tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16956147118646641872024-03-05T14:09:01.591-08:00Ships Blog According to ThomLife of a modern deckhand. Tales from the sea, with musings, ramblings and a salty yarn or twoShipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-67115274086976495042014-10-25T04:53:00.000-07:002014-10-25T04:53:26.299-07:00Back to sea, with plenty to say.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I finally picked up my sea boots for the first time in too long. I have ben adventuring on many different vessels. A Pilot Cutter, A Lugger, An 18th Century Brig. So I hope to write all about my time on boats and keep up with this blog that I have abandoned for far too long.<br />
<br />
To kick start the new wave of writing I thought I would start with a trailer that I made. enjoy!<br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-64814764709560616662012-07-15T11:30:00.003-07:002012-07-16T07:36:45.535-07:00Follow me on my Lanzarote Delivery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Myself and Sacha have joined forces with two guys Mike and Al to sail <span style="background-color: white;">'Little Pea',</span><span style="background-color: white;"> a yacht to Lanzarote. The boat that we shall be sailing is a fancy schmancy Southerly 38.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
It is intended then to go on and take part in the ARC race, a transatlantic jolly to the Caribbean. This race starts at the Canary Islands so it is there we shall leave her, in mint condition for the owner to take over and have the fun of the Atlantic in November.<br />
<br />
It has many gadgets and gizmos and looks like it should be a fun boat to sail.<br />
Although it has many of the mod cons that I am not used to having on boats it doesn't have an AIS sender. So unfortunately one cannot watch my progress in real time across the oceans and tell me where I am before I even know!<br />
It does however have a satellite phone that will allow us to send our position to a programme called Mailasail. By FOLLOWING THIS LINK <a href="http://blog.mailasail.com/littlepea">http://blog.mailasail.com/littlepea</a><span style="background-color: white;"> one may keep track of our daily updated position that is overlaid onto a map.</span><br />
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For those in the UK, enjoy the rain. I'm off to 27 degrees of sunshine.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-91162199394175556582012-07-02T06:00:00.000-07:002012-07-03T17:25:13.933-07:00I Swear I'm a Sailor!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have recently given a lot of thought to my use of swearing. It is true that I swear a lot.<br />
This is something that I hope to curb. A recent study said that swearing is more addictive than smoking (B*ll£*%s! Smoking is a deeply unattractive and insatiable vice).<br />
<br />
Recently I responded to a thread on a boating forum to someone asking for photo's and information on the Irene of Bridgewater. I shamelessly plugged my blog posts hoping that they might find it interesting. Word got around and I saw that one reader was so offended that not only did they refuse to visit my blog but they also refused to show any future interest in the Irene!! I thought that this was a great shame as I never set out to damage the reputation of any individual or boat that I write about.<br />
<br />
Saying that, I had quite a rant regarding the Bristol Hydrogen Boat Company without even using a rude word. I was asked to take it down as my opinion was far too one-sided (obviously) and in fairness I lacked both sides of the argument. I removed the post within 5 minutes of the request.*<br />
<br />
I never use 'offensive' words to offend when I write. I merely write what was said or what I have been thinking. In my accounts of capsizing I felt that the use of swearing reiterated my feelings. It is for such moments in life that swearing was invented, I'm sure of it.<br />
<br />
I too have tried to affiliate my blog with other web sites and bodies such as the RYA and Henri Lloyd and due to perceivably offensive content I have been refused.<br />
<br />
My quandary is this, I have a group of avid readers that seem not to be offended by what I write. Yet by using such words am I restricting a potential future audience? An audience that I would like to have on board with me.<br />
Should I go through my entire list of posts and sensor what I have written?<br />
If you have felt offended by my site or have a view on this then PLEASE COMMENT using the fancy 'comment' button below.<br />
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<br />
*<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">I still however disagree that a Hydrogen powered future is sustainable. I may write some more about it. Offer evidence without opinion and nurture a debate. I hope that I can write a post in the future with my tail between my legs having been convinced that I am wrong.</span><br />
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<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-41460743118546868702012-06-28T09:37:00.001-07:002012-06-28T09:44:53.241-07:00Matthew of Bristol Footage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I thought that perhaps you might like to see this video of the Matthew of Bristol under sail. The majority of this footage was taken earlier in the year to promote our 2012 sailing season.</div>
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It was mainly shot on an amazing Pasty Lunch Special day sail from Fowey to Falmouth. We couldn't have asked for more perfect sailing conditions.</div>
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RAISE 'EM IN THE AIR!</div>
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<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-64655041416042840832012-06-11T04:25:00.001-07:002012-06-11T04:25:06.770-07:00Devil and the Diamond Thames Jubilee Pageant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The soaking that London saw on Sunday the 3rd merely added to the pandemonium that was the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. The density of the rain and the fifty people on board was a stark contrast to our departure from Plymouth.<br />
<br />
We entered the lock at Sutton harbour at 17:30. We had closed the boat to the public half an hour before so naturally what ensued was a mad dash to stow everything in its proper place and get the Matthew of Bristol ready for sea. Ropes were coiled, gangplanks dismantled, loose items securely stowed, fenders set, and yards cockbilled in front of thousands of Plymouth pirates that hoarded around eager to watch us set sail. This mass rabble was headed by Jack Sparrow and sir Francis Drake and his missus.<br />
As we pulled off from the quay, a pear shaped Plymouth wench started a rousing call of 'Oggy oggy oggy!<br />
The crowd responded. 'Oi oi oi'. Then to our amusement she forgot the next verse which is in fact just Oggy!<br />
After stowing the tender and sailing close in to the barbican for a final look at Plymouth we headed off to begin the penultimate leg of our jubilee tour.<br />
<br />
I had started to cook up a Bolognese for dinner when the VHF set crackled into life. A yacht within a few miles of us had put out a PAN PAN call as they had ran out of fuel in Bigbury Bay.<br />
We offered to assist and sell them some fuel, have a look at their engine and hopefully send them on their way.<br />
Now this was exciting. A nice little detour to aid our fellow mariner.<br />
As we didn't state what sort of boat we were it must have been extremely amusing for the stricken crew as it became apparent the great big pirate ship approaching them was in fact the boat going to help!<br />
I wondered how we could confuse them even more so I suggested that we all got naked...<br />
<br />
'Shut up and cook' and 'piss off' were some of the responses I got.<br />
<br />
Fine.<br />
<br />
We got to work dropping the canvas and cock-billing the yards to come alongside. When we were less than a hundred yards away and still fully clothed the RNLI turn up from out of the sunshine to take all of the glory and to tow the yacht back to Plymouth.<br />
Swines!<br />
I pondered for a little while just how often the RNLI are called out because of boats with no fuel. This along with engine failure are the most common call outs for the RNLI. I imagine this would be annoying for the crew scrambled to deal with an easily avoidable incident. On the other hand it must be better than being called out to a fatal accident. Because no one wants that.<br />
<br />
We broke in to our watches. Me, Paul and Robin on Team Old Farts and Rob, Jon and Sarah on Team Young Guns.<br />
<br />
We made good progress by Start Point. I am very familiar with these lights, flashing 3 times every 10 seconds. They continued to flash away behind us as the stars flashed above and the phosphorescence below.<br />
A good watch, we turned in and eventually arrived at anchor in Lime bay.<br />
Breakfast and away again.<br />
We set the canvas and turned on some Frank Sinatra. Another day in the office.<br />
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Rob had timed the tides perfectly and we took Portland Bill at 10 knots!<br />
In two days we passed by Swanage, the Isle of White, listened to old radio shows of Dad's Army to wile away the graveyard shift by the South Downs.<br />
The weather began to turn at Dungeness, the wind slammed our bows and the canvas came down. I no longer cared, I was beginning to get tired and Ramsgate was just around the corner.<br />
<br />
Throughout the trip the best wind we got was a beam wind that kept threatening to creep up behind us and allow us to turn the engine off. The watch changes seemed to occur at each new headland and with each hand over we would say it would improve around the corner.<br />
This would have indeed been true if we were going the other way. As it stood it crept more and more onto the nose and our progress declined along with the weather from Dungeness. It didn't seem to deter the dolphins.<br />
<br />
We had left thousands behind us in Plymouth basking in the sun or dancing on the promenade. We arrived in Ramsgate in driving rain to a pale looking populous caked in make up, tattoos or both.<br />
Sacha rejoined us as we arrived. He was due to leave with us in Plymouth but was delayed. What greeted him was a tired and slightly underhanded crew for the trip we'd undertaken.<br />
I'd not seen Sacha for over two months having messed up my spine in Fowey. He'd had quite a time of it whilst on land and we shared yarns over a crap pint of what I assume was piss in the Belgian bar.<br />
<br />
We offloaded all items that were non essential to our Jubilee jaunt. A mismatched bunch of well wishers known as The Maritime Volunteer Service offered to take it to Sandwich for our planned trip there after the Queentastic weekend ahead.<br />
<br />
Ramsgate always throws extremely useful people in our direction. One such person was Mike. He took me victualling in the grossly oversized Tesco's for the journey ahead with passengers.<br />
He offered the use of collapsable chairs from the Maritime Museum in which he has just been appointed Master and Commander. Me and Jon were given a tour of the closed museum and I highly recommend swinging by if ever you have the chance, or indeed, any inclination to go to Ramsgate.<br />
<br />
So, we get the passengers on board and head for London.<br />
I like having passengers on board. They each have a story or some lesser known local knowledge that is invaluable.<br />
<br />
