It is only normal to start the day of a Channel crossing at Blankenberge very early at 5.30 Belgian time. All three weather forecasts (BBC Coastal Forecast, Koenigliche Weather Forecast of the Netherlands and the German Shipping Weather) basically agreed on slight SW winds of 2 to 3 bf veering to W and to increase slightly. They forecast a clear, sunny day with practically no waves. The tide would not be running in my favour at first unfortunately, but since it would turn while crossing, I did not worry too much about it.
When I open the hatch, I can just make out the next boat for the thick fog which obscures everything more distant than 10 meters. I decide to get ready for a departure at 6.30, hoping the mist will clear sufficiently by then, wash and have breakfast. One hour later I can just make out the blue sky above the mist, but motor very slowly through the canal out of the harbour of Blankenberge. Although there is not a breath of wind stirring, I decide to hoist the main sail still close to the beach and by the time I motor westwards along the coast of Belgium, the fog has cleared completely.
Problems start at about nine o'clock, when a breeze from the SW is picking up, soon becoming a gusty wind of 3 to 4 bf and while blowing against the tide running westwards, it is whipping up a rather short and steep sea. By the time I reach the shipping lanes at midday, Betty sticks her bowsprit deep into every other wave and we make 2 to 3 knots at most. The trouble is, with the wind blowing from the direction it now is, I can no longer use the foresails to lift and stabilize the bow over the waves, which are getting higher the longer it is blowing. My only hope is the change of the tide in the afternoon, but now another problem manifests itself, the ship is making too much water. Only now it becomes clear, that the boat has dried out too much in the almost ten weeks in the shed and during that heat wave to boot. And the time back in the water has certainly not been long enough for the wood to expand completely and stop the gaps. Going through the waves instead of over them lets the water find its way through every seam in the deck and the cockpit and my electric bilge pump is simply overpowered. Now I have to man a pump and bail out the bilge manually every now and then. But apart from the slow speed we make and the discomfort of water sloshing from side to side down below, everything is hunky-dory.

But after crossing the traffic separation zone it gets really tough: Although the tide is now slowly turning in my favour and the wind decides to change to a more SW direction - which should be favourable and makes me hoist the foresails - it slowly picks up in force to a 5, occasionally 6 bf and the waves get higher and higher. I am now motor sailing, but soon the autopilot is overwhelmed and instead of steering the ship some of the time, I now have to man the tiller for good, making it impossible to be at the bilge pump at the same time.
So here I sit hour after hour, steering an over canvassed boat over cresting waves, outmaneuvering every other BIG one, that comes rolling in like a mountain with a crown of white foam, while a couple of bathtubs of salt water are sloshing back and forth inside the boat and I can't do the least thing about it... At about seven o'clock I start to get frightened: the wind seems to get even stronger and I definitely need to get some of the sails down, especially the big jib, which is now just too big for this wind. I still need to keep the staysail up to help the bow over the waves. Then again much later, finally past the huge offshore wind farm, using the autopilot to turn the boat and opening the main all the way as a shadow for the jib, I finally get it down and stowed away in the forepeak. Luckily without accidental gybe I manage to turn the boat around and resume playing hide and seek with the big rollers for a very long time. Until quite exhausted, I reach the shelter of the land, the waves are getting less frightening and after having put up the paraffin navigational lights as it is getting dark fast, I mange to take down the main and enter Ramsgate Harbour at 23.00, sixteen and a half hour after I set out from Blankenberge.

When tied up to the marina pontoon in the Royal Harbour, the wind is still howling in the rigging, but Betty is safe now and I can start taking stock of the damage. Well, luckily it is not as bad as I first thought. After wiping the floors and moving lots of stuff around, I even manage to find a dry bunk for tonight and apart from the mattresses drenched in sea water and most of my clothing soaking wet, there is no damage. So I settle down to have something quick to eat, thinking all the time: Thank God, I made it and the sleeping bag stayed dry!
This crossing, the last of a total of seven (four with Betty in 2003 and 2004, and two before that), turned out to be far too much on the brink for what I would consider safe - 'border lining' in other words. If only the slightest thing had gone wrong on top, I would have been in serious trouble and this is not a good realisation on a trip you are single handing. The most obvious conclusion: I can not have complete trust in any weather forecast - for all the computer power they throw at it today - and what logically follows is, I will not do long distances of open water without crew ever again!

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After the experience of the Channel crossing, I am quite happy about this warm, sunny and almost windless day. Having chosen the inshore route through the Gore Channel, there would be very little to report, had I not been so very lucky: Reaching the entrance to the Swale late afternoon, just after passing the Whitstable Street to starboard, the most enticing scenery unfolds. Coming down from the main channel along the eastern shore of the Isle of Sheppey, a Thames Barge is sailing into Whitstable Bay with all her brown coloured canvas up and looking like a fine oil painting. Gazing into the afternoon sun behind her, I observe a few seals lying lazily on the uncovered sands in front of the lonely houses of Shell Ness.
The picture happening in front of my eyes is so beautiful and altogether so typical of the Thames Estuary, that I feel as if someone had welcomed me dearly to this proper beginning of my journey. Feeling quite overwhelmed I slow the boat down some and enjoy the moment in company of the barge and a few other yachts as we sail into the East Swale, some heading for Faversham Creek, some for the river, while I want to anchor at Harty Ferry and call it a day.

