Search for a Ghost Ship

This story is dedicated to the beachcomber three good

friends met on Osea Island one hot and lazy summer day.
His curious tale of a lost and haunted sailing ship led them
on an adventure that they have never forgotten.

Tony Crowley

The Crowsnest. 30 Mandeville Road, Hertford, Herts. SG13 8JG

2
1. The telephone call
Ben wasn’t clumsy; he was just enthusiastic. And that’s
why on a summer evening, just as the crew of Shimmering
prepared to cast off from the jetty and set sail for adventure,
he fell overboard and slid into the mud. Not the stuff you
find in the garden or a football pitch, but the real thing; a
sticky mixture of thick slime and black grease. He lay face
down on the riverbed and, somewhere above, a girl was
laughing.

Ben floundered around and tried to lift himself up but slid

deeper into the mud. To his relief, he could still breathe but
for how long? It is said that people who are drowning see
their lives flash before them. All he could remember was a
favourite uncle who, overcome by the heat of a crowded
restaurant, had fainted into a large plate of spaghetti.
Fortunately, uncle was saved by an alert waiter who was
checking the tablecloth for tips.

Eventually, his journey downwards stopped but then the

panic started. How could anyone rescue him without
ending up in the mud as well? Was he still visible? But help
was at hand and he felt a rope tightening around his ankles.
There was a sharp tug and he started to slide in the opposite
direction. At last, looking like the nasty end of a suction
pump, he returned from the underworld to the sound of
applause.

3
 The day had started like so many others. It was the
holidays and Ben was bored. He wandered from room to
room in search of things to do and decided to get something
to eat. He sneaked into the kitchen, but his hand paused on
the handle of the fridge for he knew what what would come
next.
‘Keep out of there! Stop pinching food!’
It really puzzled him. No matter how quietly he entered the
kitchen, and regardless of where they were, they always
seemed to know. Did they have a sixth sense? Was it a gift
of some kind? Ben retreated and continued with his search
for ideas.

Just then the telephone rang. The caller was Jake, a

school friend from the other side of the town.
‘Are you doing anything special this week?’
‘Nothing much,’ replied Ben, suddenly realising that the
first week of the holidays was nearly over.
Jake explained that he and his younger sister, Emma,
were planning a trip on their dad's old sailing boat and
wondered if he would like to join them. Ben didn't think
twice about accepting the offer even though he wasn't that
keen on sailing. He could remember visiting the boat when
it was laid-up for winter in a muddy canal on the East
Coast. The three of them had helped Jake’s dad to remove
sleeping bags, sails, life jackets, and even the wooden mast
for scraping and varnishing. The boat could sleep four
people, but having seen it in this damp and sorry state, Ben
could think of better ways of spending a holiday. He had
tried to learn to sail at a club in a local quarry, but spent

4
most of the time in the water clinging to an upturned
dinghy. The sharp-tongued instructor who ran the course
had two methods of teaching: shouting loudly and shouting
even louder.
‘Pull the sheet tight! Not the sail you idiot, the sheet.
That’s the rope from the sail. Pull it tight.’
Ben longed to pull it tight around the instructor's neck.
This loathsome bully, and capsizing into filthy cold water,
were the first things that came to mind when anyone
mentioned sailing.

But here was an opportunity to escape from the house and

Ben wasn't going to let it slip. All he had to do was pack
some clothes in a bag and take enough food to keep him
going for a few days. Jake's dad would drive them to where
the boat was moored at a boatyard on the River Blackwater
and then they would be on their own. Suddenly, the world
seemed a much better place. Later that afternoon, Ben's
mum switched on the radio for the weather report. It was a
special one for mariners.
'Humber, Thames, Dover,’ droned the announcer, ‘Wind
westerly, force 3 to 4, visibility good, seas moderate.'
She wondered if he might need to take some tablets for
seasickness, but his sister just laughed, ‘They're only going
to the River Blackwater, not the Bay of Biscay!’

Little did Ben know that the journey he was about to

make would lead him, in a rather special way, to the islands
of the South Pacific, on a search for lost treasure and a
haunted sailing ship.

5
2. A rising tide
The van rattled along a winding road passing tree-lined
cornfields and winding villages on its way to the Essex
coast. Thatched farmhouses, old churches and farms
flashed by. The journey lasted over an hour but time passed
very quickly. At the wheel, Jake’s dad told rather stale
jokes, or burst into song with lines like 'For those in peril
on the sea'. In the back of the van, Jake and Emma tried to
drown him out with the chorus of The Drunken Sailor.

Way-hay and up she rises,

Way-hay and up she rises,
Patent blocks of different sizes,
Early in the morning

‘Why patent blocks?’ asked Emma suddenly.

‘Silly words to an old song. They’re ship's pulleys,’
replied her father.
‘I know that but what's patent got to do with it?’
‘Er ... I’m not too sure. I think it has something to do with
their being specially designed.’
‘For what purpose?’ persisted Emma
‘Oh, for lots of different things. If you’re interested,
there’s a large basket of blocks on one of those fishing
boats beached near the boatyard.’ At this point, he
explained to Ben that he had borrowed one of the blocks to
help someone lift out a heavy engine from a boat.
‘Find that basket of blocks and you may find the answer.’

6
 Both Jake and Emma were good sailors. At home, her
bedroom wall was covered with pictures of rock bands and
school certificates for things like swimming twenty lengths
of a freezing pool. The pride of her collection, however,
was a simple handwritten certificate mounted in a glass
frame. It was several years old and was starting to fade.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

This is to certify that Emma

served as deck boy aboard the good ship

SHIMMERING

Reg'd number 309091 Reg'd tonnage 3.5

on an epic voyage from Maldon to Pin Mill.

She behaved in a trustworthy and sober

manner and carried out her duties to my

entire satisfaction. She was particularly

skilful at rowing the ship's dinghy.

Signed: The Captain

In the days that followed, Ben discovered that not only

was Emma skilful at rowing the ship's dinghy, but at many
other shipboard tasks too. Climbing a mast, splicing rope,
or chipping rust off the anchor, no task was beyond her,
except one. But more of this later.

7
 The van climbed a hill through the small town of
Danbury and, after a mile or so, the River Blackwater came
into view. The evening was clear and they could see as far
as the entrance of the estuary where several large cargo
ships were anchored. In the centre of this scene lay Osea
Island and a handful of small boats with their sails
reflecting the last rays of the setting sun. Soon, they entered
the town of Maldon and, turning left, crossed the bridge at
the head of the river. Within minutes, they drew up outside
Arthur James’ boatyard and started to unload their bags and
stores.

‘We may have difficulty in getting away tonight as it’s

not a spring tide.’ said Jake standing on the sea wall.
The other two scrambled up to join him and looked down
at the river creeping slowly across the mud flats and
lapping the edge of the boatyard's small jetty. The mention
of a spring tide puzzled Ben, but he was to learn later that
this kind of tide occurred every two weeks with either the
full or the new moon, and brought a lot more water into the
river. Many of the boats in the yard spent much of their
time sitting on the mud and were only afloat for an hour or
two at high tide. Some of the heavier ones could hardly
float at the top of any kind of tide which explained Jake's
concern. Having checked that they had everything for the
voyage, they returned to the van to wave their driver off on
his journey home.
‘Here are the keys to the boat, so don’t drop them in the
mud. And don’t forget to give the bottom a scrub.’

8
 Jake caught the keys but showed little enthusiasm for this
particular task. Then the van's engine burst into life and off
went their father, pausing at a bend in the lane to give a
final wave.

The three stood on the sea wall for several minutes

listening to the sounds of the river. The water gurgled as it
swirled around the sides of boats trapped in the mud whilst.
flicked on by the breeze, halyards and lines slapped noisily
against a dozen masts. Somewhere out in the gathering
darkness, an anchor chain was being hauled aboard a barge,
and a small power-driven launch motored away in the
direction of the shore. Eventually, they picked up their bags
and hurried along the wooden jetty to where the boats were
moored: their footsteps echoing around the deserted
boatyard.

Shimmering was lying in the mud at the far end of the

jetty with her sharp end facing the yard. She was leaning
over at an awkward angle and, from what Ben could
remember, had very little standing room inside. In this
condition, she would be very uncomfortable and he hoped
that the tide would soon be high enough to lift her upright.
Jake scrambled aboard from the jetty and unlocked the
entrance to the cabin. Ben attempted to join him.
‘Use the bowsprit as a gangplank,’ suggested Jake, ‘And
hang on tight to the forestay.’
Eager to get aboard, Ben stepped out onto a long wooden
spar or pole pointing from the bows and grasped at what he
thought to be the forestay - a stout piece of wire leading

9
down from the mast. Instead, his fingers clutched at a loose
line and, within seconds, he had lost his footing and
plunged headlong into the mud. Emma stood laughing on
the jetty whilst Jake rescued the bags with a long boat
hook. A wash from a nearby tap and a change of clothes
put Ben in a better mood.
Jake was most apologetic and presented Ben with a pair
of odd socks, red for his left foot and green for his right.
‘I’ll explain about those later,’ he said.
Emma was still laughing, ‘Now you know why they call
it the Blackwater.’

If Ben had worried about sitting at an angle while waiting

for the tide, he needn't have bothered; there was so much to
do to get the boat ready for sea. The cover on the large sail
had to be removed and a smaller sail attached to the
forestay; he certainly knew where that was after his 'trip'
ashore. A small outboard engine was fitted to help the
yacht get clear of the moorings, and the anchor placed
ready for use in case of an emergency. Then Jake handed
Ben the red, green and white navigation lights to display.
‘The white one goes at the blunt end,’ explained Jake,
‘The other two are sidelights. Use your socks to work out
which side they go on.’
Having so many tasks, they almost forgot to fill the fresh
water tanks from a tap in the yard. Then came a moment of
panic. Emma discovered that the dinghy was missing and
thought it must have come adrift during a recent storm. It
had and was lying on a beach close to the yard, but with no
signs of damage. She explained that the dinghy was a

10
nuisance to tow behind the boat, but would come in handy
for getting ashore at various places in the river.

With all the preparations, no one had noticed that the tide
had crept in and had lifted the boat off the mud. They were
ready to leave. With a final look around to see that nothing
was left behind, they released the mooring lines and
motored away from the jetty. It was just after ten o'clock
when, with the moon rising over the mudflats, Shimmering
pointed her bows downstream and set off on her journey.
‘Do you know,’ said Emma, ‘If we had the time and
enough supplies aboard, we could sail straight out of this
river and go right around the world.’

Ashore, close to the jetty, someone watched their

departure for several minutes. Then he turned away and
disappeared into the shadows of the boatyard.

11
3. The Doctor
One thousand years ago, an army of Danish warriors sailed
up the Blackwater and camped on a marshy island near
Maldon. The island, Northey, is joined to the mainland by a
causeway or path that is covered by the sea at high tide.
Shortly after their arrival, a Saxon leader called Brithnoth
appeared on the opposite shore with an army ready to repel
the invaders. Like football supporters, the two sides jeered
and abused each other: Come and have a go if you think
you’re hard enough! They remained separated, however,
because of the state of the tide. At last, the tide started to
ebb and Brithnoth invited the Danes to cross the causeway
and join him in battle. Being a good sportsman, he waited
until the other army had cleared the watery causeway and
had prepared itself for the contest. Unfortunately, poor
Brithnoth had underestimated the strength of the opposition
and one by one his Saxon warriors were slain. The defeat
was total.

Shimmering glided past Northey and the ghosts of that

long lost battle. At the northern point of the island, Emma
edged the tiller gently and the boat sailed out of Colliers
Reach. The tide was starting to ebb, and with a freshening
breeze on the beam, they were moving along at a good
speed. In the distance, Osea island gradually took shape:
low brown cliffs, clusters of bushes, and tall trees. Emma
explained that, at low tide, most of the channel behind Osea
dried out leaving just a small road from the mainland.

12
 ‘It’s called a causeway,’ added Jake, ‘Occasionally, cars
get stranded on it and are swamped by the flood tide.’ Then
pointing at a dark object in the water, he yelled, ‘Watch that
buoy ahead!’ Within seconds a large red can came racing
past and just missed the bows. ‘Its easy to spot them when
there’s a moon. If not, they just appear from nowhere.’
Presumably the Danish invaders were not too concerned
about unlit buoys on their night trip up the river.

Alert to the risk of a collision, Ben stared anxiously into

the darkness ahead. The moonlight danced across the
surface of the water creating a pattern in which all sorts of
dangers might lurk. There were no further near misses, but
a mile or two further on, another large shape loomed ahead
of them.
‘That's the Doctor.’ explained Emma, ‘It’s a green buoy
close to Osea Island. I’m afraid you'll have to drink a glass
of sea water when you pass it.’
‘Why?’ asked Ben.
‘It’s an old custom.’ came the reply, ‘First-trippers on the
river have to drink to the Doctor's health.’
‘Well you can count me out. I've swallowed enough of
the Blackwater for one night.’
To Ben's relief, the matter was dropped and they began to
discuss the best place to anchor for the night. The first
choice was to lie off the south beach at Osea, but the boat
wouldn’t be comfortable if the wind increased. The
alternative, and the one they chose, was to anchor out of the
wind on the north side of the island.

