The evening was too fine at Sheerness to think of anchoring, so with a sudden resolve we set off again to Southend. Here the advice of a yacht lying near was followed foolishly (get facts from experts and decide on deeds yourself), for I anchored without sounding, and too late found it was in shallow water, only eight feet by the lead, and the tide running out. To bed but not to sleep, for the water sunk to five feet, and, angry with myself, I roused at one o’clock, gave out all the rope, sheered off shore by the rudder, and then, again at rest, gained only six inches of depth; but once more sounding, there was only six inches to spare under the keel and with a strong breeze on shore. Therefore, now again on the move, we fastened the inner end of the cable to the larger anchor and heaved this out, and then payed out all the chain, and sheered with the rudder, but still she was in shoal water. Finally, as the wind increased, I had to haul in both anchors and shove out into the deep, and thus, by omitting to do right at once what was easy at the time, the whole night had been consumed by intervals of wet and needless trouble.
Life in the yawl had now become such a pleasant life, that to leave it was a duty deferred as long as possible. We ranged several times up and down the Thames, visiting many an old nook, well known in former days; Holy Haven for instance; it is now thirty-three years since we first harboured there in a little sailing-boat and spent a night with a collier captain, and learned more of coals and colliers than one could read in a week. This was done by keeping him resolutely on the point the man knew all about until he was quite pumped dry. This nice little refuge-harbour is the one I like best in all the river, with only one house—no bother from shore folks, deep channel, and clean sand to anchor in. If it were not for this narrow and safe retreat, there would often be hard times in stormy days between Gravesend and Sheerness.
The first time the Rob Roy went into Holy Haven, we found a yacht there with a lady and gentleman on board, who of course (invariable and excellent custom) were hospitable when they read my flag. Tiny ripples were the only sounds of the evening, and on looking out on a new day, the round smooth sand was bare beside me, with a lonely gull preening its soft white wing, and its calm eye unfrightened, for no one could have the heart to harm the pretty creature there. The next time of a visit to this peaceful haven, there was another little craft at anchor, and in five minutes after we stopped the owner of it sent his card, with the customary invitation, to come on board. He was a sailor solicitor who lives on the water in summer (being wise), but does not venture out of the Thames (being prudent), and he has a boy “Jim” who hands out cooked things from an inscrutable forecastle, where he sleeps at night in a sort of coal-scuttle. Nevertheless the two together seemed perfectly happy.
By way of variety, the Rob Roy on leaving Margate the next time set off in the dark night, to sail away under the stars, and by some curious good luck we managed to pass as close to the buoy at Reculver as ever one could do in the light. Next time we came to Margate the place was gay with its Regatta, on a fine breezy day. It was one of the best managed regattas one could see, with always something going on, and always the requisite confusion that prevents anybody from knowing exactly what is going on. However, the Rob Roy had a charming sail among the yachts as she towed at her stern the dingey and a canoe, for the members of our Club are ubiquitous, [287] so two of them are at Margate.
CHAPTER XXI.
Worcester—Swedish lesson—English boys—A prophecy—Letter—Request—Reply—The ‘Dolphin.’
Margate has often been abused, laughed at, and snubbed, but it has never yet been properly described. How shall I describe Margate? It is too difficult to do well, and it has been too often done badly to do it again.
The men’s bathing here from boats with steps, like those at Malta, is sensible enough. Fine bold swimmers struck out well beside me in the water while I had my morning dip from the yawl. As for the epicene bathing—masculine women and womanish males who partake of “sea-bathing by machinery”—separate machines, but that is all—let us ignore them.
Come rather back to France, and let us look at Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Eugenie in the water, as we have seen her years ago.
It was at Biarritz, and one day a commotion in the town was evident, but “What is about to happen?” we asked, being ready for any response as a traveller ought to be.