After picking up a buoy at Gravesend and feeding the masses some Cassoulet followed by Rhubarb Custard, we picked up the tide and headed to London.<br />
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The crowds of over one million people could be heard cheering as the approaching bells on the belfry that headed this vast flotilla drew nearer. This was a fine start to a pageant hosting well over a thousand boats of the commonwealth.<br />
As the noise of the crowd grew to a din I took half an hour out of my busy day to clamber up the rigging and get the best view of the flotilla.<br />
Martin one of the crew was already standing on the yard.<br />
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There had been a break in the weather, yet as soon as the flotilla reached the boat it pissed down.<br />
It didn't stop all day and night.<br />
<br />
We had welcomed our 40 guests and media crowd in the morning. Rob got a safety talk out of the way and introduced the crew. Rob was the captain, Sacha the first mate. Martin a stalwart deck hand and trust member.<br />
<br />
I was made known to the guests on board as Cook's Assistant.<br />
<br />
Seven years of unfaltering service, my first trip to Dublin I had cut my teeth as Chef. A Boatmaster's certificate, a Yachtmasters, over 15,000 sea miles and trained to STCW standards at Warsash Academy for my time with Trinity House and I'd finally reached the dizzying heights of Cook's Assistant.<br />
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The Cooks Assistant, holding cheese, waving flags, wearing a neckerchief.</div>
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The cook for the day was the lovely Ann. Her logistical prowess and home-made cooking (especially the cakes) are unrivalled. She saw my smile quickly fade at my new rank and dashed away to the stern of the boat.<br />
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The Flotilla in full swing</div>
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We played host non-stop for 9 solid hours to the Royal Lord Leftenant of Bristol and friends. We served them cloved ham, peppered beef, Scottish salmon. We made them tea and coffe. We served them alcohol. We cleared up after them. We doubled over to serve their every whim. We ran out of water.<br />
I resorted to using rain water collected in the canopy for the washing up. Luckily it rained so hard as everything we had was washed up, by me, twice!<br />
<br />
Finally the Water taxi arrived to collect our valued guests. We spent four hours clearing up.<br />
I went to bed beneath the newly formed waterfall above my bunk. I woke up feeling like London had shafted me body and soul.<br />
I got on a bus. Fell asleep and awoke dribbling to a sunny and serene Bristol.<br />
God Save The Queen, and All Who Sail In Her.<br />
<br />
<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-88763817669148753162012-06-05T17:50:00.001-07:002012-06-06T17:03:15.864-07:00Good Morning Irene, Are You Still Here? Part 6<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Taking a boat to Scotland is a thing that everyone should do. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">We passed
Isla Craig, a stumpy little island that Eric informed us in between
his “Bips” and “Bops” was where they mined rock for curling
stones. He then shouted “Liverpool Maid!” Grabbed a bit of
tattered rope and scuttled away to dump it with the rest of his
'Maids'.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">As
you pass this island the rich green mountains rise into the clouds on
either side of you. An early inkling of Scotland's barren beauty.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Ahead
of us we see the Isle of Arran and Holy Island, our gateway to the
anchorage. A beautiful spot. Many other Tall Ships agreed as the bay
was chocked full of the race arrivals.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The
anchor on Irene is infamous. It's huge, the chain is heavy, the
capstan is cumbersome and the whole affair of anchoring is a
monotonous ignorance to a hundred years of development in this field.
</span></span>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">After
a look around Leslie decided that he would like to anchor away from
the crowded fleet, nestled at the foot of a valley. Was there a
reason that over a hundred boats packed in together decided to ignore
this part of the bay?</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Yes.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">It's
because when the tide goes out, the beach is very much all that is
there. The bay is a deep 27 meters until very quickly it steps up to
a drying height of 1.2 meters.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Leslie
hands me a plumb line to check the depth with.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'As
soon as this touches the bottom drop the anchor.' He says with a
condescending grin.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">I
look at the line I was given as if I've been given a tooth pick to
unblock a toilet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">It
is a heavy weight on a 5 meter chord. When this is on the bottom it
would be too late.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Leslie
turns his back on my insistence to the flaws in the plan and returns
to the helm. Periodically asking whether the plumb line is on the
bottom yet followed by questioning if I'm doing it properly!</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Then
the plumb line finds the bottom at the same time the hull does and we
stop suddenly.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'Is
it on the bottom <i>now?' </i>Cries
Dr. Morrish</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'YES'
I furiously reply.'but...'</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'Then
drop the anchor'</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Jon
hits the bar holding the anchor to the vessel with a lump hammer, the
chain whips from it's neatly flaked stowage on the deck. Well about 5
meters of chain does which is accompanied by a half splash and a loud
yet hollow clunk.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'Is
it down?' bellows Leslie as from behind him two safety boats are
approaching with great speed.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">We
look down to see half of the anchor protruding from the water.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'Umm,
yup, definitely down, but sort of almost up as well...'</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The
safety boats are now alongside asking if we require a tow out of the
mud. We have well and truly grounded on the top of a spring tide. If
we cannot get off tomorrow then we may be here for 6 weeks.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Leslie
declines the offer of a tow saying he much prefers the view here.
Sacha gets on to the VHF Radio to let the coast guard know of the
situation. So leaning over the rail to the RIB Driver he asks...</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'Ere
mate. Whats this part of the bay called?'</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">A
pause and then a beautiful reply that I shall never forget.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'Shallow!
You fucking idiot'</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Gj1mevzoBAPeOK5rTC1ygdM3IoJIXmXCPpwmNFQiHu2qiS4LUsrcmTpwTz14_iXzF3koX9O-0Ka4dl3gVPluXZrtHL2BdI83KCoF7Ja9E1tCDKDuq1tAJEa8XNdWdl4sPF4Ti9GinTAV/s1600/IMG_0252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Gj1mevzoBAPeOK5rTC1ygdM3IoJIXmXCPpwmNFQiHu2qiS4LUsrcmTpwTz14_iXzF3koX9O-0Ka4dl3gVPluXZrtHL2BdI83KCoF7Ja9E1tCDKDuq1tAJEa8XNdWdl4sPF4Ti9GinTAV/s320/IMG_0252.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-79552690698860608342012-06-05T17:39:00.000-07:002012-06-05T17:39:18.208-07:00Good Morning Irene, Are You Still Here? Part 5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 0.36cm;">Throughout
the day up to around 1500 hours, the wind had crept up and Irene
was maintaining a healthy amount of progress </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 0.36cm;">Northwards towards the finish line South of Burrow Head Lighthouse.</span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The
Isle of Man was in view on the Starboard Bow. If we maintained our
present course we wouldn't make it past so it was time we put in a
tack. Usually this is a nice and simple manoeuvre. </span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">One turns the helm
position to bring the bow into the wind. When the boat is facing into
wind the sails will flap about until the boat has said wind on it's
opposing side. As the boat comes through the crew ease across the
foresails. The mainsail can look after itself until it is tweaked to make
the best of the wind angle. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">As
we began our tack and following quite a hefty cracking noise, the
crew working on the fore sails were showered with bits of oak and
leather. I looked up to see the heavy gaff swing out of it's position
next to the main mast and bury itself into the shrouds on the port
side. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Bad
news.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbis2qWWKtkTKFNAic_2Ykqa5hV_CZ7ftsM-LdnZ85jgsKvWfExxaHLnncEoisDtosb2F92EP-0pZ_LDC6eUs00azEnoUOXdnWa4VcfRoMGui0dEN0lJqQGPIGLd-6H3MqVbDBfeiTsUJ/s1600/IMG_0266.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbis2qWWKtkTKFNAic_2Ykqa5hV_CZ7ftsM-LdnZ85jgsKvWfExxaHLnncEoisDtosb2F92EP-0pZ_LDC6eUs00azEnoUOXdnWa4VcfRoMGui0dEN0lJqQGPIGLd-6H3MqVbDBfeiTsUJ/s320/IMG_0266.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">We
cannot move the mainsail and it is stuck in a way that continues to
power the boat forwards towards the Isle of Man. We are roughly four
miles away and making about 6 knots. We have about 45 minutes to fix
this.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Obviously
we need to be fast, though there is a lot to be said about taking a
few moments to breathe in and assess the situation by taking a step
back and having a head scratch. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Our
trouble seemed to be that we needed to dislodge the gaff from the
shrouds before they were stretched to their breaking point or their
strength became severely compromised. After all of our work
tightening the buggering things! </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">This
all has to happen without ripping the mainsail or damaging the boat
further.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">We
get down the topsail and stow it out of the way. Then after trying a
few ideas and failing or making very little progress towards success
we stand back and come up with plan D.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">I
was sent up the mainmast to cut free the sail from rings that send it
up the mast.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The
gaff itself was being held up with halyards. Though as it's pushing
forwards so hard against the shrouds it isn't as easy as simply
lowering it on the halyards. We need something to pull the heavy gaff
aft in order to free it and gain some control over it's descent. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'Okay
guys.' cries Sacha.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">'We've
got 8 minutes until we reach the Isle of Man.'</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Right.
8 minutes, that's fine.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">To
this thought Sacha adds, 'That is 8 minutes until we HIT The Isle of
Man. Well, 7 minutes now.'</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Ah.