13
 They continued skirting Osea and picked their way
carefully past several boats that were moored by a pier.
From the shore came the smell of a charcoal fire, possibly
from a barbecue earlier in the evening. There were no other
lights or signs of life on the island, just a large deserted
house which overlooked the pier. Along this southern
shore, the current was quite strong and Ben wondered how
they would cope when they turned to face the tide on the
other side of the island.
Standing in the entrance to the cabin, Jake called, ‘We're
going to gybe in a few moments, so keep your head down.’
‘What's a gybe?’ asked Ben but Emma's reply was not too
encouraging,
‘Just stay where you are right now, we don't want to have
to fish you out of the river again.’

The next few seconds were quite eventful. Jake yelled

something nautical as the back of the boat swung through
the wind. Suddenly, the boom, a long wooden spar at the
foot of the mainsail, swung over with a violent crack as the
other side of the sail filled with wind. This, Ben guessed,
was the 'gybe' that Jake had announced. One minute they
had been gliding silently and gracefully past the edge of the
island; the next they were heeled over at a steep angle and
forcing their way across the river in a wind that was
screeching through the rigging. At the bows, the jib sail
flapped angrily and Emma moved quickly to settle it. Ben
just kept out of the way with his head well clear of the
boom; the odd socks would be of little help here.

14
 Despite the tide, the little yacht made good speed past the
eastern tip of the island. With only a few lights on the
northern shore of the river to guide him, Jake steered the
boat carefully towards an anchorage. The small yacht
turned to face the wind and the anchor splashed down to
the riverbed. The sails flapped and shivered until they were
lowered and made secure. Jake put up a light to show they
were at anchor and Emma went around tying up anything
that was loose and rattling in the wind. Having checked that
the boat was holding steady against the tide, they blew out
the remaining lights and went below. After a drink and a
sandwich, the three companions were ready for sleep.
Emma took the small cabin in the bows; Jake and Ben took
the bunks in the main cabin close to the hatchway.
Crawling into their sleeping bags, they exchanged a few
thoughts and plans for the morning.
‘We'll go fishing in Goldhanger creek.’
‘Sunbathing on Osea.’
‘Sheltering from the rain on Shimmering.’

The boat rocked gently at her anchor and in no time at all

they were fast asleep.

15
4. A mishap
The crew of Shimmering awoke to a beautiful sunny day. A
light mist was lifting and the river was as calm as a
millpond. Looking out of the hatchway, Ben saw a small
blue yacht moored closer to the island; there was no sign of
anyone aboard. Emma was dressed and cooking breakfast
in the small galley between their two cabins. Ben looked
around at his new surroundings and thought he was in
paradise! Within a few minutes, however, the cabin was
filled with black smoke from burnt toast. With a groan,
Jake leapt out of his bunk and snatched the grill pan from
the cooker.
‘Well, I can't think of everything,’ protested Emma ‘I'm
trying to put out cereal, make the tea, and then this rotten
water pump leaks everywhere. It's your turn tomorrow, let's
see how you cope.’
Not wishing to appear ungrateful, Ben assured her that he
liked his toast well done.
‘You won't say that when you've tasted her porridge,’
said Jake beating a hasty retreat up to the deck closely
followed by a well-aimed dishcloth.

After breakfast, they decided to go fishing behind Osea

Island. Jake suggested that they might explore some old
oyster beds on the Stumble. The name made Ben shudder;
it reminded him of his fall into the mud. Emma went
forward to weigh the anchor and Jake started to raise the
mainsail and then something unexpected happened. The top

16
of Shimmering’s mainsail was attached to a long wooden
pole and hauling up this pole or ‘gaff’ raised the sail. As
the sail was being raised, the mast gave a shudder and the
top of the gaff crashed down to the deck. Fortunately, it
didn't do any damage, but a close inspection revealed the
cause to be a rusted and snapped bolt at the masthead. This
bolt supported the sails that now lay strewn across the deck.
Ben looked at them and thought that their sailing trip was
over, but Jake was very cool about it. ‘No problem. The
mast will have to come down so we can replace the
eyebolt.’

They made a thorough search of the lockers around the

boat, but there was nothing the shape or size of the original
bolt. Emma suggested that one of them went ashore to get a
replacement while the other two lowered the mast. Not
wanting to be in the way, Ben offered to go back to the
boatyard and leave the other two to clear away the rigging.
This was agreed and, with the help of its small outboard
motor, Shimmering motored gently in the direction of the
northern shore. They anchored close to Decoy Point and,
clutching the broken bolt, Ben climbed down into the
dinghy and rowed away to the beach.
‘Try to get the exact size as we don't have a wood drill
aboard,’ yelled Jake.

A few minutes later, the dinghy ran aground on the

shingle and Ben stepped ashore. As he walked along the
coastal path in the direction of the boatyard, he looked back
and saw Jake and Emma busy freeing the tangled rigging

17
ready for lowering the mast. Though it had been a
disappointing start to the day, their confidence and
enthusiasm at tackling the awkward job ahead cheered him
up considerably.

18
5. A bag of bolts
Mr Arthur James sat on the steps of the office enjoying the
morning sun and a large mug of tea. In front of him lay his
kingdom - a dozen or so cruising yachts berthed against a
jetty, several motor launches, a couple of disused fishing
boats, and a small barge hauled up on the slipway for
repairs. Behind him were the chandlery and workshops;
guarded, or so it seemed, by a tall crane from which hung
an enormous steel hook. Above his head, a metal sign
swung lazily in the breeze: Arthur James. Boat Builder and
Chandler.

A chunky bald man with a drooping moustache wandered

around the yard looking at boats that were stored ashore.
‘Any of these for sale, Arthur?’ he asked.
‘They're all for sale,’ replied Arthur, and pointing with
his pipe towards the river added, ‘You show me a boat out
there that isn't for sale. They're all for sale if the time and
the price are right.’
Ben puzzled over this remark for a few seconds and then
approached Arthur with the two halves of the bolt. ‘This is
from our masthead,’ he explained, ‘Have you got one the
exact size?’
Arthur clung to his pipe with yellow teeth and, after
studying the broken bolt, smiled sympathetically. ‘I bet you
moved like greased lightning when that snapped.’ He took
the two pieces and disappeared into the chandlery,
returning a few minutes later shaking his head. ‘We've got

19
plenty of bolts in stock, but nothing quite like this. Take a
look in the storeroom at the back of the office.’

Ben wandered around the building and saw a concrete

store with a steel door. Sliding the bolt, he pulled the heavy
door open and peered inside. The light switch didn’t work,
but there was enough daylight from the doorway for him to
inspect the shelves and lockers inside. He could see sacks
of waste, empty paint drums and other things waiting to be
taken to the dump, but no bolts. Seeing him return empty-
handed, Arthur suggested that he looked around the
boatyard.
‘There are loads of unused bolts on some of the older
boats stored here. I'm sure you'll find one that fits.’

For the next fifteen or twenty minutes Ben explored the

cabins and lockers of several sailing boats, most of which
had seen better days. Some of the boats still had souvenirs
of earlier voyages: faded tide tables, worn charts or dog-
eared pilot books. Most contained brass oil lamps, clocks
and barometers that were rusting and forgotten; the same
kind of equipment that was on display in the chandlery
window and costing a small fortune. It was clear that
without care or attention nothing lasted very long aboard a
small boat. Curtains became stained with mildew, paint or
varnish peeled away, and rain leaked through the deck
planking. He particularly enjoyed reading the names of the
boats and wondered why the owners had chosen them.
Could the owner of Pitcairn possibly be descended from
the Bounty mutineers? What kind of a reception would a

20
visitor to Knot Yours have received? One boat was even
named Osmosis - a rotting condition dreaded by the owners
of plastic boats. The owner must have had an odd sense of
humour, as it would be quite difficult to sell a boat with
that name.

‘No luck yet?’ Arthur crossed the yard carrying several

tins of paint; Ben shook his head.
‘Then try the fishing boats by the beach. I think there's a
bag of bolts somewhere on one of them.’
Two fishing boats, Ariel and Paradox, lay high and dry
on the muddy beach just beyond the slipway and close to
the coastal path. Beyond them lay the burnt out shell of a
third boat. Their decks were still cluttered with all kinds of
gear: ropes, nets, boards, and buoys. Proud old workboats
huddled together on the shore; still ready for work but
abandoned because they could no longer earn a living.

The first boat Ben searched had several rusty bolts but
nothing worth carrying back to Shimmering. The second
boat, with its long green hull and large wheelhouse, looked
more promising. Inside the wheelhouse, a flight of stairs
led to a gloomy hold in which strong smells of tar and fish
still lingered. The hold was crammed with all kinds of gear:
large canvas covers or tarpaulins, coils of rope, and racks of
shackles. Encouraged, Ben lit a lamp from the cabin and,
taking a deep breath of fresh air, commenced his search.
After ten minutes he had enough; the hold was hot and
stuffy and he had nothing to show for his efforts. Then
something odd happened. Whilst he was rummaging

21
around the hold, he heard someone climb aboard; it was the
man with the walrus moustache who had been wandering
around the yard.

The man descended the steps leading to the hold. Ben

watched him carefully as he walked around inspecting the
inside of the hold. Then, taking a screwdriver from his
pocket, he started to unscrew a metal plate containing some
numbers from a wooden beam. All this time, Ben kept out
of sight behind a large wooden pillar; it was the lower part
of the mast. The man, who was having difficulty removing
the screws, cursed loudly and began to wrench the plate off
using the screwdriver. Then, moving to get a better view,
Ben tripped over something lying at his feet. Disturbed by
the noise, the man came over to investigate and saw him in
the shadows.
‘What the hell are you doing down here?’ he demanded
angrily.
Ben felt like asking him the same question, but before he
could reply, the walrus pocketed his screwdriver and
hurried out of the hold. When he had gone, Ben saw that he
had tripped over a canvas bag containing several steel bolts.
Out in the daylight, he soon found one the right size and
dropped the bag back into the hold. Arthur refused any
payment and Ben returned with his prize along the path in
the direction of Decoy Point. He passed the walrus sitting
on the sea wall but gave him a wide berth. Shimmering lay
quietly at anchor facing down the estuary; her mast was
lowered and his two companions were sunbathing on the
deck. He rowed out to join them.

22
6. Smoke rising
Although Shimmering’s mast was quite short, when
lowered to the deck, it hung over the stern by a metre. Tan
coloured sails, ropes and lines filled every inch of space
and restricted movement around the decks. Balancing in
the dinghy, Jake edged himself around the stern and
carefully inserted the eyebolt into the head of the mast.
Emma watched with some apprehension; one false move
and the bolt with which Ben had proudly returned would
have been swallowed by the mud several feet below. If they
had tied a line to the bolt, they could have dropped it
several times without worrying. There were no further
mishaps and, after tidying up the rigging, they were ready
to raise the mast. Jake and Ben pushed it upright and Emma
connected the forestay to the bows. A few more
adjustments and they were ready to sail again.

As they rested for a few minutes in the cockpit, Ben

gazed up at the mast and realised that he had learnt a lot
about boats and their rigging in a short time. To a casual
onlooker, the lines and halyards that surround masts were
usually a bit of a mystery, but he now realised that
everything served a purpose. He was also impressed by the
strength and quality of the materials used in the various
fittings - even on a small sailing boat. On a later voyage,
when they caught in a gale whilst crossing the Thames
Estuary, he was to appreciate the boat's ability to withstand
the awesome power of strong winds and heavy seas as they

23
fought to keep her from the clutches of the Maplin Sands.
But as they sat peacefully in the sun that morning, there
were no thoughts of storms or gales. There was nothing but
a gentle lapping of the water along the white-painted hull
and the occasional splashing of fish breaking the surface.

He started to tell the other two about his trip ashore: the
helpful Arthur, the forlorn and abandoned boats, and, of
course, the strange man in the hold. Jake thought that he
might have been a souvenir hunter. Ben pointed out that he
had enquired about boats for sale and spoke to Arthur by
name.
‘He definitely sounds like a souvenir hunter to me,’
agreed Emma, ‘After all, Arthur's name is on the yard's
board and your mystery man probably used it to sound
friendly as he hunted around for something to pinch.’
Ben remembered that the man hadn't looked particularly
suspicious as he wandered around the yard, and decided
that Emma's hunch was probably correct. But why had be
been so unpleasant and abandoned his task so suddenly?
‘While you were gone,’ said Jake, ‘We found a small
mystery of our own.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Emma, handing Ben the binoculars, ‘Take a
look at the far end of Osea Island - close to that small blue
yacht.’
Ben looked in the direction she was pointing. He could
see only the sea wall above the beach and some dead elm
trees.
‘What am I to look for?’

24
 ‘Look to the right of the blue yacht - just above that old
jetty.’
‘There's some smoke rising, but what's so strange about
that?’
‘Well it's unusual,’ replied Jake, ‘Osea island is up for
sale and is completely deserted. Even when people land on
it from boats, they avoid that part of the shore because its
very wild and muddy.'
‘At first,’ added Emma, ‘We thought there might be a fire
in the field behind the dyke, but it would be raging by now.
The smoke's been rising from that same spot for over an
hour.’

Ben suggested that they sailed over to have a closer look.