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In the morning I have made up my mind to sail to Whitstable for the race tomorrow after all. But first I have Barry Tester on board, who is happy to hear, that I will come to the regatta and has a thorough look at Betty. I point out to him the extensive work on the counter and the frames to port, the Dutch yard has carried out in the spring and he affirms the quality of the repairs wholeheartedly.
While we spend a considerable time inspecting difficult to access corners of the ship, torch in hand, more and more crews of the neighbouring smacks turn up and get their ships ready. With his girlfriend in tow Allan comes down to his yacht and is also very pleased to find me ready for Whitstable.

Up on the quay of Whitstable harbour there are preparations for the Harbour Festival tomorrow, which coincides with the Barge and Smack Race. One by one the smacks from Faversham now arrive, greetings are exchanged and when Frank and his Irish crew arrive, I join them to the nearest pub, where Frank seems to know everybody and introduces me to Richard and his young wife Elaine, somewhat Dutch in her free spirited good looking way, but born in South Africa. Also to a big, bald man - the owner of the local oyster and seafood restaurant "Royal Native Oyster Stores". Together we march over to his shop, which turns out to be right on the beach in the historic building of the Whitstable Oyster Company.
We get the full treat of a guided tour through the whole building - also looking at the oyster cellar, where the seawater can enter at high tide through a special canal - and a few fresh beers and oysters for testing. Then it is time for the next pub. My main goal for the next hours is to find someone to crew for the race tomorrow, not completely trusting Franks assurances, that he knew enough sailors for two boats. The next pub is tiny and at this hour very crowded. I drink a few rounds, flirt with Elaine and talk and talk and then suddenly everyone seems to have disappeared - they must have gone on. But by now I know everybody inside and also those out on the street in person.
Along the seafront there is another, but bigger pub right on the beach. I think I meet two or three of the others there, but neither Frank or Elaine are among them. At this stage I do not exactly know, who I have told about looking for crew for the race tomorrow and who not. Just by chance I get talking to a much younger bloke - his name is Justin - and get us and his girlfriend a round. Justin is really interested in Smacks and later even promises to be there early tomorrow morning. Stepping outside for a smoke I realize it has become dark outside and the sea is thundering up onto the beach in big Ocean waves... carrroumpff... carrroumpff... and I am very, very happy to be in Whitstable.

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Will I Get the Big Prize?

Both crew members arrive in time and after introductions and the fresh oysters as a welcome snack, we throw off the lines and motor with the others out to the committee boat, where we set sail. The race is a lot of fun, but due to a few mishaps with the rig - especially with the topsail, which has not been hoisted after setting the mast in June and some of the lines run afoul - we cross the finish line third before last. In any case, the view of the other boats was stunning, Vic is an experienced and knowledgeable sailor of the local waters, who did most of the steering and everybody seems to have enjoyed themselves.
As if just for the price giving ceremony the sun breaks through the clouds and the ceremony becomes a real summer spectacle on two of the bigger boats - I applaud all the winners, not the least bit disappointed not to have won a prize.

Frank, who also had some problems and dropped out of the race wants to split and drive to his house to start preparations for his party this evening. He takes Vic and me along to the so called 'Irish Village', where in a beautiful house I meet his wife with a huge black, but friendly dog.
A lovely walk along the seafront brings me back to town and to the pub on the beach - the 'Neptune', where I had had a few beers too many last night. And who is sitting at one of the large steel tables out on the porch in the warm afternoon sun? Justin and his girlfriend with a group of young women. I squeeze in between them and am introduced to everybody around. A heated conversation ensues circling around subjects as diverse as sailing boats and living in a caravan. Until I realize it is getting quite late in the day, but I have not yet cleared up the boat after the race and also want to get to Franks party in time. A little sorrowful I say goodbye to Justin and all the lovely girls at the table and rush off to the harbour and Betty.