So we really have 5 minutes in order to slip by comfortably. We rig
up a block and tackle system to the end of the gaff and take the line
as far aft to the starboard quarter cleat as is possible and whilst
two people ease the halyards, the remaining crew heave as hard as
they can on the tackle.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">It
works! Bit by bit the big lump of wood came down. The gaff gets
stowed out of danger on the deck and we can finally complete our
tack, leaving the Isle of Man well clear on our windward (Starboard)
beam. The kettle goes on and the off watch are sent below to finish
resting up before their shift. </span></span>
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The
beauty of the Irene and indeed a lot of Gaff rigged ketches is that
so long as the rig is balanced then she will sail well. So we raised
any foresail that had been lazy and found that with just the fore
sails, the mizzen and mizzen topsail we could maintain a reasonable
speed. Obviously we would love to have all canvas hoisted but without
a gaff this is impossible.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">We
didn't rouse everyone from their slumber during this event as there
was only so many people that were needed. There were quite a few
confused looks when people came on watch yet none of disbelief when
the tale was recounted.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">But
why did this ever happen? The short answer is that the gaff itself is
bigger than it was ever intended to be. When originally built the
spars and booms were much thinner and lighter. The amount of force
placed onto the jaws was too great and they snapped under the
pressure. It has happened before and has happened again since.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">The
rest of the trip to the finish line was joyfully uneventful. So
joyful that we decided we would make the best use of the wind and
sail about to while away the evening. Then make our way to the
anchorage at Lamlash Bay where we could get some well earned rest. Of course that was wishful thinking.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.36cm; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-40853011524413368122012-03-18T17:43:00.000-07:002012-06-12T03:10:59.086-07:00Good Morning Irene, Are You Still Here? Part 4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
4am. I arrive on deck with Jon and the increasingly unimpressed Mike. Our course, due North. The wind was settled nicely on the port beam, blowing stiffly from the Irish shores. The lights on the starboard side were those of the TS Royalist. An infamous Navy training ship and veteren of the Tall Ships Races.<br />
We heard their friendly banter with another vessel close by, although out of sight. The lady on the radio was sounding as beautiful as a lonely sailor's imagination could make her.<br />
Jon had been to sea now for a few months and wanted to spark up a conversation, have some fun with the sassy, semi nude blonde nearly two nautical miles away. So, smiling and laughing we pick up the handset and put a call out...<br />
<br />
'TS Royalist, TS Royalist, this is Irene of Bridgewater, Irene of Bridgewater, over.'<br />
<br />
The sound of jollity within the radio operators voice turned from airy jovial tones to a brick of professionalism.<br />
'Irene, Irene. This is Royalist, Royalist. Send, over.'<br />
<br />
It was as if with each word she breathed that her long windswept hair crawled back into the Royal Navy regulation bun. Her saucy uniform buttoned up, re-starched and her fishnets knitted into perfectly creased, standard issue trousers.<br />
<br />
We made up a reason for the call, asked if she was wearing her uniform and ended the conversation. To coin the old nautical expression, we had cut and run.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQuzlKXH7VUJ1Lw-Z7eDIikRYlH5NiHJrqDesFATpmLVYVkzCW49xDn8djIlkst9bxZK0mZkkXgqab2FPrL1GgEZWkexbRNxD6KH8qUbWSB8q2y-MXtd6sutzsOsDcRaeAtOjZJGaaC0m/s1600/IMG_0239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkQuzlKXH7VUJ1Lw-Z7eDIikRYlH5NiHJrqDesFATpmLVYVkzCW49xDn8djIlkst9bxZK0mZkkXgqab2FPrL1GgEZWkexbRNxD6KH8qUbWSB8q2y-MXtd6sutzsOsDcRaeAtOjZJGaaC0m/s320/IMG_0239.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The Night Watch</div>
<br />
We were a stigma, The Irene of Bridgewater was not winning any admiration in this race. She was a 105 year old, 34 meter long galoomphing drunk at a party. A wooden embarrasment to the race. The only love for the boat or anything to do with her was from the crew on board. We <i>knew</i> this drunk, she had a rich and colourful story, way more interesting than most of the fleet combined. We knew the sober Irene, the Irene that had seen and done things and that was a stalwart member of a bygone age that all sailors pine for. She was formidable.<br />
<br />
Why such loathing towards the boat? Perhaps it was because Leslie had had a huge falling out with the organisers years previously. Perhaps it was because we were making more news than the race itself. Snapping the main boom whilst gybing and then colliding with and dismasting a yacht en route to Waterford didn't help (Myself and Sacha joined after these events). This yacht was unlit in a commercial channel, the soul crew member on board was asleep, the other ships in the area also failed to see this yacht on RADAR or indeed without. A prime example of what not to do at sea. Unfortunately the Irene found this hapless sailor and the negative news stuck.<br />
Perhaps the organisers and participants thought that we would cast a bad light upon the race with more and more bad news.<br />
If we'd have known what the next few days would hold for us, we might have agreed...</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-34160093285450935312011-11-26T14:20:00.001-08:002011-11-26T16:04:37.230-08:00Good Morning Irene, are you stil here? Part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The wind kept up a steady force 2-3 for the remainder of the day and dropped slowly but surely throughout the night. I awoke to take charge of my windless watch with Jon and Mike. The same haze from the previous day melted the horizon and sky together, only broken by the race fleet around us and an occasional sea bird dipping into the glass like ocean.<br />
The monotony of being in irons and going nowhere was getting to us. It's hard to keep up morale with nothing going on. At least we're on a boat and that means that there's always something to do.<br />
We moved about some rope, tidied some other bits of rope and hauled on the big bits of rope. Maybe we were hoping to find some wind hidden within all of this manilla and hemp.<br />
<br />
It seemed that hours had passed, the reality was that it wasn't even one hour. Mike helpfully pointed out that there was nothing to see or do. Just then, a whale's spout burst out of the sea not 20 meters from our port side. The fine mist dropped straight back to the water's surface. Like a pathetic geezer, straight back down with barely a ripple and no breeze to carry it. The cetacean's lethargic sigh, however, got our attention. Within seconds this gracious animal swam right underneath the boat, barely beneath the surface of the water. This majestic black and white mammal, travelling lazily alone to a place I'm not even sure he knew he was heading. We watched the sea in the direction he'd headed hoping to catch another glance. Hoping to bury another five minutes with something less boring than steering a boat that's going nowhere. Then the spout of mist broke the horizon once more, only this time there was a wind to carry it. The morning sun had begun to rise higher, bringing with it an offshore breeze as it heated the green hills of Southern Ireland.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Frustratingly we could see the ripples of the wind on the water, yet it was still half a mile ahead of us. We were still at the mercy of the tide and that was still half an hour from being favourable.<br />
I took a bearing from the point on the land in which the wind was coming from then went to the chart<br />
to see how long it would take until we got there. This is when I saw that during the previous watch and the start of ours, we had been pushed backwards just over two miles by the tide. This was massively frustrating. It looked as though we were about forty minutes away from the breeze, we were only half way through our watch and all bored out of our minds, oblivious to just how lucky we actually were to be there in the first place. Ahead of us, the larger ships in the fleet began to fill their sails, albeit pitifully, and make lazy progress towards the checkpoint.<br />
<br />
The checkpoint. We were to find out very soon about these. It was every boat's obligation to call in daily with the boat's position, heading and with any useful information. After talking to 'Race Command, or Race HQ or Race Whateveritwas, we were then asked, 'We assume you have successfully managed to reach waypoint one?'<br />
<br />
Following this was a pause, this consisted of me looking at Jon, Jon at me, his face as blankly bemused as I felt.<br />
<br />
'Er. Affirmative sir, on course for waypoint two.' ???!!?!??<br />
<br />
My response was not a lie, I was affirming their assumption, not the fact that we had crossed a waypoint. As for being on course for number two, well we still had time to find it.<br />
<br />
'So. It seems that there is a course to follow.' Said Jon.<br />
<br />
'Yes Jon, it seems that you are right. Where <i>are</i> we going?'<br />
<br />
One might think that we'd have known about these waypoints before setting off. One should be right however this was one of those things that Leslie placed in the 'Nonsense' section of his elaborate, ageing and eccentric mind. The plan to get over not knowing exactly where we were going was to follow the fleet. When the masses change course, so do we. Simple. Winning this race was never a realistic option for Irene, but we had the will and whim to do the best we could, a steady twentieth would be admirable for the old girl. So this is what we would do.<br />
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The breeze tickled the rigging and sat softly in the sails that we had centred so that the booms wouldn't sway on the swell of the sea without the wind to hold them rigid. Before getting the chance to sheet out a little Leslie emerged from his cabin.<br />
<br />
'Why the fuck aren't we moving? Sheet out! How long have you been sailing like this for? We should be miles further!'<br />
<br />
'Good Morning Leslie.'<br />
<br />
So unaware he was that he had arrived with this feint breeze. He stayed for a while and set the sails, grunted something in oldy worldy talk and went back down below. Oh well, we're steadily moving ahead and catching up with some more boats.<br />
<br />
A steady course of East was adhered to as this seemed to be where the fleet was going. As they funnelled closer ahead of us we would know that we were close to the waypoint.<br />
<br />
Leslie reappears, dressed and ready for the day, crumbs in his beard and the froth of a good morning coffee adorning his moustache.<br />
<br />
'Why the fuck are we heading East?'<br />
<br />
'Good morning Leslie...'<br />
<br />
'...er, because apparently in that pack that you once had with the race rules in, there were a list of waypoints. We don't have that pack so we're following the fleet for the second marker.'<br />
<br />
'Bollocks! It's a race, we want Greenock, that's North, so head North!'<br />
<br />
'But...'<br />
<br />
'North!'<br />
<br />
The rest of the crew either began to arrive to take on their watch or simply enjoy the morning's sailing. The wind was rising to a force 4 and from the beam. Perfect for Irene. No one would believe us that there had been no wind and that we'd actually gone backwards in the night.<br />
<br />
Sacha arrived and asked why we were heading North when we agreed to follow the fleet, I nodded to Leslie.<br />
<br />
'For fuck sake.'<br />
<br />
'I know Sacha, but we're going North now, waypoint two is a write off, let's find if and where number three is and actually hit it.'<br />
<br />
So I hand over the watch to a tired eyed and grumpy Sacha. The sun warms up the deck and we sit and soak up the joy of fair weather sailing.<br />
<br />
'Och aye! Morrrrnin, BOP! Squaaark! Squaaaaaark! Scottish Maid!!!...'<br />
<br />
'Morning Eric!'<br />
<br />
You crazy bastard.<br />
<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-70649046782135197272011-11-08T16:31:00.000-08:002011-11-09T08:18:28.284-08:00Good Morning Irene, are you still here? Part 2If you are a touch deaf and generally uninterested in anything other than your own affairs, then from time to time you may get a few things wrong. For Dr. Leslie Morrish this was when the Tall Ships Race people asked for their money.<br />
It is only after the ha'penny clunked into place that Leslie realised it was in fact Irene that paid to enter the race, not the race paying Irene.<br />
