Sailing

Broads views.
Hickling at sunset.

Heigham Sound.
Crisps.

 Slow boat to Hickling.

 Sunset over Hickling.

 Finding 'The Pleasure Boat' inhospitable, we headed to 'The Greyhound' where we were greeted as liberators and fed like heroes.

A ramblin man.

Award winning Blog!

A medal for turning up at a regatta but not actually entering a race was not the only thing won around here over the last few days.

The top person's sailing Blog Propercourse
has voted TRDOWM's Hickling Broad Regatta post (see below) as it's best regatta blog post of 2009!

I'm not sure what we win and I'll be looking for the invitation to the glitzy awards ceremony in the post (once the postal strike is over of course). This award means a great deal to all of us here at Mondale House as it's voted for by the listening public and record buyers and not the record company fatcats.

Thank you, and thanks to Jamie, Will and Sim for making the weekend such fun.

Hickling Broad Regatta 2009

It all started out as an idea over drinks. I had dragged some fellow dads along to see a film, only to find that the cinema showing the film was, well, not actually showing the film.

Having popped into a pub to discuss my inability to select a cinema the conversation turned to boats. It was suggested that a sailing trip might be a bit of a laugh.

With a bit of time, knowledge and the go ahead from Frau Random Doubt I set about organising a summer jaunt. I called my favourite boatyard and made enquiries, knowing that a date isn't a date until we've all got a) our wives permission and b) the date cut in stone.

Hickling holds an 'alternative' regatta every year in August. It's an occasion to meet and be merry, you certainly don't have to race which was handy as that might require effort and skill. We were happy just to get there, and with such light airs that was an achievement on it's own.
August 8th, 2009. Hunters Boatyard, Ludham, Norfolk. Buff Tip is ready to go. Four of us, Myself and Will (sailors) and Jamie and Sim (non sailors) were about to spend the weekend sailing, drifting and drinking and eating bad food.

Arty shot of Buff Tip's main.
One of my favourite aspects of the weekend was the enthusiasm of the 'non sailors' for getting stuck in, having a go and (pardon the bloody awful pun) learning the ropes. Both Jamie (above) and Sim did really well in some difficult (hardly any wind) circumstances.
It didn't take a pair of binoculars to see that Buff Tip was in a spot of bother.
Woodcut strutting her stuff on Hickling Broad.

The outward leg was tough, very little wind and lots of tacking up narrow rivers. I normally object to such things as mobile phones when sailing but it was nice to be able to text the race committee and let them know of our progress. It was also nice to receive their sarcastic responses.
A view of Hickling from Buff Tip.
A spot of civilised sailing. We swopped boats halfway through the outward leg but forgot to swop facilities. I was thus left gasping for my celebratory pint upon finally reaching Hickling Broad. Woodcut had all 6 bottle openers on board! We had to engage them in order to ask very nicely for a bottle opener so that the CO could have his customary pint.
Our gorgeous moooring at the top of Hickling. Woodcut on the left, Buff Tip on the right.

We had left Ludham at 10am. The plan had been to arrive at Hickling just after lunch. We finally moored up at about 5.30pm
The Hickling Broad regatta (NOT to be confused with the Hickling Broad Sailing Club regatta) was a delightfully laid back bohemian affair. An open b.y.o barbeque, a selection of benches, bunting and a tent.  Most of all a friendly, mildly disorganised approach to sailing and life and fun. A small spot for free spirits in the middle of a world of turmoil.
The view from the barbeque. If you look very closely you can see my barbeque speciality, banana bacon. I asked the gathered few what the 'rules' were for the barbeque. "Oh just bung it on, come back in half an hour". About an hour later the same man strolled over to us and pointed out that it might be worth checking out the barbeque as our food was clearly cooked and people were getting quite enthusiastic about the banana bacon.

I loved the old Land Rover with ketchup and stuff for people to share, I also loved the fact that there was a tinny little radio in the middle of the lawn gently playing Radio 3. 
Your host, Will with Woodcut's extensive bar.
Sundown at the prize table.

The weather on both days had been outstanding with only one slight problem, little or no wind. A sailing weekend needs a bit of a puff.
Dawn. Still no wind. (Then again there never is at dawn)
Sunday morning can mean only one of two things, Church Parade or black pudding!

We chose the black pudding option.

Sim gets stuck in.

I don't like to brag but I can throw together a bloody good brecky when needs must. The others laughed at the teapot when they saw it on Saturday. By god they were grateful on Sunday morning. Endless gallons of tea!
The regatta committee got the flag up a few minutes before the sailing club, thus 'claiming' the broad for the day.
Before we left on our homeward leg we were presented with medals. I love medals! 
Ross (regatta organiser) presents Will with his 'longest distance travelled to visit regatta but not actually enter a race' medal.
Woodcut on her way.
Jamie and Sim getting us through Potter bridge.
Heads down.
Geek shot of rigging on Buff Tip.
Yours truly  wearing that shirt. I had forgotten that the day before, Norwich had been destroyed 7-1 on the opening day of the season. even in the slightly rarefied atmosphere of the Broads I was happily heckled by a few well intentioned types.