The tide was ebbing quickly, and they would soon be high
and dry on the mud or stranded on the causeway leading to
the island. So, for the second time that day, they set off
across the Stumble and were soon approaching the small
yacht lying at anchor. Smoke was still rising from behind
the dyke, but there was no sign of anyone around. They
sailed towards a disused jetty, but as the tide was falling,
they thought they might not get close enough to land and
turned back. They continued sailing around the eastern tip
of the island and turned into the main river where they
faced the oncoming ebb stream. Ben remembered the
dramatic ‘gybe’ from the night before, but this time the
boat turned quite gracefully and edged her way slowly
upriver towards a shingle beach.

25
7. Flotsam or Jetsam?
'Let go!' The anchor splashed into the water and the chain
snaked after it. Having lowered the sails, Jake went below
to fix some lunch whilst the other two stayed on deck to
check that the tide didn't drag the boat away from its
anchorage. Emma showed Ben that by lining up several
objects on the shore, they were able to check that the yacht
held her ground at anchor. This part of the beach had firm
sand and shingle on which the boat’s two keels could rest,
and when the tide dropped, they could start to scrub the
sides of the hull. This was a new experience for Ben and he
quite looked forward to it. Unfortunately, he hadn't
bargained for the amount of work involved.

Within twenty minutes or so, the boat stopped rocking

and started to settle on the beach. She thumped around
several times and pots and pans rattled inside the cabin.
Then, she gradually settled as her weight took over and felt
rather heavy and solid. Water slopped around noisily
between the two keels and this was the signal that Jake had
been waiting for. With a groan, he grabbed a couple of deck
scrubbers, passed one to Ben, and slipped over the side.
Standing in about a metre of water, he started to scrub one
side of the boat vigorously. Below the waterline, barnacles
and weeds had formed on the hull and needed removing.
They had to work quickly as the tide was falling rapidly.
The worst part was directly underneath the hull. There was

26
very little room to work and they were soon covered in
loose barnacles and mud.
‘I hate this job!’ exclaimed Jake.
Ben couldn't have agreed more. The task left them both
wet and hungry. Any thoughts of exploring the island were
forgotten while they had a meal and a long rest in the sun.
Black and white birds with orange bills and long pink legs
swooped across the beach with penetrating piping calls.
These probed around the sand and mud looking for worms
and crabs, or chased the receding waves to snatch up any
creatures left behind on the shore.
‘They're oystercatchers,’ explained Emma.
‘I wondered when the biology lecture would start,’
groaned Jake who seemed more interested in flicking
pebbles in their direction. ‘What do you think of her now?’
he asked, nodding towards the stranded boat.
Ben looked at Shimmering standing upright on her two
keels and said he thought she reminded him of a duck about
to lay an egg. Emma looked at them scornfully.
‘I would have said a gannet, but perhaps that's because
I've just been watching you guys eat.’

Later that afternoon, they set off down the beach and
climbed up the sea wall that circled the island. Ben spotted
something round and white hidden in a cluster of salt marsh
plants. It turned out to be a football that had probably been
washed ashore from a passing yacht.
‘Lets have a kick around later,’ suggested Jake so they
hid it in the bushes ready for their return.

27
 They wandered along inspecting the high water mark for
further treasure, but found nothing more exciting than a
length of mooring line and a broken oar.
‘What's the difference between flotsam and jetsam?’
asked Emma.
The two boys looked at each other and shrugged their
shoulders.
‘Go on,’ said Jake ‘You’re dying to tell us.’
‘Well, flotsam is wreckage but jetsam is something that's
been deliberately thrown overboard.’
They trudged along and couldn't decide whether the
football was flotsam or jetsam, or neither. Then, skirting
the edge of an embankment, they scrambled up through
brambles on to a footpath to get a better view of the island.
To the left of the path, a large field extended to the middle
of the island and was bordered by trees and a few buildings.
To the right, the sea had withdrawn leaving dozens of small
islands threaded by creeks. Ahead, however, there was no
sign of the smoke they had seen earlier.
‘Never mind,’ said Emma, ‘Lets go and have a look at
that old jetty we saw earlier. Perhaps we can reach it from
the beach?’

They continued along the edge of the embankment until

the path turned along the northern shore of the island. In the
mud to the right lay the remains of several old boats and,
just beyond them, the old jetty. The two boys ran down
from the path across the mudflats to explore it. They had
just reached it when they heard a cry from the embankment

28
behind them. Emma was waving at them and pointing
down behind the embankment.
‘Come and have a look at this!’

Retracing their steps, they scrambled up to join her. There

in the long grass, completely hidden from the beach, was a
small hut. It was an old wooden hide from which visitors to
the island could study sea birds on the shore. A canvas
tarpaulin had been stretched across the roof and was held in
place by several large stones. It completely covered the
entrance to the hide. Lifting the tarpaulin, they peered
inside.

The hide on Osea today

29
8. The beachcomber
Today, a visitor to the island will still find the wooden hide
tucked into the embankment on the northern shore
overlooking the Stumble. The wooden structure is decaying
and the roof has long since collapsed. Gorse bushes conceal
it from the footpath and wild roses cling to the rotten
timbers. There are certainly no clues left to show that
anyone would have used it as a shelter or refuge. When the
three companions lifted up the tarpaulin, however, there
were plenty: a bedroll, several books, a small supply of
food, and some clothing. Behind the hide, the remains of a
small fire were still smouldering, and two pairs of woollen
socks were draped over a nearby bush and drying in the
sun. Of the occupant there was no trace.
‘Who could be living here?’
‘A very tidy hermit?’
‘Or an escaped convict who likes reading.’

They stood around the shelter wondering who the owner

of these belongings might be. Ben stepped inside and
peered out through the gap overlooking the top of the
embankment. Even through the long grass outside, the view
of the mudflats and the river was excellent. Someone could
have seen them sail up to the disused jetty, listened to their
conversation, and watched their retreat. It was the perfect
hiding place. Then he spotted a man walking along the
beach in their direction. He told the others and they quickly
replaced the tarpaulin.

30
 ‘If we keep walking along the footpath behind the
embankment, he won't see us,’ suggested Emma, and they
set off along the path. A short distance from the hide, they
were suddenly confronted by their hermit, or escaped
convict, who had taken a short cut over the embankment.
He had grey hair and a short beard, and he walked with a
limp. His face was well tanned and he had remarkably blue
eyes. On his head was a small cloth cap and he was dressed
in a blue fisherman's smock and sea boots. In his hand he
carried an enormous colourful and furled umbrella; similar
to those used by golfers. They couldn’t imagine why
anyone would need to carry an umbrella on such a nice day,
but guessed it was something to do with his limp as he held
it like a walking stick. Their first reaction was to greet him
pleasantly and continue down the path. To their surprise,
however, he stood barring their escape and raised his hand
in a salute.
‘Welcome to my summer residence!’ he announced.
Startled by this greeting, no one knew what to say, but
Jake was the first to recover.
‘Is that your camp back there in the bushes?’ he asked.
‘It certainly is,’ the man replied, ‘Would you like to see
it?’
They didn't want to admit to having recently invaded his
home so they just nodded.
‘Come along then, it's my secret hideaway. I discovered it
years ago. In fact, I was quite surprised to see you on the
path as no one ever comes to this part of the island.’

31
 Though no longer young, he was very agile and
clambered up the grassy slope with ease. ‘That's my boat
out there in the channel.’ He pointed with the umbrella to
the small blue yacht that they had seen several times during
the day.
‘You don't live here, then?’ asked Emma.
'Goodness me, no. I come to the island each year for a
week or two, just to look around and do some fishing. You
can get very cooped up in a small boat, so I spread myself
around a little and do some beachcombing. I like to think of
this place as my summer retreat. How about a nice mug of
tea?’

The three sat down outside the hide and watched him
kindle a small fire inside a square of bricks. From inside the
hide, he produced some tin mugs and a tea caddy.
‘How do you manage for stores?' asked Ben.
‘Well, sometimes I catch a few fish, though they're hard
to find in this part of the river: the catches are better off
Bradwell. I usually sail down to the shop at Stone, or else I
walk across the causeway at low tide and stroll up to
Heybridge. In fact, I’ve just come back across the causeway
and was overtaken by a car. Not many drivers risk using the
causeway; it must be someone thinking of buying the
island. I hope they leave before the tide rises! Anyway,
what brings you to this part of the world?’
Jake explained that they were sailing around the river for
a few days, and that they had spotted smoke rising from the
fire and came to investigate.

32
 ‘Then you’re the crew of the small cutter that came up the
creek this morning. Were you trying to moor at the old jetty
out there? I was about to warn you of some sharp iron
spikes that are hidden in the mud, but, fortunately, you
turned away just in time.’
The three exchanged uncomfortable glances as they
thought of Shimmering impaled on those rusty spikes.
‘You have to know these creeks quite well, especially at
high water. It's much easier at low water because you can
see the banks and shallows, and any obstructions on the
river bed.’

He then described a trip he had made up a narrow creek

near Tollesbury, where 18th century smugglers used to hide
barrels of brandy. It had been so easy to work around the
bends and shallows on the rising tide, but returning down
the creek at high tide, he had slammed into something that
holed the boat, and it wasn’t a barrel of brandy! Whatever
the cause, it left him stranded a long way from any help.
They chatted on about similar matters and, gradually, the
conversation came round to the different sailing boats that
could be seen on the river. With Ben's limited knowledge
of sailing, much of this talk concerning yawls, ketches,
spritsail barges, and so on, was beyond him. He agreed,
however, that the traditional boats were a lot more
interesting to look at than many modern yachts.
‘The boats nowadays are so dull. Some look like two
bathtubs glued together; others are more like space capsules
with masts.' complained their host and pointed with his pipe
in the direction of the blue yacht anchored off the beach.

33
‘Mine’s no better. Its easy to manage, and sails closer to the
wind, but there is something missing.’
‘Then you'd like our boat Shimmering,’ suggested Emma.
‘Oh yes, she is pretty. I had a boat just like her once but
much larger. Some said she was ugly but I thought she was
beautiful. In fact, I went halfway around the world in her.
What an adventure we had…’ he paused, ‘Until the day I
lost her and I never found another one quite like her.’
‘You lost her?’ queried Emma. ‘Do you mean she was
stolen or wrecked?’
‘No, she wasn't lost at sea in a storm or anything like that,
but I did lose her. It's a long story, and a long time ago; I
wouldn't want to bore you with it.’
‘You must tell us,’ said Jake, ‘We've plenty of time, at
least until the tide rises, and I can't imagine how anyone
could lose a boat especially a large one.’

The man knocked his pipe against one of the firebricks

and started to refill the bowl. He leaned back against the
wall of the hide and looked out across the estuary. For a
few moments he appeared to be deep in thought, then
lighting his pipe, he turned to where they were sitting.
‘Well, as I said, it was many years ago, but I can
remember it all as if it were yesterday.’

34
9. The dream
When I was much younger, I was falsely accused of a
crime that I hadn’t committed. I ended up in court and the
judge - they were really harsh in those days – dismissed my
pleas of innocence and sent me to prison. Being stuck in a
cell for hours on end gave me plenty of time to think about
the future. I was angry at losing my freedom, but I knew I
was innocent and I was determined to use the time
profitably. Each day, I would visit the prison library to read
about sailing ships and the sea. In the evenings, my
cellmates and I would talk about our lives back home and
make plans for when we were released. My dream,
however, was not about a new job or a girl friend, but of a
ship; one that was tall and sturdy enough to take me half
way around the world to the islands of the South Pacific.
To explore these islands was something I had dreamed
about ever since I was a boy. Once, it had distracted me
from my schoolwork; in prison it distracted me from hours
of boredom. I spent every spare minute I could drawing up
plans for a voyage. Eventually, the real culprit was caught;
he confessed to the crime and I was released. With the help
of a small amount of compensation for wrongful
imprisonment, I made my way to the coast and started my
search for a boat.

I found her on the East Coast, a pilot cutter about forty

feet long and built in Norway around 1930. During the war,
she had been used as a fishing boat in the North Sea and

35
had dragged up a mine in her nets. While the crew
struggled to release it, an enemy patrol boat appeared out of
the mist and fired on them. The skipper and crew took
cover on deck, but, after the attack, they went below to find
that the skipper’s wife had been shot by a bullet that had
ricocheted through one of the skylights. They placed her in
a bunk and set sail urgently for the English coast. That
night, however, she mysteriously disappeared from the
cabin and was never seen again. In fact, that is not exactly
true because, on later voyages, some members of the crew
claimed to have seen her crossing the deck at night or
standing in the shadows of the wheelhouse. Anyway, the
catches got smaller and smaller and eventually the boat was
abandoned. Having been neglected for some time and
needing quite a lot of work, she was put up for sale at a
bargain price and I bought her. My sister Kate, and an old
friend Simon, volunteered to join me as crew and we spent
several months raising money for our trip, and making
repairs. Finding the money was our main problem, so while
the other two found temporary jobs, I took her back to sea
as a fishing boat to catch anything that would fetch a good
price in the local markets.