<br />
If you are a touch indignant and generally uninterested in anything other than your own affairs... the same applies.<br />
It was only when we were trying to find the race rules and various other important documents, that we realised Leslie had filed these articles into the 'nonsense' section of his brain. Consequently we hadn't got a clue just what we needed to partake in the race other than a few basics. The vast bulk of what we needed had probably found it's way overboard.<br />
However by asking around the other boats and attending the last minute meetings we pulled it all together.<br />
<br />
It may have been down to this apparent lackadaisical approach of Leslie's to such red tape that there was a strong feeling that at every stage, the organisers seemed doggedly determined to not allow Irene to sail.<br />
<br />
With each request that we adhered to they would make up more irrational and unreasonable ones. As equally determined we would adhere to their inane rules applied only to us out of the sixty something boats taking part.<br />
We blagged the 'correct' HF Radio Set; we brought the up to date to the hour charts; we added more flares; we bought ugly canvas name boards for the boat; we individually numbered and named our jackstays; we flew their flags; we attended their review meetings; we managed to get the right crew over 21 to those under 21 ratio just right, we walked their walk and talked their talk. Yet it still wasn't enough.<br />
<div>
<br />
By the end of a week in Waterford and boat check after boat check they reluctantly allowed 'Irene' to sail, calling us master blaggers and bluffers. </div>
<div>
Not without one parting shot. His name was Anderson. He'd never sailed before and had signed on to the race for some experience. </div>
<div>
The Tall Ships people decided that on the morning of departure that we were the boat for him. This put our crew ratio off kilter. The rules state that there must be no more than 50% of the crew over 21. Andreas was 26. We were pleased to have him along.</div>
<div>
An hour to leave for the start line, we were taking part any way. We had a crew on board that wanted to get to Greenock, so Greenock it was to be.</div>
<div>
So off we went, our tired liaison officer (who had done everything in her power to help Irene) waving farewell to the crew which were:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Leslie: Owner/ AARGH!!!</div>
<div>
Eric: Captain/ Character</div>
<div>
Sacha: 1st Mate/ Sailing Master</div>
<div>
Thom: Bosun/ Comic Relief</div>
<div>
Jonathon: Crew</div>
<div>
Paul: Crew</div>
<div>
Mike: Passenger/ Crew</div>
<div>
Shannon: Passenger/ Crew</div>
<div>
Anderson: Passenger/ Crew</div>
<div>
Tammy: Passenger/ Crew</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We made our way down river to join the fleet at the start line. Though it was as we were setting the sails we realised that there was nothing rigged up for the Main Topsail. It is essential to have all of a sailboats sails ready to set once you are in a race. The rules specified that engines were not allowed.<br />
We hove the boat to and got on with the work. This was in fact a great way for the 'green' hands to start learning the ropes. I include myself in this as I had never sailed a gaff rigged boat before. Other than the seamanship side of things I was new to this too.<br />
<br />
Leslie growled orders and we worked to get the job done. Paul shouting down periodically from the top of the mast what needed to be done as Leslie made sure he did the exact opposite. Eric was asking the girls for cups of tea, singing at the sea birds and shouting randomly in true stereotypical Scottish, things like 'Bop!' and 'Och aye'. Every now and again he would bark things at the air such as, 'LIVERPOOL MAID', or 'Where's my tea!?' <br />
Eventually we had the Main Topsail flying high above the other sails. The sun was out and Tammy was busy taking her amazing photos and mingling with Shannon.<br />
<br />
Because of this faffing around we crossed the start line over an hour after the race had begun. Not only were we last in our class, we were last overall with the wind decreasing by the minute.</div>
<div>
A good start...</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The fleet miles ahead, taken from behind the start line. </div>
</div>
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<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-56928994502840543532011-11-03T11:42:00.000-07:002011-11-04T09:09:18.577-07:00Good Morning Irene, are you still here? Part 1<br />
The Irene has a reputation that precedes it. A highly charismatic boat with an even more charismatic owner. In his book 'Good-night Irene' Dr. Leslie Morrish takes less than five pages before he tells us he put the bowsprit through a bridge in London disrupting gas and electricity to many thousands of homes. Not much later and you can read about the cat that shat in his pillow case and consequently was last seen sinking in the Thames Estuary.<br />
Ask anybody that has sailed on Irene and you'll hear many tales. Skippers have been forced to stamp on their Pith helmets in despair. The boat has collided with yachts, yachts have collided with the boat. It has grounded multiple times and has even burned down once.<br />
With a brief charter career in the Caribbean Mick Jagger played upon her grand piano.<br />
She has led a colourful life indeed. In her wake is a succesion of great voyages, mentally disturbed skippers, irritated crew and confused harbour officials. Yet for each folly is a feel good story, this is the start of mine. Of my time on the boat that refuses to follow the path of other, similar boats and shout EFF YOU to convention and sometimes even reason.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
'Irene' Grounded off Cleavedon in 2009</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
'It's looser than a Dutch woman in a window.'<br />
<br />
With these words I had given to myself the first job aboard the 'Irene'. Tightening the rigging.<br />
<br />
Setting to it with some good old fashioned swaging (or sweating, or heaving, or grunting), one person pulls on the halyard like a bastard, the other is 'tailing' the rope to pull in the slack. We used the halyard usually kept for lifting the heavy gaff that pulls up the main sail. Burly enough for the job so as we don't have to be. Perfect.<br />
<br />
Once we'd pulled through enough line to tension the rigging we lashed it to itself in four places with marlin to stop it from slipping. Once done we move to the opposing shroud, slowly heading aft down the boat towards the stern until all eight shrouds are nearly bar tight.<br />
This job took all day, firstly because like anything else on a boat, it is worth doing properly. Secondly, by the end of the day we had had quite a bit of wine.<br />
<br />
Sacha and I had arrived in Waterford the previous evening. Sacha as first mate and me as his second, in my usual thankless job as the feared and despised, common ground of hatred and irreverence, the Bosun.<br />
<br />
Upon arriving in Ireland we had been struck with festival fever, the Tall Ships were in town. Illuminated masts reached high to tickle the cloudy skies of Southern Ireland. Boats buzzed with excitement as crews made up of professional sailors and youngsters 'living the dream' for the summer drank hard. Shining brass bells and trims danced light onto the drunken smiles of kids eager to slip their ships lines and compete in and win the Tall Ships Race 2011.<br />
<br />
I met the owner Leslie. He was pleased to see us, for this boat was lacking any experienced crew. There were people on board more than capable of sailing, yet sailors they were not.<br />
<br />
This situation had led to an odd discipline on board where a completely unexperienced crew member had appointed himself Bosun, Second Mate and First Mate.<br />
<br />
There was a sense of ill feeling for this man that I had yet to meet. The crew spun stories of his incompetence and poor manners; of his sense of superiority that descended to childish humility when his orders were implemented to various ill fated ends.<br />
Unfortunately, through his callow ideals of what it means to be a mate at sea he had assumed that he would be 'liked'. Decisions made for the greater good of a boat may not always sit well with others.<br />
<br />
He thought too that he could be respected. Maybe, though this comes with the experience and reason that is applied to decisions to do no more or no less than is necessary for a safe and speedy passage. To simply guess at what to do and for it to be unsafe and to waste everyone's time will earn you no respect. The only good that will come of you is that you will bind the masses to a general opinion that you are a complete dick.<br />
<br />
However, 'he's new to this', thinks I.<br />
'He's showing gumption and filling the void', surely.<br />
'He can't be as big an arse as they say', can he?<br />
<br />
2am and I'm sound asleep. The day's travelling has taken it's toll and I had long ago slunk to bed to be fit for duty the next day.<br />
<br />
I awoke to find a beard with a Canadian accent and a flatcap poking me and looking at me through glasses belonging to the 80's.<br />
<br />
What a dick...<br />
<br />
'What?!'<br />
<br />
This fellow starts reeling off a jobs list for me to start in the morning. I thank him for this by grunting that he should bugger off before he gets lamped. I can see already that we are going to get along fine...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-24768548549787401752011-08-29T05:46:00.000-07:002011-08-29T05:46:12.492-07:00It's been a while. SorryMany a tide has fallen since my last entry to this here Blog-O-Gramme. The winds have blown me to France, where the Matthew partook in the Golf de Morbien festival. This involved showing many thousands of people around the boat in Vannes. Followed by a Parade of Sail around the Golf itself, it is quite the event to see when there are thousands of boats criss crossing around and about you in a narrow channel.<br />
Where else was I? Ah Cornwall, of course. Here we stayed for many a month, again showing the wonderful public around the vessel and taking the even wonderfuller public on evening/ day/ night/ weekend sails.<br />
Here I jumped ship and left the Matthew after a rather nice weekend at the Penzance Maisy Day Parade. I left one boat to dive onto the 'Irene'. From Waterford we sailed with a fleet of some sixty plus boats in the Tall Ships Race 2011 to Greenoch. Coming a respectable 10th overall. This particular trip is worthy of it's own story that I shall endeavour to share with you next and soon. There will be peril, confusion, danger, idiocy and much more.<br />
<br />
For now however this is it. Just a quick yarn to say hello and let you know I am actually still here.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-16217242495768481942011-05-19T08:03:00.000-07:002011-05-19T08:03:56.467-07:00I sense that a voyage is near. There has been a sudden surge of unprompted activity. Bunks are cleared of the debris collected whilst in port, to be made available for new crew. Stray items are finding there way back to a safe stowage so as not to fall out of place upon the rolling seas. From below as I write this I can hear wood saws and sanders, the clomping of heavy boots upon the deck, a bustle of noises that alude to our imminent departure to France.<br />
<br />
We shall leave on Monday at 10am with a compliment of 8 crew in total; Salty Sacha shall rejoin us with Lou, our highly charismatic and fun filled filly. It has been nearly a year since I sailed with Lou and I am looking forward to it immensely. Also on board other than the three of us that baby sit the boat whilst in port are Royston, the ex Lord Mayor of Bristol and current head of the brand new Matthew of Bristol Trust; Jane, the infinitely over excited volunteer and Ben, our one and only Falmouth based volunteer<br />
First stop; Brest. I shall use my time here to visit The Spirit of Antigua, maybe there will be a relic or two of mine that I left on board from leaving in such a hurry.<br />
<br />
Then onto Belisle, Vannes, Douarnanez and in three weeks time back to Falmouth for the Sea Shanty Festival.<br />
