Stargazer sweeps into the River Blackwater. Borne by 22 knots of north east breeze. Under a double reefed main and full jib, she surfs the surging swells of the undulating seascape. Past the Knoll north cardinal, and the Bench Head buoy. Across the submerged shoals, marked by the slender sentinel of the Nass Beacon, and into Mersea Quarters.
We sound our way into the Thorn Fleet . Under the lee of the shellfish shed on Packing Marsh island, the roar of the wind stills . Stargazer picks up a vacant mooring.
A fishing boat labours past . Working hard, to drag its heavy wire mesh dredge through the glutinous Essex mud, in search of a shellfish supper. Her crew sort the salty harvest on the stern. Boxing it up for landing at our black, tar washed, clapperboard shed.
The gravel spit, on the southern end of the island, is a lunchtime rendezvous for canoeists and paddle boarders.
Swallows and Amazons adventures are planned. Voyages into the enchanted changeling world, of the tidal saltings. Neither land nor water.
Fingers of coarse tussocky marsh grass twine with the smooth flowing salt waters of the Blackwater estuary.
Stealthy sinuous fingers of tide play hide and seek between banks of saline soil and gravel.
As the tide floods, the gabled houses of West Mersea peer over the crest of Packing Marsh island . Nestling contentedly among the trees, they watch the daily duel between land and water: The land recedes....the waters advance .
The land advances.....the waters silently steal away, seaward.
Stargazer too feels the pull seaward . Our wind is set fair for the Medway. We sail on the ebb.
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