"The very name of Whitstable is almost one with oyster, by long association; and off Whitstable lie the famous oyster-beds. The beds are numbered, with oysters of graded maturity bedded out upon them; and the "fish" brought up in the dredges are classified A, B, C or D according to size. Those which are too juvenile even to be graded D are called "brood" or "spat", and are laid out in appropriate beds to grow up properly.
Up comes the dredge with its specimens of the sea-bottom - stones, seaweed, tin cans, star-fish ("five fingers"), crabs, whelks and what not, and all this rubbish is dumped down on deck of the "yawl." The Whitstable smack - though generally cutter-rigged - is still called a "yawl".
As the dredge was coming over the side, the experienced eye had spied the oysters, the real oysters, indistinguishable to ordinary eyes from the stones and empty oyster-shells innumerable. Over goes the rubbish into the water again, and the empty dredge follows it. Next time it comes up crammed with star-fish and never a sign of an oyster. "Them blinkin' old five-fingers, beggared we doan fetch up a few ton o' they, one o' these days, an' dump 'em ashore ...."
[H. Alker Tripp „Shoalwater & Fairway“, 1924]

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Good-humoured versus Out Of Humour

In Whitstable I simply did not have the time to do some shopping. As a result the lockers are almost empty and hunger plus the need to have a fresh shower drive me ashore. I take the dinghy to the hammerhead and start looking for the Queenborough Yacht Club. In an old pub a live band is playing loud Rock'n Roll to a mostly drunk and rowdy audience in the court yard and to have a shower or to get something to eat is out of the question. Irritated I start walking into town, except I can not find a proper town, just a railway station with trains going to Sheerness every hour and certainly no restaurant, just a few dingy takeaways. When I am hungry I get seriously ill tempered and now my mood turns ugly. Everything I see seems in decay, the people are poor and the houses not kept up well. This is such a contrast to the rich and affluent Whitstable, I am definitely getting depressed.Only the glorious sunset on the way back

The low hanging mass of gray clouds with a light drizzle falling now and then does not improve the look of an empty seaside resort, which must have seen better days in the past.
The houses on Marine Parade, where Uwe Johnson lived hidden behind the huge sea wall, look forlorn with unkempt front yards. Asking a few neighbours to try and find the exact house is in vain, nobody remembers his name and - as to be expected - there is no plaque to be seen anywhere. But I do find the local pub he frequented regularly (mentioned in the collection of short stories about the Isle of Sheppey - 'Inselgeschichten'), which at this early hour is of course closed. Since I do not intend to look for his grave - I do not even know, if he is buried here - I sit down near the sailing club in the shelter of the sea wall and have a smoke. Then and there a thought comes my way: to write a journal of the events on this trip in addition to Betty's log book, detailing the experiences and private thoughts that do not necessarily have a place in the logbook. I start with what you read here in the corner of a little cafe on High Street, having a couple of days to catch up on by now.

Back on the boat by noon, with stocks filled up and everything shipshape, the mooring line is dropped and I set off under engine and staysail alone for the Medway, planning to motor sail up the river as far as Rochester in order to look for a good berth, convenient for trips ashore and perhaps London town.
There are hundreds of berths already taken up by boats below Chatham, when I slowly wound my way round the many bends of the old river. By now the sky has cleared up with the sun shining warmly from a blue sky onto the many sites along the shores soaked in centuries of naval and military history.

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Unexpectedly Thinking of the USA

"In Kipling's lines the Dutch invasion has been woven into our culture:
No king will heed our warnings,
No court will pay our claims -
Our king and court for their disport
Do seil the very Thames!
For now De Ruyter's topsails,
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet -
And this the Dutchmen know.
Off Gillingham we pass the site of the first British attempt to stop the Dutch reaching Chatham, a chain was stretched across the river, shackled to Hoo Island and then tightened up with a Spanish windlass. It was a pathetic defence; Van Ghent's leading ship simply rode his stern up over it until the weight of his ship as she drove further on snapped the cable as though it were made of chicken wire. A northerly breeze starts to tug at the headsails as we near the end of Gillingham Reach."
[Dick Durham „On and Offshore“, 1989]

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"It may be worth mentioning that in the lower part of Cockham Wood Reach there is a mud flat over against the village of Hoo. It begins to run out from the shore near a curious sort of patch of red brick wall, which is, as a matter of fact, the remains of a fort built in Queen Elizabeth's time, and once proudly mounting twenty-three guns, for the benefit of the adventurous Dutchmen, who were much too fond of expeditions up the Medway, which they enlivened by cannonading Sheerness, burning the fleet at Chatham, and other desperate behaviour. De Ruyter, for instance, came up in 1667, and burnt a fleet at Gillingham and also went on to Upnor, where, perhaps, Upnor Castle may have stopped him, but for details the reader may consult Mr. Pepys' diary. I once made a visit to the old fort in Cockham Wood Reach, to see if it really was anything more than a ruined brick-kiln, as had been stoutly maintained by a Rochester friend of mine, and although there were no doubloons, nor, pieces of eight lying about loose on the ground, yet there were other evidences of high civilisation in the shape of ancient broken bottles, of coarse glass and broad squat shape, such as the buccaneers of those days might have used to carry their rhummi succus in. "Rhummi succus" is the "orsepital name" for rum, at any rate among the initiated."
[H Lewis Jones „Swin, Swale and Spitway“, 1892]

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