Busy busy indeed.<div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-65612914593141113722011-05-17T04:46:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:34:17.174-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) The final part<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">The story we were told to tell was; 'We went sailing, we got wet, we went flying, we came home.' Fair enough, however this is not the story I have relayed so many times, to so many people. I felt therefore that this was not <i>my</i> story. What comes up, comes out. So out it came, from head to fist and onto paper over the past six months.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">I have written this account purely as a cathartic exercise for myself. To help me rid the demons, daydreams and nightmares that have occurred since October.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">I share it primarily for those on board that evening. Maybe as a way of letting them see similarity's to their own personal tale and feelings, or indeed and more importantly, the differences.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">An event like this is certainly a large undertaking to break down mentally. I thought that I was 'over it' long ago yet here I am still reeling from that day and the days that followed.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">The 'What if's' have long since faded from the forefront of my mind. The reality of it all though is still quite a task. So much thought is given to those that risked their lives to save ours; to those whom we left asleep in their beds to be given such an awful wake up call; to those that would find out about it later on and for the compassion shown to me by family and friends and even people I had never met, nor ever will.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">The thanks that I have for all involved in saving my life, my friends lives and the sanity and happiness of those that surround me is beyond fathomable comprehension.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">Why do I still put to sea? I do not know. Will I always put to sea? Yes, though under what guise I cannot possibly say. Maybe simply talking of 'rounding the horn' someday in my own boat will conjure up all of the imagery and colour that I need in my life. My life. There is a term I enjoy. For I am alive and I wake up happy some days purely at that simple little fact.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">I am very pleased I have survived to be able to share with you my story...</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">...and go sailing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">Thank you,</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif;">Thom.</span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-47050516201947204212011-05-17T01:06:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:33:48.373-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 16<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">High above the boat now and I am face to face with another French accent, this one dressed in green. He has no smile for me, he must be tired. He's grabbing me by the shoulders and wrenching me deep into the belly of this metal bird. What now?</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Ben is in a foil blanket, at the back with him was Slava and Sacha. I get pushed along to my place at the front of the helicopter, in amidst the thousands of buttons and lights that I will never comprehend. The nurse comes across to check me over. I feel her compassion through my skin as she takes my hand. I nearly cry but think better of it. Man up Thom! Instead I'll fix my gaze through soaking wet, salty dreadlocks and into her deep eyes as she begins to take my blood pressure.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ben Wookey was placed on the floor of the helicopter next to me. I look out beyond the green tinted window at the scene below and beyond us. So many ships passing by. Why could you not find it in your hearts to come and find us? Though the one directly ahead of the ex catamaran is beautiful. </span></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'WAGENBORG, WAGENBORG, WAGENBORG' I repeat it over and over and over so as to remember it forever. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Captain Jack Wieten and the crew of the M/V Ijsselborg. I love you. For answering the SOS, for steaming 35 nautical miles to assist, for having a heart.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The crew are all aboard the Helicopter now. Some noise follows and we begin to move. The tired man is playing around with the microphone on his helmet, I think maybe it's broken. He sees me looking at him so I flash him a smile full of heartfelt thanks and humility. He looks down, takes out a huge military issue knife and plays with more extrusions from his helmet. Then he looks over again and approaches me in a crouch.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'HOW MANY EPIRBS?'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The noise of a helicopter is deafening. My ears have been through a lot this evening.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'QUOI?' I ask.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">His eyes roll and his question is repeated, to which I shout back that there were six.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'ARE YOU CERTAIN?'</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">No.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'YES' </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">A grunt, followed by a crouched swivel and he's back on the helicopter floor playing with more wires.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">The sea is so vast. From a height the waves look tiny, merely a surface swell. Did we capsized in that?! What the fuck? Why the fuck? How the fuck? </span></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I'm tired so I slump forward to rest my elbows and head on my knees. My dreads itch, will they ever dry? I wonder.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The nurse nudges me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Shouting through the fantastic noise of brute force machinery keeping us aloft she asks, 'OK?'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Am I? I really don't know. I'm certainly elated and literally elevated. My night is better than it was but OK might only be a relative state of affairs.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'OUI!' </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Relatively, of course. </span></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I wonder where they are taking us. I'll ask...</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'Où cet hélicoptère va ? '</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">'Britain'. She replies</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">'Merci' Says I. 'Je le veux dire!' And I really, truly did mean it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ben Wookey looks a bit astonished that some one of my ilk is able to talk a foreign language, albeit in a true pigeon form.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">'What was that about?' He shouts.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I explain that they are taking us to Britain. Though I don't see why or even where exactly they would take us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">An hour or so of shivering passes. How long did we go sailing for? We seem to be driving on the right hand side these days.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">Of course they didn't take us to Britain, but to Lanveoc near to Brest. In BRITANNY! My mistake. </span> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The Hellijigger meets the asphalt, I'm marched out by 'smiler', our tired French friend, grabbing me by my shoulders and moving me quick and low. I see grass and make a break for it. It's not far away and I dive to one knee to tear up a clump, just to feel it. I never thought I would again. Smiler does not like this, makes chase, wrenches me upright and leaves me in the care of some new uniformed faces. These ones are dressed in blue...</span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-1409152357713571942011-05-16T14:56:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:33:20.118-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 15.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Through to the outside, I dive. I struggle much more with this attempt than previously as another tear on my suit has now snagged on the broken framing of the hatch. I break free and clamber up to see Ben through safely.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He emerges feet first, still clutching the torch. Close enough, I think. I grab it and cast it, still illuminating, into the life-raft.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Sorry Thom.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Ben, you never have to apologise to me ever again about anything. Ever!'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The noise of the helicopter is ferocious, the lights fixed upon us are dazzling. So much so that I am forced to look down. Another phenomenal sight. So amazing in fact that I fall backwards. Through the clear waters of Biscay I can see the sails of the catamaran set eerily beneath us. It seems as if the boat is still trying to get somewhere. Rigging and other lines are climbing up the mast in a ghostly motion. A hand on my shoulder startles me away from my transfixed gaze. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hello? A red wet suit, a new face with a French accent. A very welcome guest to have on board. What's he doing? Trying to put me into the harness to go up into the helicopter is what. Me and Ben start frantically pointing to the skipper, he needs to be looked at first. The flying frenchman nods and straps Ben in. Up he goes complete with his waterproofs and his expensive boots. Lucky bugger.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Slava had went up first, Sacha second. It was going to be Sacha first but he'd wrapped his legs around the Frenchman. This is good to do if you are drifting alone out at sea, though whilst your fixed to a boat it is unnecessary. Our rescuer in this instance thought that it was inappropriate and turned his attentions to the seemingly less affectionate Slava.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then after we had motioned for Ben to go up it was my turn. As I was lifted higher and higher the scene became more and more surreal. The water was spiralling up into the air with me up to the blades of the helicopter. There were people on the Ijselbourg looking over and taking photos. There was our boat, looking so tiny and insignificant from so high up. Her sails still set, still trying to carve forwards though the water. I feel my laughter behind the noise. I feel! This is enough.</span></span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-72624800165468536792011-05-16T14:40:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:33:05.226-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 14.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pete lashes himself to the life line and heads through the hatch to the outside. Maybe for the want of simply something to do, he closes in on the life raft for a look. He's a braver man than I. I didn't even want to look at it this hopeless craft. Upon seeing the foot pump he asks whether it is worth trying to fill up the raft with air. </span></span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I can see his point. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'No, I don't think it is.' </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I don't believe that the energy involved to get it to the 288 pounds per square foot of pressure needed would be worth expending. We can gather in the morning and try pumping it up then if it's needed. There will be more people to help and it will give us a job to do. Besides, I don't want to fully accept that we may well have to abandon our vessel for this floating tent.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ben, Ben and Luke agree that maybe it should be left for now, Pete also.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'Quick! Pass me an EFIRB!'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes of Pete being outside that we here him cry out.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Luke replies, 'What's an EFIRB?'</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">My humble guess would be that it's an EPIRB he's after. So we pass him one out. He sounds excited.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I stick my head through the gap. What a sight! What a beautiful, beautiful sight! What a din! What a beautiful, beautiful din! Floating above us is the brightest light I've ever seen, it's lighting up not only us but the vessel in front of us. The Letters WAGONBORG Must be twenty feet tall painted against the grey hull of a rather large merchant ship not twenty meters from us. The letters adorning the side of the boat are more like six feet tall. It is truly amazing how one remembers such things.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This vessel was the Dutch Merchant Ship M/V Ijsselborg. It had steamed 35 nautical miles out of it's way to aid in our rescue. It too had a bright light shining on us.