All in all a truly delightful weekend, the weather could only have been bettered with a bit more wind, we spent most of our time sailing and the rest enjoying the company of some of life's better souls, boats and humans.

Sailing

I'l do a proper post in a day or two.
I'll just say this.
I feel like an old wooden door, an old wooden door with blistered hands and a lot of sun.

And I'd do it all again tomorrow!

The old boy (girl) network

In my last sailing related post I mentioned my search for erstwhile sailing chum of old, Mr Turner.

As I opened my email inbox this lunchtime I noticed an email from Emily Fabpants. As usual it was an absolute pleasure to get such an email (not least because she'd included some delightful photos of Hickling, her broad one of which I have reproduced here. Along with these pics she'd also included Mr Turner's email address! (our friendship predates email and we would always just catch up with everyone each spring as we were fitting out for a new year of sailing).

Sailing goals 2008.

Some Three Rivers 'action' from last weekend.

Thanks toTillerman for providing appropriate inspiration for this, my 600th post.
I had been waiting for the right topic to come along and he has provided a grand idea, a practical objective, a real thing about which to write. Not for this post the hypothetical ramblings of the possible footballing success of foreigners, nor the wranglings of the Democratic Party, nor even jottings related to cycling mishaps. The Tillerman has issued another of his agreeable writing challenges.

He has asked his audience to write about our sailing goals for 2008.

I grew up sailing in these parts and since returning from NYC have been keen to get back in the Norfolk groove. The winter and restoration of the family home have stalled the ambitions up to this point. But all that's done, now is the time for action.

My goal for this year is very simple, highly achievable and I think , dare I say it, lots of fun.

I just want to get back on the water as often as possible.

I also want to reconnect with one of my finest sailing chums of old, Mr Turner. I know he's about, just need to find him.
I have plenty of opportunities to get back on the water, from sail by the hour at the local broad to hiring halfdeckers from Hunters Yard. I have a number of excellent partners in crime who are busy planning days out, nights under canvas and even a 'boys weekend' .

Quite simply, lots of fun, cruising, bbq-ing, warm beering, cold beering (when technology permits), running, reaching, ducking, gybing, swearing and laughing, all in the next few glorious months of summer.

Thank you for listening.

really bad sailing mistakes. (group writing project).

Did you like the one about the idiot who got stuck on a sticky log at the start of a really big sailing race in front of hundreds of people?

Did you?

Well my friends you can liven up your Monday morning by reading more!
The Obi Wan Kenobi of sailing blogging Tillerman has linked to all the stories contributed from around the sailing blogosphere.

Enjoy!

Light airs suck.

The top person's sailing blog Proper Course has offered up a challenge for any bloggers who have ever set foot (on the middle of the foredeck please) in a boat.

1. Write a post on your blog about the worst mistake or most embarrassing moment you had while sailing. It could be while racing or cruising or day-sailing. It might be funny or disastrous. If you have pictures or video we'd love to see them. The idea is for us to create a collection of our sailing screw-ups that will serve as terrible warnings to fellow sailors, especially beginners. After all, the best way to learn is from other people's mistakes.

It's a beautiful May afternoon, I really should be working but what better than open up the vaults and retrieve one of my most hideously embarrassing sailing moments? I should add that I have plenty of sailing memories that have caused pain; some even caused real physical damage to boat or limb but none perhaps caused such a very public amount of embarrassment.

In the County of Norfolk in the UK there is an annual event hosted by Horning Sailing club. The Three Rivers Race is an endurance event with a 24-hour time limit.

I had entered the race for the second time as a helm (having also completed the race with my dad in the eighties) but had yet to complete the course. My crew (and the motivation behind entering this brutal and most ungentlemanly event) had bailed at the last moment thus forcing me to search for a new one. I happened upon the most marvelous Harris, an old school chum, neighbor and sailor of experience and pluck. He brought enthusiasm, knowledge of the treacherous waters and cheese and pickle sandwiches.

The start of the race is difficult even in perfect conditions. Horning Sailing club generally does a top rate job of staggering the different classes of boats along a stretch of the River Bure so that the faster dinghies can nip off out of the way of the slower boats and sailing cruisers that follow on throughout an hour or two of starts. This particular year the air was rarified. This was all very well during the tacking to and fro prior to the start, slightly uncomfortable during the final moments as the Wayfarers slipped back and forth within the narrow confines of the river. Even in stronger winds it's a bit of a bugger sailing in narrow rivers, I've done most of my sailing on Hickling Broad or out on the wider reaches of the River Thurne where there's plenty of room to make mistakes. I am distinctly uncomfortable on the itsy bitsy bits of the Bure with all its trees and buildings and crowds of onlookers enjoying their pints and pub lunches and the start of the sailing event of the year.

We set ourselves up for the start and the old girl was feeling good, getting a nice windward position wasn't as hard as we'd thought, the race is so long that the immediacy of getting the very best start is somewhat forsaken as everyone would generally rather just get away and over the line, in some ways it's a bit like the start of a marathon, lots of shuffling and most people are just trying not to trip over each other. We get an OK start and slip gently downriver away from the melee behind us and into our adventure.

