Second Raid to St Katherines Dock
Unlike other Olympic sailing boats, the Tornado is not just for racing round cans but also the ideal craft for long distance cruising thanks to its exceptional combination of speed and stability. That was proved by Will Sunnucks and his team in a Thames Raide at the end of September. The objective was to set a new record for the fastest Whitstable oyster run to the City of London; then sail the boats back home to Brightlingsea the next day.
A century ago the oyster trade was Whitstable’s chief sustenance with a fleet of 100 or more dredgers and hoys moored on its flats. In those days Londoners ate more oysters than eggs. The demand was such that several times a week a hoy set off for Billingsgate, each one carrying 100 tons of Native oysters.
Even with up to four knots of tide underneath them and carrying acres of canvas, these great sailing barges would need at least two tides to make the journey. Bill Coleman, owner of Gamecock, the last oyster dredger, says that typically they would sail up the estuary on one flood tide in a good breeze; moor up at Gravesend at high tide; then sit out the following ebb tide. Finally they would complete the often-windless second part up the narrowing river on the next flood tide. That made a total of 18 hours. Should calm conditions prevail, it could take up to a week.
This record attempt comprised two standard Tornados, a powerful RIB and a six-man team. As Britain’s leading long distance racer, Will had seen that it was becoming difficult for sailing clubs to organise achievable adventures, due to the country’s increasingly safety-obsessed culture. His idea therefore was a DIY project for grown men in full command of their faculties supporting each other, without any formal organising authority.
To qualify for the record each cat carried a cargo of a dozen oysters, supplied by West Welks. As Derek West explained, these were the finest Natives, still found in free grounds, not owned by The Oyster Company. Hence the Free Fishers and Dredgers of Whitstable, of which he was one of the remaining few.
With Will’s inspiration to guide him, the baby of the team, 35 year-old Simon Farren, an international Tornado crew, sorted the logistics, while grand-daddy 57 year-old Nick Dewhirst, promoter of the Forts Race, arranged the Whitstable end. Novice Tornado owner, Paul Mines joined in, taking the scenic route on his way to Chicago via Heathrow. Matt Brown temporarily deserted his RS monomaran to try his hand at helming a Tornado, while game-for-a-laugh Richard Hadleigh, was prepared to have a go on the flying trapeze after only one previous catamaran experience. In addition to buying the big RIB, Will provided his own Tornado, while sail-maker Simon Northrop lent the other one.
Plan A was that two identical cats could keep well together, with the RIB in close company, either ahead checking the shallows with its depth counter or trailing behind on watch. Should Plan A prove inoperable, Plans B through Z provided for alternative arrangements i.e. we would work it out as we went along and hopefully it would be all right on the night. As it happened, many of our anticipated concerns proved unfounded, but other unanticipated concerns arose instead.
Initially conditions were ideal – the prevailing South Westerly blowing at force four. This gave us the chance to start with a fast two sail reach north-west in flat water under the lee of Sheppey. Two different techniques for dumping and loading back power in the gusts produced the same result – speeds up to 25MPH according to Paul’s GPS. On one Tornado Will helmed inboard while sheeting, leaving Nick out on the wire to enjoy the ride. On the other, Paul helmed inboard while Simon played the mainsheet from the wire.
That provided our only close encounter with ocean going shipping – a freighter putting to sea out of the Medway. With them travelling at 15-20 MPH, you think you can cross in front, but the truth is you can only just do it, even if travelling at the average 17 MPH we clocked in the three-quarters of an hour it took us to blow past Sheerness.
Then we had to detour out to sea so as to avoid shallows off the Isle of Grain. This proved a suitable opportunity for the first crew change. Paul and Nick swapped places with Matt and Richard on the RIB, leaving Simon to take over the helm of one Tornado, while Will continued helming the other. The value of a second person on the RIB soon emerged as it was constantly necessary to check the depth counter. This could go from up to 20 feet to under 10 feet within seconds, even when powering along several hundred yards off shore.