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNmMoK-4VYSZNHiR1mIZb9GyjqA_2XcqsVAQORqoUAO7J7F6q39C1oK_SLCgrcSwAK5PpHIDIMakz7_6Z-44XFv6vn7WwS4REOfQqkxocUFbnReJTTTkL0b9sstcr5GRVht_5sAqhE1Ozd/s1600/Ijsselborg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNmMoK-4VYSZNHiR1mIZb9GyjqA_2XcqsVAQORqoUAO7J7F6q39C1oK_SLCgrcSwAK5PpHIDIMakz7_6Z-44XFv6vn7WwS4REOfQqkxocUFbnReJTTTkL0b9sstcr5GRVht_5sAqhE1Ozd/s320/Ijsselborg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'Set off a flare.' I said.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">I of course meant a smoke flare, it's not considered the done thing to be firing rockets at helicopters. </span></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'DO NOT FIRE A FLARE!'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Enter Ben Bones. Standing up and looking good. Me and Ben Wookey insist that he leaves first. Reluctant to this idea he says that it's his responsibility to see we are all off of the boat safely. Ben Wookey replies with,</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'Ben, we can argue about this all night when we're on the helicopter but you need to get up there before we do.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This was indeed true, though looking at our skipper now you would never have guessed that he was lying silently on the brink of sleep up until thirty seconds ago. His argument was too a strong one.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'Look guys, there's no fucking way I'm not getting on that helicopter.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Touché.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">OK Ben. We throw him through the hatch behind Luke. It's just me and Ben Wookey left here now, both laughing at each other. A serious disposition suddenly washes over me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'Ben, I'm not sorry for what I am about to do.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Grabbing his head I plant a massive, and I mean huge kiss right on his lips. The most surprising bit of it all was when he started kissing me back! Quite the moment indeed. Have you ever kissed your hero? Try it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The elation of our now present situation is overwhelming. We've just lived a hundred years in six hours, and we are now being given the chance to live a hundred more.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'After you Ben.' I motion towards the hatch.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'No, please after you.' </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">So polite.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">'No no, I'd like to see that you get out okay.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ben says that he'll find it easier to leave the boat knowing that I'm outside. Fair enough. I tell him to leave anything behind that doesn't need to go up with him. This includes the torch he's been holding on to for a while now.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Once again I find myself looking around at a confused world, ready to plunge myself outside and escape from that upside down toilet that's been mocking me all night. Not so clever now are you? Stupid feckless porcelain bastard shitter!</span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-73100040329364560222011-05-15T05:20:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:32:50.722-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 13.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is my turn outside now. The stars have all but gone, covered behind the clouds that I watched rolling in earlier as the sun set. These oppressing dark hulks of cloud have given a much more desolate feel to this whole affair. True pathetic fallacy that not even Shakespeare could match.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The hull of the boat facing me seems so far away and so tall, silhouetted against the ink blue skyline. The rudder breaks the smooth line of the hull as if it is a lone tombstone, the propeller to it's left looking like the dark, dead flowers, laid in mourning.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As I hold my ground on the netting my legs are getting battered, courtesy of the broken hatch cover, wrapping at my calves with every surge. They would be bruised for days afterwards.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It's so dark here, we may as well be invisible. There must be something that we can do to increase our visibility. Increase our odds. The light on top of the life-raft had never worked. No one was too surprised at this. There are six EPIRB's flashing away inside, I pop my head through the hatch, between swallowing water and breathing I ask for one to secure to the boat. The lanyard that comes with the beacon is very thin. I give it a sharp pull at the end and just as I would guess, it snaps. I make sure that I lash it to the dinghy as tightly as possible using the entire length of chord and with about twenty half hitches to make sure it stays put. The flash reflecting from the white of the hull is not the brightest light. Though at least it is okay, and that is the highest standard we seem to be reaching tonight.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Thom!'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Who's that?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'What are you doing?, Thom?! Are you okay?'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sacha! It's so nice to hear him. I start a little dance from sheer happiness that I can now safely say he is safe.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I tell him that we have found some flares and are keeping watch for boats that may be passing.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He gurgles a reply through his hatch, he must have got a lung full of sea water. On his second attempt between coughs, he splutters out that him and Slava are okay and that they've found the rum. Lucky fuckers. A spot of rum now would be lovely. Of course this is no time to get drunk, though I do feel that I could just do with getting right royally mothered. To forget where I am, wake up with a bad headache that wasn't caused by a slap from a fire extinguisher. Wake up in bed and as far in land as is possible.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not an option, instead I look around and nothing's changed. The sea continues to roll on towards me, the stars still choose to hide from me, the navigation lights I can see are of boats heading away from me. I am not frightened, I don't think I've been fully fearful throughout this entire catastrophe, there doesn't seem to be any time for that. I am stressed. I feel like I am so close to something that's so good, yet the more I endeavour to reach for it the more it eludes me. What it is I feel I'm so close to I have no idea, stands to reason then that it would be so out of reach.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I itch, all I can taste is salt, I am soaked through, I am on a boat the wrong way up, my ears hurt, my eyes hurt, my legs hurt, my head hurts. Why the fuck am I here? What the fuck happened on deck that made the boat flip? Who the fuck was on the helm or standing by on the sheet? Where the fuck exactly am I? When the fuck will I be somewhere else?</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I can feel myself getting riled up with unanswered questions. Questions that don't need answering or even asking, certainly not now, not here. I must have been gritting my teeth for some time. My jaw aches, I can taste blood and I'm spitting out bits of tooth. I need something to do. I head back in and let Pete have a turn at looking for some hope. I can't find any, not out here, not on my own, not like this.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-36682724923210109602011-05-14T03:45:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:32:04.142-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 12<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I don't know how long has passed, I've been fighting the urge to look at my watch. Who knows how long we'll be here? Three friends sit or lean inside our hull all looking as dejected as I feel . Ben Bones is trying his best to fall asleep, to succumb to the cold temptation of hypothermia. At least I can fix my mind onto him, ask him questions every few minutes. We can all help him, as well as ourselves. Little jobs like these will help to pass the time. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Whilst I had remained outside with Sacha and Slava previously; Ben Wookey, Luke and Pete got Ben Bones out of the water and wrapped up in any spare cloth, sleeping bag and layer they could find. They had rigged up the bunk to hang from the floor, so that Ben could lie on its underside (now the topside) and to be out of the water. An idea that was used by Tony Bullimore when he had spent five days in a capsized yacht deep into the Southern Ocean. He had been telling us of this story on my previous sail on 'Spirit' a year before.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had warned skipper Ben that I would be asking him questions every few minutes or so. If he didn't have an answer for me then I'd have a slap just for him.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Ben, when's your birthday?' No answer.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Ben, where's your home port? No answer.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Ben, what's your fiancee's name?' No answer.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So with childish annoyance I begin... 'Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben...'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Fuck off! I'm tired!'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That's all I need, an answer, a confirmation that he's still here, yet in a bad way. 'I'm tired'! As if then I'd leave him to kip. Such a lack of reason from a distressingly rational man. We have to keep him awake. The last thing we need in here is a corpse. Especially not his. I could not bare to lose Ben for he's been a rock to me on land and at sea. I have learned from him, confided in him and grown to love this being. The most useful man to have with me, right now, is falling asleep. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">More time passes, we've all been trapped inside our own heads for a little too long. Ben Wookey is biting at his finger nails and staring at the floor boards that we have placed over the companionway to minimise the effects of the pressure change and of the water being forced through. I'm sitting next to him, his feet holding one board down and mine the other. He had delegated this task to me and I was happy to oblige my lovely and alive friend! Pete has since moved from standing by that taunting, upside down toilet to be with Ben Bones and to keep a closer eye on him.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What do they put in this diesel and battery acid that is so itchy?! The rips in my survival suit have grown. Still, at least I have one. Ben Bones had been so busy finding his crew, getting to life-rafts, setting off EPIRBS and making the best of a bad situation that he had no survival suit. I'd watched that float away earlier asking myself who it was. It <i>was</i> Ben drifting away, although we didn't know it just then. I feel huge pangs of guilt and shame. I should have gotten me and Sacha into the suits whilst we were in the hull, as I should have activated our EPIRB. All I could think to do however was turn off the bloody gas! </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">He's shivering so much now. I don't know how long he has. What will I tell his fiancee if the worst was to happen? I don't have to think about such things just yet, not whilst we are all still breathing. Not whilst I'm not even sure I'll be alive to explain anything.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Luke decides to raid the poor excuse of a life-raft. Genius. The swell has been steadily picking up since we took to cover. We need to make a lanyard for luke to venture out onto the net. One that would be clipped to his survival suit, be long enough to reach the ten or so feet to the life-raft and for someone in the hull to keep a hold of. Alas we have no rope long or thick enough for the job. Pete was more than happy to sacrifice his rook sack. With his knife he takes off the straps and cuts the bag into strips. Strips that we could hitch together to be long enough and strong enough to suit the job. Another inspired idea from Pete that now allowed us to maintain an external watch. To look for ships, to breathe real air, gaze upon the now cloudy sky and to be alone.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Luke heads out lashed to me with his new lifeline. I'm a big believer that any one trusting their lives to the mercy of a knot should tie their own. This way the person tying the knot knows that it is done to a standard that will save their life should it be required. If I want him to come back in or communicate I would tug sharply twice on the line. The same applied at his end. It was hard to hear over the noise in the boat and from the beating our ears were taking from this constant changing in pressure. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Luke finds a bag attached to the raft. Every life raft has one, full of goodies for the worst case scenarios.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Through the hatch I collect a large rubber bag. Right then, Flares! </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Smoke flare, nope. Smoke, smoke, rocket!'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Each of the flares is wrapped in a watertight bubble wrap, I hand all of them to Ben to place them higher up and out of the water.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The bag passed through to me was still attached to the raft by means of a length of webbing. Long enough to get through the gap but just short to place any higher out of the water. I would have cut it but my knife I had left by the wheel at the end of my watch in case of emergencies. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hmm.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Always, always, always carry a knife with you at sea. Never leave it anywhere but tethered to you or within reach of you. Keep it sharp too.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hadn't told anyone else why I was going through the bag sitting down, Luke though eventually cut it from outside. Not before Pete's protests at having flares kept in the cabin. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Another blunder waiting to happen. And why wouldn't it? We're capsized 170 miles away from land, we've no radio, no life-raft. Why shouldn't the flares just go off!? The icing on the shitcake we've been eating for the last few hours. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I believe that this is where our democracy began, if anyone had a point to make, a suggestion or a grievance, we all listened. We said our pieces and calmly worked our way towards the best conclusion. Though upon recollection I don't recall any acrimonious bickering of any kind throughout the entire ordeal.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Agreed then! The flares stay. To be kept dry and to hand.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What else is in the bag? Survival food, God I hope we're not here for that long. I tried that stuff in training. It's awful! A solid grey mix of chemicals designed only to keep the body ticking over.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ah, One wrap around survival bag for hypothermia sufferers.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Give this to Ben.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I really should have elaborated on what 'this' was. The item was passed to Ben, and he held on to it with all of his heart. He thought I'd given him a flare to hold, something to do to keep his brain active. This would have been a great idea. The whole time we were in our situation he didn't let go of the unopened survival blanket. The whole time we were there I thought he was in it.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Two tugs on the life line. I need to talk to Luke to ask what he's been trying to tell us above the din of confused water. With these sharp pulls I retrieve half of the rook sack lifeline inboard. The knot has slipped and there's no Luke where I was expecting one. I feel around on the netting outside , find the other half and re-tie it before Luke notices that it had ever parted.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Try again...</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Luke has said there's a ship nearby. His hand comes through the hatch, in it I place a rocket flare.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">WHOOOSH! The flare rises, and with it our spirits. We can't see it as the only 'window' is the hatch at sea level. But what a noise!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One thing not often considered when firing a flare is the end of the flare that's not the rocket. The equal, opposite reaction to this ingenious pyrotechnic is smoke. A shit-load of acrid smoke, now finding its way through a small hatch and filling up the cabin. The smell is not too dissimilar from a firework. November 5<sup>th</sup> will never be the same again for me.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Roughly three minutes have passed so it's time for another flare. The first flare is to attract attention, the second third fourth and so on for confirmation. If you leave it much longer than three minutes then anyone that may have glimpsed the first unidentified flash may have lost interest.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Through the hatch I pass a second flare, only 2 more rocket flares left after this one so let's make it count. The ship close by is moving slowly and erratically, as if it's looking for something. Looking for us? This may well soon be over!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Luke pushes the pin to launch the flare.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'How was that one?' I ask.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Umm...'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our hearts sink.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'It didn't work.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The boat disappears into the black horizon. We'll save our flare for the next one that passes. So what now?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Ben, what day is it?'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Fuck off!'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Perfect.</span></span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-59604519974653635932011-05-13T10:24:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:31:51.544-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 11<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">I believe that it is not only a legal obligation to respond to an SOS, but also a moral obligation. To the vessels which altered course and stood by to assist in our rescue, I shall always be indebted. These were: the naval vessel HMS Ocean, on training operations nearby. HMS Ocean would take on the role as the On Scene Coordinator to; M/V Ijsselborg, a Dutch merchant ship carrying a cargo of wind generator blades and the passenger ferry Haemar. The Haemar had readied it's tenders to launch a rescue. It was told to stand by, however, as a French Navy rescue helicopter "Rescue Bravo Charlie"</span></span> had already been scrambled from Lanveoc.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Unfortunately, as much thought, if not more, is given to those boats that passed by knowingly. Boats close by that would have known about our situation that chose to steam on to make good time for their ports. Boats which chose not to alter position or speed in order to save lives.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">It was seeing these ships stern lights in the night that turns the mindset from what next? To what if?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">What if no one is actually looking for us? What if one of the hundreds of boats using the route Ile d' Ouessant to Cabo Finisterre, just 5 Nm west of us that we've not yet seen sail by, were in fact to be heading a course straight for us?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">A large ship travelling at its economical speed can take up to 8 nautical miles to simply stop. Even with the RADAR on, our RADAR image would be minimal. We are smaller than waves now. If a boat were to collide with our unlit and 'invisible' hull it would be beyond the horizon before it had stopped.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">These are the thoughts that occupied <i>my</i> mind whilst waiting. </span></span> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Waiting for what? </span></span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">A boat to rescue us? A home to go to? A loved one to embrace? To die?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Waiting for anything. Anything to take your mind away from the consistently changing pressure within the cabin battering your ears, of the fine salt spray stinging your eyes as it is forced through the gaps in the boat. Anything to distract from the constant roaring of the above taking place, of the strobes of the EPIRBs flashing inharmoniously. Anything to ignore the itching of the diesel, oil and battery acid through the tears in your survival suit. Anything but this crap.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I had tried to go in to the hull earlier but preferred the ocean to the disorientating scene of strobes, of nothing where it should be and of no horizon that the inside offered. It made me feel sick. The most disconcerting thing however was the upside down toilet. It's just not how a toilet should be!</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">I much prefer the stars to gaze upon, the phosphorescence to ponder. With Sacha and Slava out here too, I felt safe. We three of us stand with our backs to the hull with our feet lifting from the netting with the waves. I turn my head to the East and look at the clouds; a heavy, dominating mass enveloping the dark sky that illuminates their very outline. I suck in a lung full of air. So fresh! I think of home. So far! I look away from the other two and uncontrollably cry for about 3 seconds. Where did that come from? Whoa, that I was not expecting! Unashamed I turn back to stare at the stars and I smile. </span></span> </span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-69762392275718004482011-05-13T10:15:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:30:22.093-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 10.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The swell has now picked up and is lifting us a little too far off of the netting than is safe. It was time to head back in for the long stay. Entering the hull required diving through a hatch at water level; so breathe, hold, clamber in. Ben, Ben, Pete and Luke had already made their way in. To 'set up camp' for the indeterminable future wait.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I had just finished telling the others in our small space that Sacha was claustrophobic.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">It is now, just as everyone had acknowledged this and taken it on board, that Sacha and Slava decided they would go into the other hull. I stick my head out of the window at the water line to remind them of the tears in the netting from where we were salvaging anything that could float. I look across at the other hull, it seems like such a long way to go.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I say that I won't stop watching them until I saw them both safely inside. They head away and as they approach the centre of the boat a fender drifts in front of the hatch. I struggle to move it away as we had tied it to the other floating debris of our capsize, by the time I can regain my view they have gone. Did they make it? I don't know. I'm sure they would have done, though I'd promised to watch them for a reason. Shit. What if they didn't?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Did they make it alright? Ben Wookey asks. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">'...Yes. Yeah they're fine.'</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Liar?</span></span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-83329205948638515012011-05-11T15:34:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:30:06.537-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 9.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I begin mulling over our present quandary. It hadn't all been fun and games, we did manage to go sailing for a little while.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Before heading off to find some October sunshine we had yet to get the boat ready. There was a lot to get ready and all within a week</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In Bristol the tall ship 'Matthew' had leant us their mooring as it was the only place large enough to accommodate the boat whilst preparing her for our trip. The list was long and there were eventually eight of us to get on with it. We would;</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jet wash the boat after it had remained unmoved for over a year. This is in fact like washing two boats at 102feet each. A chore, and it was a chore, that took three days.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Jet wash the sail, all 334 square feet of it and both sides at that! There was also a tiny hole that we patched with sailmakers tape.