My first day at sea as a fisherman was a complete

disaster! Not only did I fail to catch any fish, but also
whilst returning to port, the mast started groaning and then
collapsed with a crash the full length of the ship. Nearly a
month was to pass before I got back to sea again, but this
time I made sure that the new mast was built of the best
timber and extended well below the main deck. For two

36
weeks I caught nothing but mud, shells or weeds, but
gradually my luck changed and we started to haul in tons of
fish. With the ship paying for herself, and some money
saved, the three of us began making plans for our voyage.

First, we had to convert the ship from a scruffy fishing

smack to an elegant cruising yacht. While we were fitting
her out, all kinds of things kept disappearing. It was a
mystery and very frustrating, so Kate suggested we called
the boat Ghost Ship. We were keen to learn about the noble
art and science of navigation, but that had to wait until the
wooden bottom had been sheathed in copper as a protection
against attack from tropical water worms. Several tons of
rusty pig iron had to be transferred to the bilges for ballast
to stop the ship from capsizing in heavy weather. Old
varnish needed scraping away and repainting. Huge fresh
water tanks were fitted and filled; provisions were bought
and stored. I never fail to be amazed at the number of
useless things that people can be persuaded to buy for their
boats. Sometimes, we were just as foolish.

The tasks seemed endless, but learning to navigate was a

real challenge. How our heads spun with mathematical
formulas and calculations. Fortunately, we found a retired
and very patient ship's captain who helped us to unlock the
secrets of how not to get lost at sea. The kitchen table of his
small cottage became the setting for many nautical
emergencies or potential disasters. Spoons became storm
tossed yachts; salt and pepper pots became jagged rocks.
'How would you cope with that then?' he would cry, and we

37
would stare at the table in confusion. Gales, shipwrecks and
collisions occurred daily in that kitchen, and we soon
learned that successful navigation relied not only on maths
and tables but on good seamanship too. As we became
more confident at handling these problems, our pleasure at
studying charts of the voyage increased. The evenings
passed in long and enjoyable discussions on the routes we
might take and the ports we might visit. Our pencil-lined
track touched Madeira and the Canary Islands, crossed the
Atlantic Ocean and Caribbean, passed through the Panama
Canal, and came to rest amidst the islands of the Pacific. It
was going to be a long journey, but we had the right ship
and the right crew. At least, we thought we had.

At long last, the day arrived when we were ready to start

our voyage. With heads held high, we rowed out to our
ghost ship and hoisted sail. Several friends and a number of
local fishermen had come to watch our departure from the
town quay; they were in for an entertaining half hour. With
an ebb tide running, we dropped down the river and, to the
amusement of several bait diggers, ran aground on a mud
bank. Once free of its clutches, we got under way on the
wrong tack and sailed, with great accuracy, into an
anchored fishing smack and damaged our bowsprit. I
offered apologies mixed with excuses to the skipper while
he helped us free the tangle of lines.
‘The current is quite tricky along here and the wind is so
changeable,’ I explained meekly.
‘I've been wondering if your lack of success is related in
any way to a lack of skill?’ he commented dryly.

38
 For the next twenty minutes, while I struggled to start the
engine, our good ship continued to bump into other boats at
their moorings to the ever-increasing jeers and cheers of the
assembled audience. Our chances of reaching the main
river, let alone the South Seas, seemed very slim. But we
eventually entered Colliers Reach and headed down river.
Our friend, the ship's captain, was in a rowing boat just off
the same beach that we are sitting on here.
‘Turn right when you get to Bradwell,’ he shouted, ‘And
you might reach the English Channel. After that, you've
only got twelve thousand miles to go!’
‘Come along with us!’ we shouted.
‘No fear,’ was his reply, ‘I'd rather be here wishing I was
out there than out there wishing I was here.’ And off he
rowed laughing.

39
10. Madeira
The journey down the Channel was uneventful but the Bay
of Biscay lived up to its awesome reputation. We were
swept across its wild seas during the middle of a gale. The
ship lurched on her beam-ends and we were all extremely
seasick. Things came adrift from every part of the boat and
littered the decks. A large drum of porridge oats toppled
over and burst open in the main cabin where it mixed with
water seeping from one of the tanks. It took hours to clear
up the sticky mess and taught us all a harsh lesson in
making things secure before a change in the weather. We
also had another mishap when the rest of the bowsprit
snapped off during a sudden squall. But one evening, lights
from the coast of Madeira loomed over the horizon and we
headed for Funchal, our first foreign port of call. As we
were anchoring in the harbour, dozens of fireworks and star
shells burst over our heads, but this was no special
welcome for our benefit; we had arrived at the start of the
annual fiesta.

For the next few days, we enjoyed the fun and festivities
going on around us and took many trips ashore. We dived
into the harbour from the newly repaired bowsprit and
watched people dancing in the streets. If visitors turned up,
Simon played the mouth organ accompanied by my sister
on the banjo. It was the only entertainment we could offer
and if our visitors were less than impressed, they certainly

40
didn't show it. With the repairs completed, we said farewell
to that pleasant port and set off for the Canary Islands.

At sea, our watches were arranged so that we each spent

four hours on lookout and steering, then eight hours resting.
We each hated being roused from sleep to take a turn at the
tiller and reacted in different ways to our human alarm
clock. Indeed, at one stage, we used a real alarm clock, but
this woke everyone up and ended up being hurled over the
side. You certainly learn a lot about yourself and others on
a small ship with a crew of three. Fortunately, thanks to fair
winds, there was rarely any need for more then one of us on
deck during the watch. We also took turns at cooking and
Simon was the worst cook, but he never gave up trying.
Several times, he set fire to the galley and sent us all in a
panic for buckets of water! If the ghost ship is still in one
piece, I am sure that she carries the scars of her battles with
Simon to this very day.

Having left Madeira, we were feeling pretty pleased with

our navigation skills. But pride goes before a fall! A
careless error in our calculations brought us as close to
disaster as we ever came during the voyage. At one o'clock
on a pitch black night, while we were cruising along at
seven knots, a rock suddenly appeared in the sea just a
hundred or so yards to starboard. We gazed at it in horror
and then hurried below to consult our chart. It was the most
western point of a group of uninhabited islands that we had
planned to miss by at least twenty miles. After that, we
double-checked every calculation.

41
 A few days later, we anxiously scanned the horizon for
any sign of the Canary Islands, but the hours passed and
they failed to appear. Our main fear was that we might have
missed the islands completely and were heading for a part
of the African coast known to be frequented by Riff pirates.
These villains operated from all kinds of craft in the region
of Cape Bojador and would often attack becalmed sailing
ships. Our anxiety increased that evening when a large
fishing boat appeared against the setting sun and gradually
bore down upon us. The crew, a most unsavoury looking
bunch, beckoned us to draw near. Perhaps they were
entirely innocent fishermen and they may have needed
medical assistance, but we couldn't be too sure and were
reluctant to take any chances. There were no distress
signals flying from the yards and they persisted in waving
and jeering at us. Simon altered course to put the ghost ship
running across the wind; this increased our speed but the
fishing boat continued to gain on us. If attacked, we had no
means of protecting ourselves apart from a small hand
pistol that I had brought up from the cabin at the first sign
of danger. Then, to my astonishment, Kate grabbed a large
oar from the dinghy and walked forward to the bows. She
raised the blade to her shoulder and pointed the oar in the
direction of our pursuers. 'Fire the pistol' she hissed and, as
I did so, she rocked backwards as if her 'gun' had recoiled
from the blast!

Were they pirates? We never discovered, for the fishing

boat dropped slowly astern just as a dense fog started to roll

42
towards us. Despite the danger, we sailed headlong into its
silent embrace and continued at full speed. At dawn, the
mist cleared and towering above the clouds like the
Pyramids were the mountains of Gran Canaria. Gaping
crowds welcomed us to Las Palmas and a fleet of floating
shops or bumboats headed our way. Their owners jostled
for our attention and were a persistent nuisance as they
scrambled aboard and cluttered our decks with all kinds of
unwanted goods: dolls, clocks, carpets and so on.
Fortunately, shortly after our arrival, two large passenger
liners entered the harbour to refuel and the gang of hawkers
set off in pursuit of richer pickings.

I can't say that we enjoyed our stay in the Canary Islands

very much. It was always hot and dusty, and the port was a
hive of activity with ships coming and going all hours of
the day and night. But I remember two things that still
make me smile. Shortly after our arrival, we hired a local
cook; food drenched in olive oil seemed preferable to
Simon's disasters. One evening, to our delight, the man
promised and delivered Yorkshire pudding from our steam-
filled galley. This was not a pile of fussy little cakes, but
the real thing, a large pudding to satisfy the hungriest
coalminer in South Yorkshire.
‘And now for the sauce,’ he announced proudly and
ladled a large quantity of thick yellow sludge over his
magnificent creation. ‘Bravo!’ he cried, ‘Yorkshire pudding
and custard!’

43
 A couple of days later, Simon was lying in his bunk for
an afternoon siesta. It was a very warm day and the
skylights were wide open to catch any small breeze from
the harbour. He had just dozed off when he felt something
brush lightly against his nose. It was a long bamboo pole
with a coat hanger tied at one end and it had mysteriously
entered the cabin through one of the skylights. For several
moments, he watched this device with much curiosity as it
swept vaguely around the cabin knocking books of the
table and prodding into shelves. Then, to his dismay, it
hooked itself into the handle of his favourite mug, a present
from the sea captain in Maldon, and started to retreat
through the skylight. Jumping up in anguish from his bunk,
Simon seized the bamboo pole and gave it a short tug.
From the quayside above, he heard a cry and then a splash
as the 'fisherman' tumbled into the water between the dock
and the ship.

44
11. Through the Panama Canal
Now our great adventure had really begun. Three thousand
miles of Atlantic Ocean stretched before us all the way to
the Caribbean. As the ghost ship glided along with the trade
winds, our main problem was in coping with boredom. I
found that the best way of tackling this was to have a
routine and to make every small job last: splicing ropes,
filling and trimming lamps. washing down the decks, or
just cleaning the pans and dishes. At night, our worst
enemy was the desire to sleep whilst on watch. The four-
hour watches we had set ourselves were far too long, but
there was no other solution. It was so easy for the
helmsman to become hypnotised by the sound of water
swirling and hissing past the hull and let heavy eyelids
surrender to the joy of sleep. The others recited poetry or
sang to keep themselves awake: my solution, a rather
painful one, was to keep a spike handy and prod myself
with it. Do you know, on a few nights, I thought I saw
someone sitting in the bows just as if they were keeping a
lookout as well? Occasionally I even heard them singing.
The others also experienced this, but I can only imagine it
was the moonlight on the sails or the wind in the shrouds.

We were often becalmed, but didn’t bother to use the

engine. What is the point of motoring for four hundred
miles in a stretch of three thousand? Also, we had no radio
to entertain us; to break the monotony, we would have an
occasional sing-along. The banjo was pleasant enough but

45
Simon's mouth organ could set my teeth on edge. He
always kept it above his bunk in a small wooden pocket
that was a perfect fit. Oh, how I was tempted to sling this
fearsome instrument over the side in pursuit of the alarm
clock. He was so much better at card tricks.

After sailing for a month, we worked out that we were

approaching the island of Curacao. Once again, our lack of
navigation skills meant that we spent many hours scanning
an empty horizon. In desperation, we decided to head south
knowing that if we missed Curacao we couldn't fail to miss
South America. Indeed, we were heading towards
Venezuela and polishing up our Spanish when land
appeared on the horizon and it was Curacao. All I can
remember of our stay there was lying at anchor in the
shadow of an old fort used by Henry Morgan, the Welsh
pirate, and swimming in the clear blue waters of the bay.
While we were there, however, we took the opportunity to
have our chronometer or clock checked as we were sure
that this was the cause of our poor navigation. You see,
latitude, your position north or south of the equator, is
fairly easy to measure using the height of the sun at noon.
Finding longitude, your position east or west of Greenwich,
requires an accurate time check. It’s calculated from the
time the sun takes to reach you from when it passed over
Greenwich. Well, that’s the general idea.

From Curacao, we continued towards Panama and, swept

along by huge following seas, covered six hundred miles in
four days. At this time our lives seemed full of small

46
mishaps. Simon cut his leg when he tripped over a skylight,
Kate developed toothache, and I fell overboard! I had gone
for’d one night to check the repair to the bowsprit as it
seemed to be lifting more than usual under the pressure of
the jib sail. There's an old seafaring saying 'one hand for
yourself and one hand for the ship', but I ignored it at my
peril. While I was sitting out on the bowsprit with my
hands fully occupied, a freak sea struck the bows and,
before I could grasp anything, had swept me overboard. By
the time I struggled to reach the surface, the ghost ship was
sailing away and the distance between us was increasing
with every second. Then, to my great relief, I felt
something dragging against my shoulder. It was the log; a
line with a rotator that we towed behind the ship and which
turned a clock on the rail to record the distance we had
sailed. I just grabbed it and held on for dear life. The
spinning line burnt the flesh on my palms but I wouldn't let
go for all the pain it caused. There I clung, dragged along in
the wake of the ghost ship, hoping and praying that the line
wouldn't break. Thankfully, the others must have heard my
frantic cries and were soon out on deck. Simon brought the
boat head to wind whilst Kate threw me a lifebelt. After
what seemed an eternity, I was dragged aboard dripping
wet, exhausted and bleeding, but very glad to be alive.