This leg was also fast – a ten mile close fetch in flat water, till the river turned due south. There the cats had to tack through a modest chop, but twin-wiring, speed was still good. It was only after another few miles when the river turned back due west that these thrilling conditions faded. Approaching Gravesend we discovered why the traditional hoys moored up there. There was no wind as it was blanketed by the town and hills nearby. Sniffing each zypher the cats glided forward, sometimes tacking with the wind on the nose and at other times flying kites as it suddenly veered aft, with every bend in the river.
The river was empty. The expected commercial traffic was in port. Tilbury dockers were home for the weekend, so our concerns about the wakes of super-tanker were misplaced. Upstream of those docks, the river became too small for them so we had it to ourselves, tacking and gybing at will across the deep-water fairway that we had been advised to avoid. Will now took his rest from helming and swapped places with Paul in the RIB.
From a scenic point of view, our main observation was the stench of Britain’s rotting industrial heritage as we sailed past a succession of empty industrial wharves, now too small to cope with the economies of scale of modern shipping.
The next attraction was the new M25 Bridge at Dartford, which towered above us as we continued our slow advance up the Thames, accompanied now by our first passenger craft – a small river ferry. We continued at this snail’s pace up to the Thames Barrier, where we anticipated our first encounter with the river authorities. The PLA manual here advises that sailing craft should pass under power, if at all possible, but what if that is not possible?
It could have been chaos had we tried to go against the tide as windless holes were created between the buttresses. Had we tried to pass the Barrier during a weekday rush hour we might have been bobbing helplessly in the wakes of high-speed commercial traffic, either to be mowed down or cause a traffic jam in full view of the control tower. Plan A was to sail through, but Plan B provided for us to be towed by the RIB. Fortunately we still had the river to ourselves.
Slowly the scenery changed. The dying industrial heritage was replaced by new housing as we sailed into the Thames Gateway development zone. By now Nick and Simon were sailing one cat while Will and Richard were sailing the other. The further we went, the taller the blocks of flats became, until it seemed we were drifting down a canyon of ever more luxurious yuppie pads, each one on a bigger ego trip over the height of its penthouse suite.
Every so often sudden gusts would rush through the gaps, forcing Richard and Simon to leap in and out off the trapezes like monkeys. Every so often the wind would repeat its game of switching from dead ahead to dead behind, so up and down the crews would also pull the kites.
Increasingly we met more and more tourist boats, which obliged us to tack or gybe clear. Particularly annoying for us, and entertaining for its tourists was a Mississippi paddle streamer, whose slow chugging upstream almost perfectly matched our gybing downwind with kites, until first one of us and then the other managed to sail clear ahead.
Had the wind been lighter earlier, we might have had to call it a day here as wind often fades with daylight. Plan B was to head into one of the docks on the Isle of Dogs. With hindsight that would not have been such a good idea as their locks looked like they seldom opened. Fortunately Plan C would have worked. That involved pulling the cats up one of the several public slipways we spotted there, so taking our launching trollies on the RIB was a wise precaution.
Fortunately the remaining wind was enough for us to glide towards Tower Bridge and the end of our journey with almost perfect timing – just at the first lock opening at St. Katherine’s, where we had booked berths for the night. Moored temporarily on a buoy, we only had to wait out the first filling because of the evening rush hour.
Changed already into his glad rags for a night on the town, Simon was duly snapped formally swallowing the first Native on board while we waited to dock. The rest were officially landed and donated to the Harbour Master.
It had taken us just 4 hours 35 minutes to sail the 55 miles from weighting anchor at Whitstable to picking up a buoy at Tower Bridge. That represented an average speed of 12 MPH. We had achieved our record, smashing the traditional best time of the hoys by more than a day.
As our most experienced bon-viveur, Paul booked dinner for the team at a celebrity pizzeria nearby. Afterwards the youngsters went clubbing to check out the native talent, returning late to grab a couple of hours sleep under the boat covers. Meanwhile the older men cheated by booking into the nearby Tower Hotel, knowing that they would need all their energy for the run back to Brightlingsea. The wind was forecast to be stronger and it was much, much stronger. However the Tornados coped with that too, thanks to Plans B through Z, but that is another story.