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Disinfect the interior and give a general sort out of the items on board. Locate that funny smell that most boats seem to acquire when they've not been used in a while. This boat had many interesting smells. Pete quashed the majority of them with hard graft and disinfectant yet some still remained. Who knows what they were? To hazard a guess I'd say it was either bad meat or a good cheese with undertones of dank rubber and old diesel. An acquired pong, but a pong we would call home for the following few weeks.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The lights on top of the mast that towered above Bristol needed replacing. This was interesting, as when the halyard reached its highest, it was still just short of the very top of the mast. Any work done here would be with your hands above your head, seeing with touch and juggling tools with your fingers. Sacha, bless him, was up and down that mast more times than we'd have cared to lift him. Fat lovable bastard.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rewire the boat. A Marine electrician spent many hours over several days scratching his head over what was going on with the wires on the boat. Though through perseverance and I'm sure a touch of witchcraft he had gotten everything just as it should be and ready to go.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Re-fuel the boat. 550 litres stretched into 12 jerry cans. When the wind wasn't helping us along we would have to carry these cans from the forward lockers to the very stern of the boat. Then via a transfer pump the engine would take the juice straight from the cans.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There was a lot that we needed to take with us that we didn't have. Shipshape & Bristol Fashion kindly said that we could take what we needed from the 'Matthew' for the duration of the trip. The first thing we pilfered was the brand new Rib Eye inflatable dinghy and a 25 Hp Engine. We then used that to travel the length of Bristol Harbour to the 'Matthew' and take more things that we'd need in order to sail; Survival suits, tools, extension leads, spare lifejackets, climbing equipment, torches... We also said that we'd take some of the food that was out of date such as rice, pasta and cereals.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A fine hoard, this took us at least three trips and we were borrowing items up to a few hours before we set off.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I even took a couple of items from my own little boat. A stern light, an extension lead and a selection of 12volt accessories.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Myself and Pete were charged with provisioning the boat. A simple galley to cook with, we set about clearing the shelves of the local supermarkets. Hundreds of litres of bottled water, tinned foods, rice, pasta and other such items that would last a while and be cooked on a hob were purchased in bulk. We also got lots of fruit and vegetables, some fresh meat, peanut butter, Ryvita and other necessities. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This was all quite an undertaking, though everything on this boat was! For this wasn't just any sailing boat that Ben Bones had decided to take on. This was Enza. One of the fastest sailboats on earth. </span></span></span> </div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Enza was launched in Quebec, Canada in 1983 as Formule TAG and at 80ft was the longest racing catamaran in the world.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In 1994, as Enza, she was lengthened to 102ft and had a central 'pod' fitted as well as a larger rig. She was sailed by Sir Robin Knox-Johnston and Sir Peter Blake on a circumnavigation of the world. A voyage that took a record 74 days 22 hours and 17 minutes to complete, a voyage that would claim the revered Jules Verne trophy. It has taken on many names since then. We would be sailing her as 'The Spirit of Antigua'.</span></span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-79856353187826565272011-05-10T16:20:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:29:35.540-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 8<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I always thought that I would like to die at sea. The young mans death that old men dream of. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This notion, I had based purely on romance, woven through the generations of nautical communities that have lost so many. A romance deployed maybe as a way of licking the wounds of the loss of the millions of loved ones given up to the deep. Maybe in reeling from the fact that they weren't there to hold their loved ones hand as they crossed the bar and left their world. Maybe to die at sea is no more dignified than lying face up, full of tubes, on a bleached sheet, staring at bright lights beyond the oxygen mask. At least for most in the latter situation they may look back upon a long and full life wishing that more had come of it maybe, as they pine away to a whisper with dribble adorning their limp smile. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I give some thought for the first time tonight that maybe I will not have such a demise as this. I do not mind.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The Milky Way is a solid shaft of light, so bright that it stifles the magic of the phosphorescence illuminating the netting beneath my feet. These things are all so reassuring for if tonight is the night I am to die then at least my insignificance is confirmed. At least I'm where I want to be, out in the open, desolate sea.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Oh, so many stars!</span></span></div>
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-39647025514577656262011-05-10T09:21:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:29:05.169-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 7.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I start to warm up regardless of the large holes in my survival suit. I need to carry on and do something. Sacha and Luke have started getting suited. Sacha takes off his boots, his very expensive boots, the same make of boot that I had left behind in the galley. He passes them to Pete to hold on to whilst he gets into his survival suit. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Pete seemed a bit flummoxed at holding such unnecessary items.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">'Your boots can fuck right off!'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">...and with a huge throw they vanish overboard. Sacha stands momentarily gobsmacked and without much to say at all. Through the entire ordeal thus far I think that is the most upset about it I've seen him. Pete turns his attentions to Luke, Sacha accepts that his boots aren't important in the grand scheme of it all and carries on.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So; all of our EPIRBs have been activated, all crew members but Ben Bones are in survival suits, we have one life-raft <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">cut loose from the other side of the netting; Ben and Slava found it impossible to get the other, but oh how they tried! One should be enough. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We have<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> cut the netting to grab anything else that would be floating if on the wrong side of the boat with us. Joining our survival arsenal is a big fender and the Rigid Inflatable Boat, we just need to remember where the holes were cut for future reference so as not to find ourselves falling through the netting.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">All that remains of the immediate job list is to inflate our life-raft.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">The painter on the life-raft seems so endlessly long. Usually this would be tied onto a fixed point of a boat, the length gives you enough time to inflate the raft, get into the raft and cut it loose before going down with the vessel. </span> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: black;">I'm watching Ben Bones pulling away at this rope to inflate our life-raft. It's like watching a magician pulling on an endless string of handkerchiefs. Eager for the finale we'd all gathered to witness the event. Well, it's hardly like we had anywhere else to be. </span> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I'd seen this in training, in a heated, lit and tiled pool in Devon but never in anger before.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">We're at the end of the painter. The final trick, a sharp tug on the chord. The casing parts and...</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">...pffft.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">'Huh.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Seven blank faces.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I feel as empty as our life-raft. I can't help but chuckle. Why? Because it's funny and maybe it'll stop me from crying. It is a blow (or huge lack of it) to the survival agenda. This is not what happened in the swimming pool in Devon, I'm not trained for it. I want a refund!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">There's no point in worrying about our lack of life-raft. This is the hand we've been dealt, a semi deflated boat that we didn't have before. All it needs is a dinghy and a giant fender. We lash our new inflatable trimaran to the netting as a just-in-case boat, ready to use should our upside down one go any more wrong.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We've gathered alongside what once was the starboard hull, I have in my hand a head torch that I have been using to send out SOS messages to anything that might look like a ship, aircraft or homing pigeon. I know that it won't be seen for anything beyond a hundred meters. Yet doing this was to be doing <i>something</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and this, right now, meant everything. To show six others that there still is a reason to try. That you've not given up, not yet! For if you do you may as well go for that long swim and accept that the meat on your bones will be a pleasant change in menu for the fish.</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1695614711864664187.post-35016692113214942222011-05-10T02:27:00.000-07:002012-06-11T08:26:03.219-07:00The Death of Enza (and my part in her demise) Part 6.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Whilst we three were out of the boat having a paddle, Slava and Ben had been setting off the Emergency Beacons. I failed to activate the one in the galley as we went over. To be honest and to my shame I simply forgot about it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Pete and Ben Wookey are handing out the bright yellow survival suits that we 'borrowed' from the Matthew. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Slava upon seeing them being added to our kit in Bristol joked that we were off to the Southern Ocean. Ben Bones laughed, I laughed, we all bloody laughed.</span> </div>
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Pete hands one to me and they begin to molest me into said suit. I'm dizzy. I'm cold and for the first time I realise that we are well and truly in the shit. I can't feel my feet or hands, this is not going to be easy. Pete was very firm.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">'Thom! You've got to get in to this suit now!'</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It took about twenty minutes to get into the suit, my hands and feet by this time were so floppy and numb, the 'shoes' of the garment so stiff and <i>just</i> too small for my size elevens that by the time I had managed to get suited up it was much darker. Without these two guys it wouldn't have happened. I am very grateful and always shall be.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Surveying the scene, my mind having decided to stick around is now tying itself in knots, trying to take it all in, to make sense of it all. Nothing here is as it should be. Nothing here is as one would want it to be. Nothing here is at all nice.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Ben Wookey, look at him. I hug him tightly. He looks so serious! Not that any one of us here is feeling too jovial at this particular juncture in time mind you. Could it be that <i>I</i> took the smile from his face simply by asking him along? I've never seen him not smile whether it be with his grin or his eyes. You know it's bad news the day Ben stops smiling. How he looks now, this must be fucking terrible...</span></div>
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Any gubbins in the above post are purely wot I fink and are no way
the views of any company/ individual I work for. Yup</div>Shipwreck Thomhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09456459255934345740noreply@blogger.com0