Reflections of the Schnark

 

The fires this year in Brazil and Australia along with the failure of governments around the world to wipe their own bottoms allow me to conclude briefly and without ambiguity that humanity will self-destruct.

Right, got that out of the way.

I find pleasure in nature, in escape from crowds, in discovering places unseen by many.

Years ago I favoured the “wild” or perhaps only “lonely” Highlands of Scotland, but when I found myself spending longer getting there and getting back, and wasting too much leisure time down South, a new solution was needed.

Ebay came to the rescue and proffered a small sail boat. I called her Schnark. She lived her first summer in my care at a boat yard on Mersea Island in Essex. I never really sailed her there, but visiting her was an adventure in itself. I cycled to Liverpool Street from West London, took a train to the stop before Colchester, and cycled across country to the causeway, which I usual found under at least a foot of water, and thence to Peter Clarke’s Boatyard in the village of East Mersea. I would rig my boat, row out to a vacant mooring, and collapse, exhausted with the effort. I would watch the world go about me from my floating refuge, terrified of what may befall me if I hoist the sails.

At the end of that season the Schnark came to live in London, in the garden of my sister and her delightful family. It was very close to the river, but if sailing near Mersea Island was too much, I had no chance on the narrow, crowded Thames near Kingston.

I had paid good money for a very a smart cover to be made to measure, but I never realised that it didn’t quite reach the transom. The Schnark rotted quietly and made excellent firewood for my merciless brother-in-law.

[My dear wife complains at this, she says little boats do not make good firewood, I imagine she would have planted turnips in it instead.]

When we moved to South London, I escaped on my bicycle, searching for a new stamping ground. I followed the Thames, on the South side out of London, and became frustrated when I reached Grain at the mouth of the Medway. I was determined to cross over to Sheppey and continue my quest along the coast, it was too far to go around. I obtained the number of a local skipper who was bemused when I asked for a passage to Sheerness or Queenborough, he simply said “There aint no pier at Grain.”, and that was that.

But that wasn’t that.

I obsessed further, I studied the Ordnance Survey maps, and made another excursion or two, and discovered Wilsonian Sailing Club near Hoo, on the dark side of the Medway, opposite Chatham. I joined at once. I was wooed by a marvellous Commodore, who told me I could get my own boat, and launch whenever I pleased and have the freedom of the river. Fortunately, I delayed and dithered, and sailed with the club beginners in the club’s modern sturdy plastic soap tub boats, and by the time that Ebay produced its next offering, I was ready. Well, nearly ready.

I returned to my club victorious one Saturday afternoon in September, in a Mirror Dinghy which I had collected from a yacht club down river in Lower Halstow. I had the little, but heavy trolley resting across the bow, with the wheels hanging off either side, and the handle strapped high on Reflections’ little mast. I got a good welcome at the club, where I slept the night in the dinghy park. On Sunday morning I set off again on a little cruise around nearby Hoo Island, but as I emerged into the stream of the river on the other side of my island, I hadn’t got around to checking for passing traffic yet, but bang! I was hit by a jolly nice chap in a yacht, who couldn’t see me behind his big sail.

I remember him as Mr Cruiser, and he really was a thoroughly decent chap. I got to know him over many visits as he painstakingly rebuilt the front end of my precious craft.

I sailed my little boat a year later back to where she’d come from, and several times around the Isle of Sheppey. The marvellous Mr Cruiser rescued me once when a friend and I were dismasted a mile out from Leysdown on Sea, we came ashore at Warden Point and a week latter Mr Cruiser provided very inexpensive, bombproof stainless steel rigging and helped put Reflections back together and back on the beach. The waves were being whipped along by a north easterly wind that drove them all the way from the sea. Mr Cruiser watched and laughed as I mastered the art of a “lee shore launch”.

I have dreamed of going further afield but the sailing bug has given me far more than the miles sailed and the pleasure of being afloat. It has awakened in me an interest; in books, in people, and in the world. I joined the Dinghy Cruising Association, through which I have made friends, and whether friends or not, I have milked members mercilessly for their experience and driven some half mad with my enquiries. Although a slow reader, I have read several sailing related books and this helped me back in to reading generally, although, for me it is still a slow business.

For example a recent search regarding the island of Jura, I cannot remember the specific enquiry, lead me to the Rivendale Review, a blog by the fictional Michael Graeme. Yes, I don’t have an original bone in my body. As I subscribed to WordPress in order to subscribe to the R.R., WordPress was very keen that I should have my own blog, and although my first answer was “Not me sir”, I came round to thinking that this might be a nice way of bringing all these thoughts together. It might also give my friends some breathing room if it means I might cease to bombard them with emails. They can come here and read my musings if and when they are ready.