Nick Dewhirst
October 1st, 2006
A century ago the oyster trade was Whitstable’s chief sustenance with a fleet of 100 or more dredgers and hoys moored on its flats. In those days Londoners ate more oysters than eggs. The demand was such that several times a week a hoy set off for Billingsgate, each one carrying 100 tons of Native oysters.
Even with up to four knots of tide underneath them and carrying acres of canvas, these great sailing barges would need at least two tides to make the journey. Bill Coleman, owner of Gamecock, the last oyster dredger, says that typically they would sail up the estuary on one flood tide in a good breeze; moor up at Gravesend at high tide; then sit out the following ebb tide. Finally they would complete the often-windless second part up the narrowing river on the next flood tide. That made a total of 18 hours. Should calm conditions prevail, it could take up to a week.
This record attempt comprised two standard Tornados, a powerful RIB and a six-man team. As Britain’s leading long distance racer, Will had seen that it was becoming difficult for sailing clubs to organise achievable adventures, due to the country’s increasingly safety-obsessed culture. His idea therefore was a DIY project for grown men in full command of their faculties supporting each other, without any formal organising authority.
To qualify for the record each cat carried a cargo of a dozen oysters, supplied by West Welks. As Derek West explained, these were the finest Natives, still found in free grounds, not owned by The Oyster Company. Hence the Free Fishers and Dredgers of Whitstable, of which he was one of the remaining few.
With Will’s inspiration to guide him, the baby of the team, 35 year-old Simon Farren, an international Tornado crew, sorted the logistics, while grand-daddy 57 year-old Nick Dewhirst, promoter of the Forts Race, arranged the Whitstable end. Novice Tornado owner, Paul Mines joined in, taking the scenic route on his way to Chicago via Heathrow. Matt Brown temporarily deserted his RS monomaran to try his hand at helming a Tornado, while game-for-a-laugh Richard Hadleigh, was prepared to have a go on the flying trapeze after only one previous catamaran experience. In addition to buying the big RIB, Will provided his own Tornado, while sail-maker Simon Northrop lent the other one.
Plan A was that two identical cats could keep well together, with the RIB in close company, either ahead checking the shallows with its depth counter or trailing behind on watch. Should Plan A prove inoperable, Plans B through Z provided for alternative arrangements i.e. we would work it out as we went along and hopefully it would be all right on the night. As it happened, many of our anticipated concerns proved unfounded, but other unanticipated concerns arose instead.
Initially conditions were ideal – the prevailing South Westerly blowing at force four. This gave us the chance to start with a fast two sail reach north-west in flat water under the lee of Sheppey. Two different techniques for dumping and loading back power in the gusts produced the same result – speeds up to 25MPH according to Paul’s GPS. On one Tornado Will helmed inboard while sheeting, leaving Nick out on the wire to enjoy the ride. On the other, Paul helmed inboard while Simon played the mainsheet from the wire.
That provided our only close encounter with ocean going shipping – a freighter putting to sea out of the Medway. With them travelling at 15-20 MPH, you think you can cross in front, but the truth is you can only just do it, even if travelling at the average 17 MPH we clocked in the three-quarters of an hour it took us to blow past Sheerness.
Then we had to detour out to sea so as to avoid shallows off the Isle of Grain. This proved a suitable opportunity for the first crew change. Paul and Nick swapped places with Matt and Richard on the RIB, leaving Simon to take over the helm of one Tornado, while Will continued helming the other. The value of a second person on the RIB soon emerged as it was constantly necessary to check the depth counter. This could go from up to 20 feet to under 10 feet within seconds, even when powering along several hundred yards off shore.