We must have gone about 6o yards down the river past the start line when we stopped. The reason was fairly simple, we'd lost the wind, become calmed by some trees or slightly large bushes. We drifted gently toward the bank and did what we could to retain any momentum that might possibly just perhaps carry us around the bend into some air. Both of us were and are reasonably experienced Broads sailors so our fate was not yet sealed. Add to this Harris's insatiable enthusiasm that countered my furrowed brow and exhaustive queries about the wind. We were shortly confounded by the arrival up our aft of a fleet of large sailing cruisers. These boats, many of traditional design are in possession of much bigger sail area, taller masts, better-dressed crews and a bigger wine cellar than us mere Wayfarer types. They also take up a lot more of the river and are slightly scary. We were faced with a choice, a very immediate choice that requires some quick thinking and some action right now.

We could either take our chances where we were, get nudged and butted by the oncoming fleet and possibly damaged but hold our course or we could maneuver slightly out of their way and allow them to pass. Their taller rigs would allow them to catch what wind may be drifting over the treetops and push them down river. The Wayfarer is probably closer to 40 years old than I’d care to ask and as with any lady of breeding one doesn't enquire. I just didn’t fancy our chances of getting carved up by bowsprits and the upper middle classes. We rolled gently closer over to the riverbank and decided that for the time being we would just see what would happen, we'd not worry about actively pursuing any wind until the behemoths have passed us by. Shouldn’t take long, the cruisers are always the final couple of starts so in about 20 minutes we should be on our way. The plan worked quite nicely, it was a gorgeous day (no bloody wind but hey?) The cruisers passed and the river cleared and it’s time to pump us off the bank where we had gently nestled and seek glory. We got ready to go, hauled in some mainsheet, rearranged the tiller and we’re off!

Except we’re not.

We were stuck. We were stuck hard and we were stuck fast and we were not going anywhere. Allow me to stress that we were not stuck in reeds or on a mud bank or with rigging in the branches nearby or due to lack of wind or by a stray fishing line or anything that we could possibly fathom but we were stuck. An act of god sprung to mind. The centreboard was raised and lowered, as was the rudder fin. Several times. Nothing. We rocked the hull gently from side to side, from bow to stern. Gently, oh so ever so gently, we weren’t going anywhere. The indoutable Harris even considered getting into the water to investigate what thing it is that is blocking our progress. Nothing.

Of course this is embarrassing. This is the start of the Three Rivers Race. The start of the Three Rivers Race and we were sitting 60 feet from the start line directly across from the back lawn of the Swan inn at Horning which is full of pleasure seekers and sailing spectators.
There is one gentleman who watched carefully from the opposite bank. A gently graying figure with a slight stoop, a veteran of this race who had completed it many times with a variety of able crews and more than once in this very boat. My dad is watching us with a quiet mixture of pity, shame and embarrassment. Later I did ask him what was going through his head but either I’ve blanked it from my memory or he never told me. I would guess it’s along the lines of “But it always seems to happen to you”.

Eventually a couple of nice old gentlemen in a beautiful wooden motor launch (with a case of wine in the back) came over to lend a hand. By this time we had both bailed out of the boat and were moored on the bank looking at the mast, the hull, each other, the viewing public, the little baby Jesus. We were eventually rocked off whatever it was that had us in its grip. The motor launch ever so gently tugged us this way as we pulled in alternate directions. Even with all this technical support and varied expertise it still took half an hour to get us free. And when we are freed? A six foot long log about 8 inches in diameter popped up from under us, covered in sweet smelling river mud and weed. We had somehow managed to become jammed against this kraken, which, once it had us in its grasp simply refused to let us go.

We had of course accepted assistance from outside sources. Unless we sailed back over the start line and start again we faced disqualification from the race. We could have done that, the start line was only 60 yards away, the river was now clear and the race committee accommodating but we retired. The moment had passed and the lure of a cold beer after such a farce was too strong. We have not been beaten by gear failure, by strong winds or by the kind of incompetence sometimes bought on by either or both of those two combined. This was not a high paced embarrassment but a slow inexorable slide into a very sticky submerged log. We had been on full public display and even made a line on the back page of Monday’s Eastern Daily Press. We had been defeated by a gentle summer’s afternoon, zero wind and an uneasy drifting sensation. I say ‘we’ I should say ‘I’. Harris remained and remains to this day one of life's natural enthusiasts

My lessons from this experience? There are a few.

Prevail. Don’t worry about the bigger boats you’ve got every right to be there and it doesn’t really matter if you take a few knocks.

Light airs suck.

If you’re going to get stuck on a submerged log try not to do it in front of a crowded riverside pub.

Proper Course.

I found a sailing blog that is not only rather good in it's own way but also links to several thousand gazillion other sailing blogs.
I just wish Theta Club would establish a blog. Although on second thoughts it's probably best that they remain as secretive as possible.
You can check the link at the bottom.
(I guess I could have just emailed Weasel and been done with it).

Sailing blog

I've been away, I've been reading 'Propercourse' and all his millions of amazing sailing links.
I'll be back soon.
Go Mets.