As I sat huddled in blankets and drinking hot cocoa,

Simon asked Kate how she knew that I had fallen into the
sea. Kate said that she didn’t; she had been fast asleep.
Simon, however, insisted that he heard her calling 'Man
overboard!' It was definitely a woman's voice from inside

47
the boat and who else could it have been but Kate?
Thereafter, I insisted that we trailed a large length of rope
behind the ship in case anyone else decided to take an
accidental swim. Despite repairs to the chronometer, we
still doubted its accuracy and blamed it for our failure to
calculate an accurate position. Consequently, we made yet
another uncertain landfall. Late, one afternoon, a mist-
enshrouded and sinister coast appeared on our port bow,
and there was nothing for it but to creep along this coast
until we met a procession of cargo ships and liners making
for the Panama Canal.

Our main concern, at this stage of the journey, was that

we wouldn't have enough money to pay the canal fees. This
would mean retracing our steps and taking the longer, and
more dangerous, route around Cape Horn, or having to
abandon the voyage and return home. Fortunately, the fee
was well within our budget. So began an incredible journey
through seven locks and forty miles of channels and lakes
with the help of a pilot in a smart uniform. This was a
journey that would normally take only seven hours. I say
normally because our's was a little unusual.

The speed at which the locks operated was unbelievable,

and by some miracle, our engine carried us from one
efficient lock to the next until we reached Gatun Lake. It
was here that our engine decided to pack up completely,
and the rain started to bucket down. Our pilot's uniform
was reduced to a wet rag, yet to our delight he suggested
that we used the sails. I think he really enjoyed himself; he

48
threw off his jacket, hauled on the halyards and treated us
to a selection of sea shanties. We tacked across the fresh
water lakes, and scudded before rainsqualls along the
channels. Becalmed, we took afternoon tea, watched
pelicans swooping and diving into the water, and
entertained our pilot to a musical concert. Towards
evening, Simon jumped overboard into the shallows and
tied the ghost ship to a small buoy. Climbing back aboard,
he noticed a log on the nearby shore roll over, flick a long
tail and slide gracefully into the water. For once, he was
totally at a loss for words.

We sailed into Balboa at the far end of the canal with no

more than a few pounds left to our name. Several fund-
raising suggestion were put forward at a cabin conference,
including the possibility of using the ghost ship to catch
fish again. We wondered, however, how the local
fishermen would react to us when we set up stall in the
local market. It seemed as if we would have to search for
any kind of work that might be available. That evening,
without a word to anyone, Simon slipped ashore and with
him went our few remaining pounds. For several awful
moments we thought that he had deserted us, then Kate
noticed that the pack of cards was missing too. We spent
several anxious hours wondering whether we would see
him or our money again. In the early hours of the morning,
a cheerful face appeared in the hatchway. He had risked the
money on a game of cards and proudly spread his winnings
on the cabin table. It was a small fortune and we didn't ask

49
too many questions, but I often wondered what might have
happened to us if had he lost.

I should never have doubted his loyalty for one second;

we couldn't have asked for a better shipmate. Anyway, the
next stage of our journey was guaranteed; the ship received
a fresh coat of paint, a new jib sail, one hundred gallons of
oil and enough provisions for three months. The Pacific
Ocean beckoned and we prepared for the final hurdle of our
voyage. I will never forget the pilot who took us through
the Canal and out of Balboa. When we reached the last
fairway buoy, he looked around the ghost ship, shook his
head sadly, and clambered reluctantly down into the pilot
boat. If he had asked to continue with us, we would have
agreed willingly. He was such a cheerful fellow and had
really enjoyed his sail with us. During our voyage, we met
many people like him; they longed to break away in search
of adventure, but they were hopelessly trapped in the
responsibilities of life and could never escape.

50
12. A secret in the Galapagos
There are hundreds of volcanoes in the Galapagos Islands
and, within one week of leaving Balboa, we were
completely lost and surrounded by dozens of them. A shark
had eaten our remaining log rotator, and you know about
our attempts at navigation, so things were looking rather
bleak. To add to our problems, we were becalmed.
Occasionally, sailing vessels were becalmed in this region
for over six months. In the crystal clear depths below the
ghost ship, sharks, dolphins, turtles and devilfish hovered
constantly. After only four days, we started to look
anxiously at each other and made plans to ration our
drinking water. A few people have survived by drinking
seawater, but most die.

Fortunately, a trade wind arose and we continued our

search for Cristobal, the only inhabited island of the group.
Several landings were made on various islands, but these
were just ash heaps with no signs of civilisation. Then, to
the south, we saw a large island with several volcanoes and
broad green valleys. Closer in, low cliffs of lava and brown
sandy beaches became visible and surf could be heard
beating against the outer reef. By climbing up the shrouds
on the mast, Simon was able to direct us through a gap in
the reef and we entered a large bay which was just over a
mile wide. It seemed a good place to anchor and replenish
our dwindling water supply.

51
 There was a derelict house on the shore and, close by, a
track led inland to the mountains. After cutting our way
through dense undergrowth and thick scrub, a large grassy
plain lay before us. In the distance, green hills rose upwards
to proud peaks and the fragrance of wild flowers was quite
overpowering. Here, we saw all kinds of animals: pigs,
goats, horses and dogs. Though they appeared harmless
enough and uninterested in the new visitors to their island,
we were careful not to disturb them. I remember seeing two
of the giant tortoises for which these islands are famous and
watching huge lizards scrambling among the lava boulders.
These were ferocious-looking but harmless iguanas.
Returning from the water spring, Kate spotted a small bird
about the size of a sparrow, which was using a cactus spine
to poke insects out the cracks in trees. It must have been
one of the few animal species on Earth to go hunting with a
weapon.

We also saw papayas, oranges, lemons and limes growing

wild, yet the island appeared uninhabited. Then, close to
the hut on the beach, I noticed a large wooden barrel
mounted on a pole surrounded by a pile of small wooden
boards and remembered a description of this barrel in a
guide to the islands. We were on Floreana and our ship lay
in Post Office Bay. And the Post Office? That was the
barrel on the pole in which outward-bound whalers once
left letters to be collected by homeward-bound ships, which
called at the island. Many of the ships had left their names
painted or carved on scraps of wood and we added the
name of the ghost ship to the pile. We also left a message

52
of greeting to the next ship that might call. I believe that the
barrel is still there today and is still in use.

Having found our position, and encouraged by our first

landing in the Galapagos, we sailed for Cristobal. Within a
day, we entered Wreck Bay and anchored off a rickety
landing stage. A crowd assembled to watch our arrival and
a several men in a boat rowed out to greet us. These
included the owner of the island and a little wrinkled man
with a long white beard whom we nicknamed Santa. After
the usual greetings had been exchanged, and the ship's
papers cleared, we sat in the main cabin with a cool drink
and exchanged information in our clumsy French. Now,
although we had a good time on the island and were made
very welcome, I really want to tell you about the character
we called Santa. He was originally from County Mayo in
Ireland but hadn't spoken much English for over fifty years.
He had run away to sea at the age of fifteen and, after
working all around the Pacific, settled in the Galapagos
where he worked as a carpenter. He lived with his wife in a
bamboo house on the beach, but had no children. He must
have been nearly eighty years of age.

We always enjoyed his company for he had so many

amusing tales to tell about people he had met in the islands.
Evenings at his beach hut were lively affairs and were
generally brought to an end by everyone singing rousing
choruses of The Wild Colonial Boy. Juanita, his wife, was
an excellent cook and was clearly delighted at our
enthusiasm for the dishes she prepared; they were simply

53
delicious. One morning, she went searching for a particular
herb on the cliffs above the beach. Though nearly as old as
her husband, she was very nimble and scrambled up to a
clump of plants in some rocks overlooking a sheer drop
into the bay. For some reason, she missed her footing,
slipped off the rocks and fell into the sea. By good fortune,
Kate, who was swimming nearby, saw her fall and went to
her rescue. Juanita had been knocked unconscious and was
badly grazed, but with medical attention and a few days
rest, recovered from her injuries. Santa was particularly
grateful and was anxious to repay us in some way for
saving his wife's life. To be honest, it may have been our
appetites that caused her accident, but we were glad to
accept the offer of his carpentry skills and he made several
repairs to the ghost ship.

A week or so after the accident, he took me through the

scrub behind the beach to where the crumbling skeleton of
a large sailing boat lay. We sat down on a nearby rock and
he told me an astonishing tale. He explained that for several
years he had been trying to finish the boat in order to return
to a small deserted coral island or atoll near Tahiti. Many
years earlier, Santa had sought refuge on the island during a
storm and took shelter in a small cave near the beach. Deep
inside the cave, he found a man clutching a rusty rifle and
guarding a pile of boxes. Well, to be more accurate, he
found what was left of him. After that, he was reluctant to
stay there, especially with night falling, but he remained
long enough to open one of the boxes and find a bag of
gold coins. Later, he discovered that some South American

54
pirates were known to have landed on one of the islands in
order to hide their loot, but no one knew the exact island.
With no fresh water to be found, they must have sailed off
to search for some and left this man behind as a guard. For
some unknown reason, they never came back, and the man
had died of thirst.

Having buried the poor man and his boxes, Santa

eventually returned to the Galapagos, but entering Wreck
Bay, his boat was thrown against the coral reef and was
reduced to splinters. Diving down into the razor sharp coral
he managed to salvage some of the coins. For years, he
made plans to return to the island, but a serious injury had
thwarted his attempts to complete a second boat. He told
me that no one else knew of his find; he was sure that the
coins he had saved were still buried below a large rock near
the beach. Then he confessed that ever since the ghost ship
and its crew had arrived, he had been thinking about asking
us to take him back to his treasure island. He knew exactly
which one it was from the hundreds of islands in the group.
He also knew the site of an excellent landing place - always
an important consideration in the Pacific. Well, I was quite
astonished by what he had revealed and didn't know what
to say. All I could do was promise to discuss it with my
travelling companions, and left him sitting there. That
evening we held a meeting aboard the ghost ship to discuss
the matter.

The beachcomber suddenly got to his feet. He looked

over the top of the embankment and noticed that the tide

55
was rising again over the mudflats. Having sat in complete
silence, his listeners were not sitting on an island in the
Blackwater, but around that table aboard the ghost ship.
They were reluctant to leave and wanted him to continue.
‘Did you go in search of the treasure?' asked Emma.
‘I think I'll keep you in suspense until tomorrow. Come
back about the same time and I'll tell you the rest of the
story.’

They marched back in single file along the embankment

path and discussed the beachcomber’s story.
‘We still don’t know how he lost the ghost ship,’
observed Ben, ‘Though I’m more interested in that lost
treasure.’
‘Perhaps they went with Santa and found it, and I bet
someone stole the ghost ship while they were away.’
‘Well, we'll find out tomorrow, if he's still there.’
They walked on in silence until they reached the other
side of the island. Shimmering appeared to have tugged her
anchor from the mud and was moving away quite slowly
with the floodtide. A few minutes later and she would have
been drifting up the river towards Maldon. They waded out
quickly and scrambled aboard dripping wet and shivering.
‘How did that happen?’ puzzled Jake, ‘There was plenty
of anchor cable out when we moored earlier. Could
someone have pulled the anchor from the mud?
They anchored further out into the river for the night. It
was Ben’s turn to cook the evening meal; he thought of
Simon on the ghost ship and lit the galley cooker very
carefully.

56
13. The decision
A slight drizzle and a cool breeze signalled a change in the
weather. After breakfast, Jake suggested they sailed down
to Stone to pick up some stores from the shop by the beach.
The anchor was weighed and in no time Shimmering was
cutting cleanly through the water, but their progress to
Stone was slow as they were sailing directly against the
incoming tide. Once clear of the island, they passed a line
of yachts moored close to the south shore and then headed
to a cluster of houses a mile or so further along. Here, at
Stone, they anchored and prepared to go ashore.

For several minutes, Ben could hear a low-pitched

growling sound coming from beneath the boat. This was
the anchor chain dragging around on the shingle as the boat
swung in the wind to face the tide. Jake explained that if
the boat started to vibrate or shudder, it was a warning that
the anchor may have broken loose and was dragging along
the ground. In a strong onshore breeze, Stone was not a
good anchorage and there was always a chance of the
anchor dragging and wrapping its chain around one of the
many mooring buoys. It was best to moor at a vacant buoy
and hope that the owner didn't return too soon.

On Shimmering, a long line was tied to a post on the

foredeck; the other end was passed over the bows, along
one side of the hull, and back to the cockpit. Spliced to the
end of this line was a large hook. When approaching a

57
mooring, the helmsman could steer alongside the buoy,
lean out and attach the hook to the metal ring at the top of
the buoy. The buoy could then be hauled up to the bows
and made fast. This simple homemade gadget saved a great
deal of time and fuss. Ben watched another boat approach
the moorings. Someone at the sharp end armed with a
boathook guided the helmsman.
'A bit more to port. Yes, that's right. No, I didn’t mean
go right! Go left! That's too much! Now we've missed it.
Well, let's go round again. Third time lucky eh?'
Shimmering’s hook saved a lot of confusion and bad
temper too. It was to prove invaluable a few days later.

