goodbye. Sailboats are much slower than cars. And it’s easy for her to come meet us as we make our way around England’s southeastern tip. Who knows? Maybe we’ll see her in the next town as well.

—05.20.2000—

We’re properly away now. We’ve let the diesel rest and hoisted the sails. The sun is shining; the seas are flat; we’re heading 271˚ (almost directly due west); and hoping to make the Isle of Wight by this evening.

Sailing is nice and I’m also wondering now about spending the summer on St. Agnes. I know... after all of that fussing about the sailing trip... Well, you just have to try these things out don’t you? I mean, it’s lovely but it’s so slow and there’s not all that much to do. And I’m sure the Azores are nice but then again so is St. Agnes. I bet it’s a good scene, Scilly in the summer. It’s more social. There’s sailing there too… and girls. Anyway, I’ll sail down the Channel as planned and give it a thought.