This leg was also fast – a ten mile close fetch in flat water, till the river turned due south. There the cats had to tack through a modest chop, but twin-wiring, speed was still good. It was only after another few miles when the river turned back due west that these thrilling conditions faded. Approaching Gravesend we discovered why the traditional hoys moored up there. There was no wind as it was blanketed by the town and hills nearby. Sniffing each zypher the cats glided forward, sometimes tacking with the wind on the nose and at other times flying kites as it suddenly veered aft, with every bend in the river.
The river was empty. The expected commercial traffic was in port. Tilbury dockers were home for the weekend, so our concerns about the wakes of super-tanker were misplaced. Upstream of those docks, the river became too small for them so we had it to ourselves, tacking and gybing at will across the deep-water fairway that we had been advised to avoid. Will now took his rest from helming and swapped places with Paul in the RIB.
From a scenic point of view, our main observation was the stench of Britain’s rotting industrial heritage as we sailed past a succession of empty industrial wharves, now too small to cope with the economies of scale of modern shipping.
The next attraction was the new M25 Bridge at Dartford, which towered above us as we continued our slow advance up the Thames, accompanied now by our first passenger craft – a small river ferry. We continued at this snail’s pace up to the Thames Barrier, where we anticipated our first encounter with the river authorities. The PLA manual here advises that sailing craft should pass under power, if at all possible, but what if that is not possible?
It could have been chaos had we tried to go against the tide as windless holes were created between the buttresses. Had we tried to pass the Barrier during a weekday rush hour we might have been bobbing helplessly in the wakes of high-speed commercial traffic, either to be mowed down or cause a traffic jam in full view of the control tower. Plan A was to sail through, but Plan B provided for us to be towed by the RIB. Fortunately we still had the river to ourselves.
Slowly the scenery changed. The dying industrial heritage was replaced by new housing as we sailed into the Thames Gateway development zone. By now Nick and Simon were sailing one cat while Will and Richard were sailing the other. The further we went, the taller the blocks of flats became, until it seemed we were drifting down a canyon of ever more luxurious yuppie pads, each one on a bigger ego trip over the height of its penthouse suite.
Every so often sudden gusts would rush through the gaps, forcing Richard and Simon to leap in and out off the trapezes like monkeys. Every so often the wind would repeat its game of switching from dead ahead to dead behind, so up and down the crews would also pull the kites.
Increasingly we met more and more tourist boats, which obliged us to tack or gybe clear. Particularly annoying for us, and entertaining for its tourists was a Mississippi paddle streamer, whose slow chugging upstream almost perfectly matched our gybing downwind with kites, until first one of us and then the other managed to sail clear ahead.
Had the wind been lighter earlier, we might have had to call it a day here as wind often fades with daylight. Plan B was to head into one of the docks on the Isle of Dogs. With hindsight that would not have been such a good idea as their locks looked like they seldom opened. Fortunately Plan C would have worked. That involved pulling the cats up one of the several public slipways we spotted there, so taking our launching trollies on the RIB was a wise precaution.
Fortunately the remaining wind was enough for us to glide towards Tower Bridge and the end of our journey with almost perfect timing – just at the first lock opening at St. Katherine’s, where we had booked berths for the night. Moored temporarily on a buoy, we only had to wait out the first filling because of the evening rush hour.
Changed already into his glad rags for a night on the town, Simon was duly snapped formally swallowing the first Native on board while we waited to dock. The rest were officially landed and donated to the Harbour Master.
It had taken us just 4 hours 35 minutes to sail the 55 miles from weighting anchor at Whitstable to picking up a buoy at Tower Bridge. That represented an average speed of 12 MPH. We had achieved our record, smashing the traditional best time of the hoys by more than a day.
As our most experienced bon-viveur, Paul booked dinner for the team at a celebrity pizzeria nearby. Afterwards the youngsters went clubbing to check out the native talent, returning late to grab a couple of hours sleep under the boat covers. Meanwhile the older men cheated by booking into the nearby Tower Hotel, knowing that they would need all their energy for the run back to Brightlingsea. The wind was forecast to be stronger and it was much, much stronger. However the Tornados coped with that too, thanks to Plans B through Z, but that is another story.
Nick Dewhirst
October 1st, 2006
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