Amongst their purchases from the shop was a mackerel

spinner. This was to be trawled behind Shimmering on runs
across the river. The red and silver spinner would rotate in
the wake and attract the attention of the mackerel that
would mistake it for a small fish. They had visions of fresh
fish tumbling aboard by the dozen, but by the end of the
morning had caught only drifting seaweed and a few shells
dredged up from the mud. Jake had a little more luck with
his rod and line; a puffer fish, which looked so disgusting
that he released it to splash away to freedom in the murky
depths below the keel. They never caught a single fish with
the spinner, and they finally lost it when it snagged against
a wreck some weeks later. There were no mackerel to be
caught in the Blackwater anyway.

At high tide, they returned to Osea and were relieved to

see the beachcomber's small yacht still snug at anchor

58
across the river. The rain had cleared and patches of
sunlight were appearing on the distant hills. As they packed
a picnic, Emma remarked on the similarities between the
ghost ship and Shimmering. Both involved three travelling
companions and a chance meeting with a stranger who had
an unusual story to tell. Having anchored carefully, they
rowed ashore and set off along the beach to meet their
stranger and to hear the rest of his story.

The beachcomber was sitting by his enormous multi-

coloured umbrella and stitching a torn sail. He seemed
surprised to see them.
‘I didn't think you’d be back, but you're very welcome.’
Once again, mugs of tea were produced, and they shared
out their supplies. The small group sat on some oilskins
along the embankment and munched buttered teacakes
whilst gulls screeched overhead and hovered in the breeze
in the hope of cadging some crumbs.
‘Some say that gulls are the souls of drowned mariners,
but I think they're just greedy devils.’ He hurled some
crusts down the embankment and the gulls swooped to
snatch them from the mud and wheeled away. ‘Now where
did I leave off yesterday?’
‘You were having a meeting on board the ghost ship with
your sister and Simon.’
‘And you had to decide whether or not to go in search of
Santa's treasure island.’

The beachcomber smiled at their eager replies and

continued his story.

59
 ‘Well, we discussed the idea from every angle. We talked
about the ghost ship's unreliable engine and the dangerous
reefs surrounding small islands or atolls. We weighed the
chances of finding something with the risk of losing the
ship. In the end, a vote was taken and it went two to one
against making a search. I suppose that we had already
planned our voyage and decided to get on with it before
more distractions got in the way. I felt sad for the old man
as he had waited all those years for someone he could really
trust. We had turned up out of the blue, shared his great
secret, and then turned it down.

The following day, we held a farewell party on the boat

for all the friends we had made during the visit to Cristobal.
What a feast we had: real turtle soup, delicious tropical
fish, boiled fowl and roast pork, sweet potatoes, taro root,
coconut pudding and rum. Santa received our decision with
disappointment, but cheered up after a while; perhaps the
rum helped. He said that he and Juanita were happy living
there, and that if he left the island, he might never return.
What would they do with all that money anyway? They had
no children to leave it to. It was his opinion that he was
never meant to have that treasure.

Now among the items that Santa had taken from the ghost
ship to repair was a large wicker basket. This was used for
transferring stores from the shore and for storing fruit
during the voyage. It rested on four short stumps but the
flat wooden base had started to crack so he had screwed an
extra piece of wood across it. On the morning of our

60
departure, Santa returned the basket with the help of two
young men in a canoe. After we had hauled it up to the
deck, he climbed aboard and tipped it upside down.
Engraved in the wooden base was a rough map of an island,
some figures, and some directions.
‘This is just in case you should change your mind,’ he
said, ‘but if you ever leave your ship make sure you remove
it and take it with you. Not a copy, but this very map.’
He then shook hands with each one of us and stepped
down into the canoe. ‘I hope you'll come back to us again
some day,’ he called as the canoe pulled away from the
ship. Of course, we promised to return but never did.

An hour later, we set sail on the last leg of our journey.

The Galapagos Islands became a dim outline against the
blue sky and then disappeared over the horizon. For several
days, I occasionally stood at the ghost ship's rail looking
back at the wake and wondering if we had made the right
decision. But time passed, the treasure island and the
wooden map were gradually forgotten.

61
14. An end to the dream
We sailed before a steady southeast trade wind for twenty-
two days until we reached our goal, the South Sea Islands.
At the sight of the Marquesas Islands gliding towards us,
we toasted the health of the good ship that had carried us
slowly but safely over all those thousands of miles. There is
so much that I could tell you about these and the other
islands we visited; goat hunting on Nukuhiva, pearl diving
in the Tuamotos; the curious lizard men on Moorea. But
above all, it was the magnificent scenery that I recall:
waterfalls cascading three thousand feet down to the sea,
deep bays with coral beaches, the fairy rings of atolls,
lagoons surrounded by graceful palms, dark green ferns and
velvet mossy banks.

Mind you, for all the beauty we discovered, the South

Seas is a place of tragedy and sadness too. There was
hardly an island we visited which had not had its share of
disaster or disease. The coral reefs surrounding many
islands were littered with the wrecks of ships, which had
come to grief during gales or had misjudged the narrow
entrances to atolls. One beautiful island, which was
originally discovered by Captain Bligh of the Bounty, held
a grim secret. A small passenger ship had gone aground on
the jagged coral of its outer reef. The passengers and crew
had taken to the boats but one capsized in the surf and its
occupants survived for less than two minutes in the shark-

62
infested waters. The other boat reached the shore but the
survivors were killed and eaten by the locals. In their haste
to leave the doomed ship, the crew had forgotten to release
a convict who was being taken to a prison settlement. This
wretched man watched the whole horrifying spectacle
through a skylight in the sloping deck as the ship settled on
the reef. He spent three days and nights trapped in the
wreck wondering which of the cruel deaths he had
witnessed would be his. In the event, he was rescued by a
passing schooner and lived to tell the tale, but had gone
completely mad.

On we sailed until we reached the Tuamotus. I had

always looked forward to visiting these islands as I had
read about them as a boy, and one writer had claimed that
they were as near to paradise as anywhere else on earth.
Before our departure from England, I read of a man from
Cornwall who spent seventeen years digging up a beach on
a deserted atoll. He was searching for some buried treasure,
but it was the wrong atoll. I sometimes wondered if we had
been given the map of the right one.

It was evening when we arrived off one of the islands

and, entering a lagoon, had difficulty locating the
anchorage. Simon spotted a thin spiral of smoke across the
lagoon, so we motored gently in its direction expecting the
usual friendly welcome from the locals. There was a house
near the beach but, of its occupants, there was no sign.
After we anchored, we lowered the ship's dinghy and got
ready for a trip ashore. Suddenly, Kate noticed two figures

63
emerge from the palm trees and walk down the beach to the
water’s edge. A lone voice pierced the silence and carried a
note of urgency across the still water.
‘Go away! Please don’t land! There are lepers here.’
We were later to discover that this small island's sole
inhabitants were a brother and sister. We had experienced
the tragic touch of the South Seas and were left with a
memory that continued to haunt us for a long time.

After that, our journey lost some of its magic. We were

caught in a number of violent storms and just missed the
tail of a hurricane as it swept across the Tuamotus causing
untold havoc. On many of the islands, crops were
completely destroyed and hundreds were made homeless.
Exhausted by this ordeal, we sought refuge in the port of
Papeete on Tahiti. I can only remember this part of our
voyage with sadness for it was here that I lost the ghost
ship. One afternoon, whilst we were resting after a long
walk around the town, I was invited by a man on the
quayside to join him and his two friends for a drink in a
nearby bar. They seemed pleasant enough and knew a lot
about sailing boats. While we were chatting, one of the men
asked me if I wanted to sell the ghost ship and to name my
price. For a joke, I suggested a ridiculously high figure, but
he did not laugh. He asked me if I would take any less and I
shook my head.
‘Then I'll take her.’ he said.
I had sold the ghost ship. Of course, I could have
withdrawn from the bargain, but I didn't, and to this day I
don't know why. Later, I sat alone in the bar wondering

64
how I would break the news to my two companions. I had a
bagful of money, but no ship. I had never been so miserable
in my life.

After an hour's aimless wandering around the dusty

streets of Papeete, I summoned the courage to tell the
others. I had devised a number of excuses to hide my
shame. Wasn't it best to quit while we were enjoying the
voyage? We were getting short of money again. Now we
could sail on in the comfort of a liner and visit New
Zealand or Australia. We would invest our newfound
wealth in a far more magnificent craft than the plodding
ghost ship. Or we could .... I can only tell you that for the
rest of that day they hated me, but no more than I hated
myself. I believe they were heartbroken.

So we packed our few personal belongings and left the

island by a smoke-belching steamship. Our fellow
passengers gave us some very funny looks as we clambered
up the gangway with our scruffy sea bags and matching
brown-paper parcels. The stewards fussed around tidying
up our cabins whilst we, a once carefree band of savages,
prepared to dress correctly for dinner. I was cursing and
struggling with a collar and tie when, through the porthole,
I caught a brief glimpse of the ghost ship. She was rocking
up and down in the swell caused by the steamer’s
departure; she may have been waving farewell, but I think
she was just mocking at me. That night, disturbed by the
sound of the engines, I awoke and for a few moments I
thought it was my turn at the tiller.

65
 Simon and Kate left us Tonga. They had decided to get
married and to live as far away from civilisation as
possible, but promised to sign on again as crew if I ever
found a replacement for the ghost ship. Over the next few
months, I searched a hundred or more ports for a boat to
replace her, but in the end had to admit defeat. My money
was running low and I was forced to return home.
Sometimes, I used to think about that treasure map which
we had left behind. We had all been too busy packing to
give it a second thought.

But that wasn't the end of the story. I kept in touch with
Simon and Kate for many years. Then, one day, they wrote
to say that they had met someone who knew about our ship.
She had exchanged hands a few times and, after a period as
an island trader, had returned to England. A little later, I
discovered this photograph in a yachting magazine; I'm
sure that's her passing a line of moored sailing barges.
Unfortunately, the magazine gave no information about the
photograph except that it had been taken somewhere on the
East Coast.

Over the years, I've searched for her in all the rivers and
havens in this part of England. I've worked my way from
Norfolk right down to the Medway. There are miles of
rivers and creeks and she could be anywhere. In fact, I may
have passed her on the coast by night without knowing. I've
stopped searching for her now but I would have liked to see
her again.

66
 The beachcomber rested; his story was at an end. The
three companions looked in turn at the faded magazine
photograph and, for a minute or two, no one spoke. Then
Emma asked him why he kept returning to the Blackwater.
‘Well, it's an interesting river and this is such a pleasant
spot to watch the different ships pass by. There is another
reason and you will probably laugh, but I get an odd feeling
that the ghost ship is around here somewhere. Anyway, I'll
be moving along very soon, so let's forget about the past.
What are your plans for the future?'

67
15. The challenge
For the rest of the afternoon, they talked about places on
the river they could visit, and picked up a few tips on how
to repair sails. Jake and Emma went swimming out to the
beachcomber's small yacht and Ben made a sketch of the
hide. Then the sun, which had made a half-hearted and
watery appearance, started to sink behind a bank of low
clouds. It was time to be leaving. With reluctance, they said
farewell to the beachcomber and wished him good luck
with his search.
‘Look me up anytime you are passing this way, but
promise that you’ll keep this place a secret.’

Returning to the other side of the island, Ben remembered

the ball hidden in the bushes. A noisy energetic game of
beach football followed and only ended when the ball was
struck high and wide into the river. The current carried it
away swiftly for someone else to find and enjoy. They
could have rowed after it in the dinghy, but were too tired
and had hardly enough energy left to get back to
Shimmering. Night was falling when they tied up the
dinghy and lit the anchor light. The kettle whistled
cheerfully on the galley stove and an interesting aroma
filled the cabin, not of sweet potatoes and taro root but of
toast, sausages and beans. Soon they were tucking into a
hot meal and discussing the day's events.

68
 ‘How could he have sold the boat without talking to the
others first?’
‘He must have been given a huge pile of money.’
‘Ah, but it didn't last all that long. There must have been
some other reason.’
While they were talking, Ben remembered the boatyard
owner’s words: ‘They're all for sale if the price is right.’
Perhaps there was no such thing as a perfect boat. It would
be either too large for mooring fees or not large enough for
comfort, too light for heavy weather or too heavy to make a
fast passage, and so on. Eventually, the attraction of a new
boat would prove too great and the owner would start to
despise the craft that had once been his or her most
treasured possession. And then it would start all over again.
But what were the ghost ship's weaknesses? Apart from the
unreliable engine, the beachcomber hadn't mentioned any.
Whatever the problem, they all agreed that the journey to
the Pacific had been a great adventure even though it had
ended in disappointment.

From a rack above her bunk, Emma produced a chart of

the East Coast and, pushing the dishes aside, spread it out
across the table. With a pencil she picked out the various
rivers that the beachcomber had explored in his search.
Some, like the Blackwater, poured straight into the sea,
whereas others followed a winding path, or divided into
several smaller streams and creeks. On this coast, a
thorough search for a boat, even a large one, would take a
lot of time and patience. In some places, the riverbanks
were several miles from the nearest road or footpath and

69
could only be reached by water. Faced with the busy
shipping traffic on rivers such as the Medway or the
Thames, the crew of a small yacht would be fully occupied
in avoiding collisions, and would certainly be discouraged
from exploring every dock or jetty. They all agreed that to
search one river would be fun and it was at this point that
someone suggested they did just that. They knew their
chances of finding the ghost ship were very slim but the
challenge occupied their thoughts for the rest of the
evening.
‘If we have a search with a purpose like this,' said Jake,
‘It will help us to get to know the river better.’
‘And it will make the week more interesting than if we
just drift about,’ added Emma.

Reluctantly, Ben reminded them that their father had

limited their cruising grounds to the River Blackwater.
Emma reached for a copy of Coote's East Coast Rivers, a
popular pilot book for the area, and turning to the chapter
on the Blackwater announced that, according to the book,
the river's entrance was considered to be at the Bench Head
buoy some 15 miles down river from Maldon.
‘We shall therefore limit our search to those waters west
of the Bench Head buoy,’ she announced solemnly.
In a way this was a rather cunning move for it extended
their territory to include the creeks around Tollesbury and
West Mersea on the northern shore. A further hunt in the
rack above her bunk produced a chart of the River
Blackwater and they were able to inspect the task in closer
detail.

70
 ‘Let’s miss out the small Goldhanger Creek above Osea,’
suggested Jake, ‘Because we know that one quite well and
there is nothing like the ghost ship anchored or moored
there. Mill Creek on the north bank of the river is quite
shallow but worth a look. After that, we’ll search
Tollesbury and West Mersea to the north, then Bradwell
and Maylandsea to the south, and finally Maldon and
Heybridge to the west.'
From the chart, Ben could see that this involved a circular
route bringing them back to where their journey had
started.
‘It will be important to work with the tides,’ continued
Jake, whilst consulting a small set of tables, ‘And it looks
as if they’ll fit in neatly with our plans.’
He scribbled some figures down and then read out an
approximate timetable for their movements. It occupied
most of the week and ended on the Thursday afternoon at
Heybridge.

‘Well that's the search plan sorted out,’ agreed Emma,

‘But do we know what we are looking for?’
Ben suggested that they made a list of all the things they
could remember from the beachcomber's account of the
voyage. For the next twenty minutes, they racked their
brains to recall any facts about the ghost ship that might
help them in their search. They finished up with a list,
which was something like this:

71
 A gaff-rigged cutter like Shimmering
At least 12 metres long
A stout mast and bowsprit
Built in Norway about 1930
Tan coloured sails
One or two skylights
Brass portholes and fittings

It wasn't much to go on, but at least the boat's length

would help them to reduce the number of possibilities.
They also had a guide to the types of sailing ships seen
around the East Coast which they thought might be of some
help. Night was falling on the river. The paraffin in the oil
lamp was running low and, as no one seemed eager enough
to refill it, they cleared away the dishes and got ready to
turn in.
‘Well, if we fall behind our timetable,’ said Jake yawning
slowly, ‘At least Shimmering has a reliable motor to help us
catch up.'
If only he had known how wrong these words were to
prove in the days that were to follow.

72
16. The search begins
It was a miserable day. The clouds were heavy with rain
and it was blowing hard. The crew struggled up on deck in
oilskins and sea boots whilst Shimmering shook and tugged
violently at her anchor chain. The wind howled through the
rigging and rain pelted down on the cabin roof. In the midst
of all this mayhem, they had to shout to be heard. Jake
seemed to enjoy the weather for he clung to the mast
singing cheerfully as he released halyards and removed ties
from the mainsail. Emma grinned encouragingly from the
bows and started to shorten the anchor chain. Ben felt
clumsy and awkward in the oilskin leggings. The rain was
driving against his face, running down his neck and soaking
the top of his jumper. Perhaps they had seen his discomfort
and were trying to cheer him up? It was having little effect.
Whilst he was trying to secure another line to the dinghy,
Shimmering rolled suddenly and the small boat slammed
forward jamming his fingers painfully against the hull. He
sat miserably in the cockpit and sucked at his fingers to
relieve the pain. If they were off in search of a ghost, this
was a nightmare.

With her mainsail reefed and a single storm jib set,

Shimmering lurched away from the anchorage. She was
running before the wind but sailing directly into the flood
tide. With the tide and wind fighting each other in the
shallow waters of the estuary, short and lumpy seas kicked
up and jerked her into a violent motion. Ben's stomach

73
started to turn and he felt sick. He was tempted to go
below, but Jake asked him to take the tiller and keep the
boat aiming for a green buoy a mile or two ahead. The task
kept him busy and, by the time they passed the buoy, he
had started to recover. Before they realised it, they had
sailed past the entrance to Mill Creek but, with the state of
the sea, were reluctant to go back so they carried on
downriver.

There were no other boats around apart from a motor-

driven fishing boat which was heading upriver. Its bows
lifted and fell like a hammer; heavy seas broke over and
cascaded down its decks. It was much larger than
Shimmering and Ben wondered how the small yacht would
cope if it had to sail against the wind? Jake must have been
reading his thoughts because he explained that a sailing
boat would tend to ride over the waves more comfortably
than a power driven craft forcing its way through the seas.
Ben wasn't particularly reassured by that information, but
he was feeling much better. At least the storm inside his
stomach had eased.
‘Hey,’ called Emma, ‘Do you know a good cure for
seasickness?'
Jake muttered something about pills and milk. Ben shook
his head and hoped it didn't contain butter.
Emma started laughing and finally blurted out, 'You just
find a nice green tree and sit underneath it.’
Sometimes that girl had a very odd sense of humour.

74
 With Bradwell abeam to starboard, Jake nudged the tiller
over and they swung towards the northern shore. He
explained that they were heading for Tollesbury which lay
behind a wilderness of mudflats bordered by a low sea
wall. At the bows, Emma lowered a weighted and marked
line into the water and gave a 'thumbs up' sign. They were
passing over the Nass, a long shallow bank, and the line
showed that they had enough water beneath the keel to do
so. On the other side of the bank, was a deep creek leading
to Tollesbury. Without a chart, you might pass by the bank
without ever realising the creek was there. A small island at
its entrance merged with the surrounding marshes and
mudflats and formed a barrier against the sea. A call from
Emma indicated that they had entered deeper water and
could turn safely into the narrow creek. Here, in the shelter
of the riverbank, the wind eased and the boat was carried
up the channel by the rising tide,

Tollesbury is a mysterious place. It sits at the head of a

small creek off the main channel overlooking a vast
expanse of mudflats and saltings. Close to the quayside
stand several old wooden buildings perched on tall piles as
a precaution against floods. Tollesbury was once home to
the crews of great sailing yachts of days gone by. The
wooden huts had housed sail lofts, boat builders, chandlers
and other businesses that served the needs of the yachts’
wealthy owners. Anyone who has visited Tollesbury will
remember the saltings, a confusing network of muddy
channels meandering around marshes in which an armada
of small sailing boats hides. As the tide rises, the boats lift

75
until they appear to be sitting and bobbing on top of the
marshes. When the tide falls, they slowly disappear into the
mud leaving a forest of masts to mark their resting place.
Go to Tollesbury on a misty morning when the tide is
rising; it is sight not easily forgotten.

As soon as the tide was high enough, they searched

through the saltings on both sides of the creek. There were
many unusual sights to distract them from their task,
particularly those boats on which the owners lived. One had
several garden gnomes standing on guard by the gangway;
another had a clay gull perched on the galley chimney to
scare the real gulls away. At Tollesbury, they saw more
derelict and abandoned boats than anywhere else on the
river, though nothing to match what they had in mind.
Despite the rotten weather, they stuck to their task and only
left the creek when the tide had fallen so low that they were
in danger of being stranded. The night was spent quietly at
anchor under the stars and close to the edge of the Nass
sandbank.

The following morning, they awoke to the sound of

fishing boats heading out to sea. These were packed with
day-trippers and their gear, and they could hear them
chatting excitedly above the noise of the engines. Although
the skies had cleared, the wind was rising again, and Ben
wondered if they would still be quite as cheerful after
lurching up and down for an hour or so. He had some
recent experience in these matters.

76
 The task that day was to search the creeks and channels
off West Mersea. Approaching the moorings of a local
sailing club, they spoke to a helpful boatman who was able
to suggest quite a few boats that matched the general
description of the ghost ship. On closer inspection,
however, they had to be rejected; there was always some
feature or another that didn’t fit. The only sour note of the
day occurred when they entered a channel above West
Mersea and passed over some oyster beds. Someone in a
rowing boat came out snarling and shouting at them to clear
off, so they scurried away.

It had been a tiring but enjoyable day and they returned to

their anchorage near the Nass. Jake was in half a mind to
continue to Bradwell on the opposite shore, but the tide was
pouring out of the river and he didn't want to waste their
small supply of engine fuel The fishing boats which had
disturbed them at dawn were heading back home and, as
each one passed, the crew of Shimmering waved cheerfully
at the passengers huddled in the stern. One or two waved
back, but the rest stared bleakly over the rail. Perhaps they
hadn't caught many fish? Or any fish.

77
17. The south shore
On the first evening, when they were driving to Maldon
and the Blackwater came into view, several large ships lay
at anchor in the entrance to the estuary. Cargo ships, ore
carriers, tankers and ferries that were no longer required for
work. Their search now took them through this graveyard
of forgotten ships as they crossed the river in the direction
of Bradwell. The abandoned fleet swung sadly together to
face the changing tides; each ship with a handful of
crewmembers aboard to keep an anchor watch and await
further orders. Occasionally, the silence was broken by the
sound of someone chipping away at some rust or slamming
a steel door. Then, as they passed one very neglected Greek
freighter, a rather curious thing happened. The gangway
was lowered and twenty or so men carrying sea bags and
suitcases filed silently down the steps to an awaiting
launch. Having cleared the freighter, the launch sped off in
the direction of a modern cargo ship lying about a mile
offshore, Later that morning, the cargo ship weighed
anchor and steamed away from the estuary; the Greek flag
flying proudly at her stern. A transfer arranged in city
offices a world away from the River Blackwater, but, as
Jake observed, it looked as if someone had said,
‘Hey guys, this tub is too rusty. Let's do a swap.’

Unlike Tollesbury, the entrance to Bradwell Creek was

easy to find. They carefully approached the edge of the
rather dull-looking Peewit Island and a line of withies

78
appeared. These were long thin tree trunks or branches
pushed into the mud to mark the edge of a channel. Emma
wondered who went to the trouble to position these simple
marks and guessed that it may have been local fishermen.
Hidden behind Peewit Island, there were lines of moorings,
a quay and a marina. These were filled with all kinds of
craft but there was no sign of the ghost ship. The marina
had many fine yachts easily capable of a North Sea or
Channel crossing. It was Emma's opinion, however, that the
more expensive a boat, the less it was likely to be used.
Fine craft like these were also to be found in the boatyard
moored alongside Shimmering, but their owners rarely
appeared from one season to the next.

They followed the line of moorings through the creek and

out again into the main river. Ahead of them lay St
Lawrence Bay and Stone where they had bought their
stores. A couple of miles upstream, a large motor yacht
appeared to be stranded on a sand bank; Ben could just
make out two figures inspecting the hull. The pilot book
reported that, despite a green warning buoy, many yachts
sailed headlong into this sand bank whilst heading straight
up the middle of the river. The motor yacht was the latest
victim of The Spit. Ben would have liked to stop again at
Stone, but Jake knew that their timetable was a tight one.
They had to use this tide to reach Maylandsea Bay.
‘If she's anywhere on this river, I bet she'll be tucked
away there,’ he said with some confidence.

79
 A little later Emma plucked a boathook from the water.
‘We seem to lose and find one of these every year!’ she
cried, waving it triumphantly above her head. Ben
wondered if this was an omen that their fortunes were to
change?

The speed of the current increased rapidly as they passed

between Osea Island and an imposing farmhouse
overlooking the south shore. Two creeks lay ahead to the
southwest and both were full of moored craft. They spent
little time exploring the smaller Mayland Creek: it was
packed with sailing dinghies, and any unusual boat would
have been easy to spot. The longer Lawling Creek looked
more promising; it meandered for a couple of miles in a
southerly direction and ended at a boatyard in Maylandsea
Bay. Many large cruising yachts swung at their moorings
along this arm of the river and it was here that Jake thought
they find the ghost ship. But, despite their earlier
optimism, they saw only two possibilities, and not very
convincing ones at that. Jake sketched them and made a
few notes about their rigging. Then, with all her sails set,
Shimmering tacked out of the creek in a fairly light wind.
Suddenly, struck by a freak gust, she heeled over to
starboard, and they narrowly avoided a collision with a
passing cabin cruiser. Crockery shot across the cabin and a
pint of milk poured over one of the bunks. It was all over in
a few seconds.
‘My fault,’ admitted Emma, 'I was tired and not
concentrating. Let's call it a day and moor up at that buoy.'

80
 Night was falling over the Blackwater. The river was silent,
and a few bright stars were just appearing in the evening sky.
With the evening meal cleared away, the three were ready to
turn in. Ben was just closing the curtains above his bunk, when
he remembered something he had completely forgotten all day.
‘Do you know?’ he said, ‘Early this morning, off Tollesbury, I
was woken up by the sound of a ship’s motor. When I looked
out, I saw one of those old fishing boats going past.’
‘What?’ queried Jake, ‘One of the old ones on the beach near
the yard?’
‘Yes. It was quite misty at the time but I was able to read the
name. It was Ariel.’
‘It must have been another boat with the same name,’
suggested Emma, ‘I don’t think those old fishing boats are going
anywhere. They don’t look very seaworthy to me.’
Jake yawned. ‘I reckon that when we get back to Heybridge,
you’ll find them both asleep on the beach. And that’s where I’m
off to now, but not on the beach.’
‘Well,’ replied Ben, ‘The man who owns the boatyard was in
the wheelhouse.’

81
18. Under suspicion
‘Ahoy Shimmering!’
A loud voice shattered the silence of the mooring and
they awoke with a start. It was about half past one.
‘Come on,’ the voice commanded, ‘Out you come on
deck and hurry up.’
Though confused and scared, the three dressed quickly
and climbed out of the entrance to the cabin. A powerful
floodlight from the police launch Alert shone in their faces.
‘Are there just the three of you?’ The three huddled
together and nodded.
‘Stay where you are while I come aboard.’ A police
office holding a loud hailer climbed down on to
Shimmering and towered above her crew.
‘Right, who are you and what are you doing here?’
Jake gave their names to the officer and told him that they
were just sailing around the river and staying in the creek
for the night.
‘Well, I think you’ve got some explaining to do,’
announced their uninvited visitor. ‘For one thing, you’ve
been observed rowing around the moorings and looking
inside various yachts.’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, ‘But there is a reason for that. You see
we are looking for a particular sailing boat and we need to
inspect them quite closely to make sure we get the right
one.’

82
 ‘I see,’ said the policeman, ‘And what is the name of this
boat, then?’ He was met with a wall of silence. ‘Come on,’
he insisted, ‘It must have a name.’
‘Well, we call it the ghost ship,’ said Ben, ‘But the
gentleman who lost it didn’t tell us its proper name. At
least, I don’t think he did.’
‘If someone has lost a boat they should report it to the
police. Now, who is this man, and when and where did he
lose his boat?’
‘It’s rather difficult to explain.’ replied Emma
‘Oh, I bet it is but I suggest that you try.’
‘We don’t know his name,’ she continued, ‘ But we think
he lost it in Tahiti about twenty years ago.’
‘Are you having me on?’ said the officer, sounding quite
annoyed. ‘A ghost ship? A man from Tahiti? Listen, I think
I’ve heard enough of this nonsense. You better come
aboard our launch.’
Looking rather sheepish, the three clambered aboard the
Alert while the policeman inspected Shimmering. They sat
down at a table in the main cabin and gradually pieced
together the story of their search while another officer took
notes. Throughout the interview, the boat’s radio was
crackling with messages; most of which seemed to be in
some kind of code.
Suddenly, the officer who had returned from searching
Shimmering said ‘Quiet, there’s something coming in.’
The radio continued to crackle with messages and then they
heard a voice announce:
‘Alert return to base. Suspect apprehended.’

83
 The policeman turned to the three and said, ‘You know, I
was beginning to find this tale of yours quite interesting,
but you’re in the clear so you can return to your boat. Just
be a little more careful about when and where you go
searching for ghost ships.’
Laughing, he handed them a bag of doughnuts as they
returned to Shimmering. Alert then sped off in the direction
of Bradwell. Still confused, the three watched her disappear
into the darkness.
‘Well, what was all that about?’ asked Jake
‘Search me,’ replied Emma
‘These are delicious,’ said Ben, munching a doughnut; ‘I
thought policemen only ate them in lay-bys.’

A few weeks later, they discovered that, while they were

searching the river, the local police were watching them
very closely. For several weeks, valuable items had been
stolen from craft moored at various places along the river.
With so many unguarded and deserted boats to protect, the
police had decided to keep watch from inside the cabins of
selected yachts. And who should come along but the three
companions, sailing in and out of the creeks and weaving
between the lines of moored boats. Occasionally, they
would moor Shimmering and row over in the dinghy to one
of the moored yachts and peer over the rails or through the
portholes for clues. To the hidden detectives, however, it all
looked very suspicious, and their progress around the river
was watched with increasing interest. Fortunately, the
culprit was arrested the very night that they were disturbed
by the police launch in Lawling Creek .

84
 The thief was the owner of a hairdressing salon and a
small yacht that was very similar to Shimmering. He would
moor the yacht at the entrance to a creek and check that
there were no boat owners around. Armed with an empty
petrol can, he would row over in the darkness to a likely
looking craft and break in. On a couple of occasions, he
was challenged boarding a yacht, but produced the empty
can and said that he was only looking for a little fuel as his
tank had run dry and he had to get home. To most boat
owners, this would appear a reasonable excuse, particularly
when he assured them that he had every intention of
returning the borrowed petrol. Eventually, it was his yacht
that gave the game away. Several people remembered
having seen it in the vicinity of the burglaries. Watching
from inside moored boats, the police spotted it and caught
the thief as he left a boat carrying a small radar set. He
might have got away with a can of petrol, but you don't
need radar to find your way across the Blackwater in the
moonlight.

85
19. Good news and bad
Despite a disturbed night, they continued with their plans.
Having dropped Jake off by the entrance to the Heybridge
Canal, Emma and Ben were to sail upriver and beach
Shimmering off the promenade at Maldon. Jake would
search the canal and rejoin them towards evening. Their
task was to make enquiries around the different boatyards
and inspect the river opposite the promenade. They glided
past Mill Beach on the afternoon tide and lowered the sails.
‘Don't forget,’ reminded Jake, ‘Keep to the starboard side
of the channel and try not to cross the bows of any
approaching boats. If in doubt, run Shimmering gently into
the river bank and wait until everything is clear.’
Jake climbed off at the canal lock and the other two
continued the journey using the outboard motor. A winding
channel led them up to Maldon and a bustling quayside
filled with sailing barges. These were not shapeless
containers carrying coal or sand and hauled along by tugs,
but fine tall sailing ships. When rail and road transport had
killed any competition from these old vessels, many had
been left to rot in rivers and creeks around the East Coast.
However, they were gradually being rescued and repaired
by companies or clubs and the results of this enthusiasm
made a proud display of masts, sails and rigging along the
quayside.

Emma and Ben moored close to a boat builder’s yard and

spoke to an old shipwright. Having heard their description

86
of the ghost ship, he downed tools and sat down with them
on the quayside.
‘I remember working on a boat like that some time ago.
She was unusual because her frame was of pine and her
planks of Italian oak.’
An expert was speaking on his favourite subject and they
kept a respectful silence.
‘They build them like that in Norway because the pine
makes good elbows and knees. I can't recall her name, but I
remember that we had to remove her mast because her days
as a sailing ship were over.’
So here, at least, was a clue that the ghost ship may have
been refitted in the yard.

With no sign of their quest in nearby yards, or out on the

river, they spent the rest of the afternoon walking and
chatting on the promenade. For the time being, the search
was forgotten and they talked about their schools and their
friends in the small county town where they lived.
Shimmering was secured to a couple of mooring rings set in
the sea wall, and as the tide drained away, she heeled over
at an angle on the sloping shingle beach. Evening was
falling and people were strolling along the promenade. The
pair had just climbed aboard to put on a kettle, when they
saw Jake waving in the distance. He was running along the
sea wall and calling to them. By the time he reached the
quay, he was gasping for breath.
‘I've found her. I’ve really found her. She's in the canal at
Heybridge.’

87
 Ignoring the sloping deck, they sat inside the main cabin
listening eagerly to Jake's news.
‘I would have returned sooner, but I took a wrong
turning. The canal is crowded with boats and she's quite a
long way down the towpath. There's nobody aboard, and
she looks as if she's laid up. No wonder the beachcomber
never saw her from the river.’
The other two wanted to set off immediately to look at
her, but by the time they reached the canal it would have
been pitch dark.
‘Let's leave with the tide early tomorrow morning,’
suggested Emma, ‘We can sail down and moor up by the
lock.'

And so, on a pleasant summer's morning, they found

themselves walking up the canal towpath to what they
hoped would prove to be the ghost ship. At first sight, there
was no doubt that this was the kind of boat that had taken
the beachcomber and his companions to the South Seas. It
fitted the description perfectly. Was this the bowsprit that
had served so often as a diving board? Could that be the
deck that had hosted the farewell feast at Cristobal? Where
had the ghost ship been since the beachcomber sold it so
casually in Tahiti? Who owned her now? So many
questions, but with no one around to answer them, they
wandered back along the towpath to the lockkeeper's
cottage by the entrance to the canal.

The lockkeeper was just replacing the telephone when

they knocked at the open door of his small cottage.

88
 ‘Why can't some of them buy a set of tide tables? That
was another person asking about high tide for next
weekend. Do you know, they even phone me on Christmas
Day to ask about the tides at Easter.’ He shook his head in
bewilderment. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
Emma explained that they were interested in finding out
more about the gaff-rigged cutter they had seen in the canal
and she described it in a little more detail.
'Oh yes,' beamed the lock-keeper, 'That’s the Norwegian
boat. She's been here sometime now. Not in a bad condition
considering her age and where she's been.’
'Could that have included the South Pacific?' asked
Emma.
'I’m sure it does, but you’ll need to speak to the owner.
He comes here most weekends to work on her. She was
built a few years after the war.’
’After the war?' repeated Jake
‘That’s right,’ replied the lock-keeper, ‘The owner's
father built her around 1950.’

With this disappointing information, they sat silently on

the edge of the lock watching water from the canal seep
through the old timber lock gates.
‘I think that's the end of our search,’ said Jake sadly and
the two of them reluctantly agreed. ‘I can't think of any
other hiding places on this river.’
But there was something nagging away at the back of
Ben's mind and it wouldn't rest.

89
20. A discovery
The three companions have never forgotten the events of
the next eighteen hours. They were an amazing mixture of
good luck and misfortune, and some facts seem too strange
to believe. Nevertheless, they are recorded here exactly as
the three remember them, though parts of their story must
remain unexplained.

While they were sitting by the side of the lock, Ben

wandered back to look at the sailing boat. He remembered
the beachcomber telling them that the ghost ship had once
been a pilot cutter; here in the canal, was a boat designed in
the same style. He studied the complex rigging and,
recalling the incident at Decoy Point with Shimmering,
wondered how the tall wooden mast could be lowered to
the deck. Then he realised that, without its mast, it would
look very similar to the abandoned fishing boats he had
boarded several days earlier in search of a bolt. Yet another
idea occurred to Ben. Could the fishing boats have once
been sailing ships but had their masts removed? Perhaps
the shipwright in Maldon had converted one of them? It
was only a hunch, but he returned to share his ideas with
Jake and Emma. They agreed that they had nothing to lose
by taking a look at the boats, for the beach where they lay
was only a short distance from the lock.

Apart from the burnt out hulk, only one boat was still
moored with its bows facing the shore; its weed-ridden hull

90
still dripping water from the morning tide. Of the second
boat, there was no sign. From the sea wall, Ben pointed to
the lone fishing boat but the other two shook their heads.
‘Oh, that's only Paradox,’ exclaimed Emma, ‘The boat
dad told you about in the van. She used to be out on a buoy
in the river and dad used to moor Shimmering alongside her
whenever he missed the tide.’
They both agreed that there was a similarity between the
hulls of the fishing boat and the pilot cutter, but that was
where the likeness ended. Indeed, with her large ugly
wheelhouse, cargo hatch and working gear, she looked
anything but a sailing ship.
'I can't imagine,' said Jake, 'That boat ever had a mast let
alone any sails.'
Ben might have let the matter rest there, but Jake's
words jarred a memory.
‘But it does have a mast,’ he exclaimed, ‘I mean it did
have one once. You remember I told you about the man
who climbed into the hold and tried to remove a plate with
some numbers? I remember standing behind a large
wooden pillar and watching him. Now that must have been
the lower part of a mast. It could have been left there as a
support when the boat was converted.’
At this point Emma chipped in. ‘Yes. Don't you
remember the beachcomber's first trip when he used her as
a fishing boat? The mast fell down and had to be replaced
with a stronger one that passed down through the decks.’
‘Come to think of it,’ said Ben, ‘I think the other fishing
boat had a similar wooden pillar below decks.’

91
 ‘Well,’ replied Emma, ‘Perhaps we should ask a few
questions about them in the boatyard here.’

Arthur, the yard owner, was unavailable, but the lady in

the office listened to their story with great interest. She
explained that the owners of large old boats occasionally
paid for a week’s mooring in cash but then ignored requests
for further payments; letters from the yard were returned
unopened. Eventually, the boats were moored on the
muddy beach near the yard and, if no one turned up to
claim them, were sold. This is why the two fishing boats,
Ariel and Paradox, had ended up where they were. The
lady explained that, in marine law, a ship’s debts stayed
with it, which meant that anyone who wanted to buy Ariel
or Paradox would have to pay some large bills first.
Indeed, a third fishing boat on the beach had recently been
destroyed by vandals and was of no further value, but Ariel
had been sold a couple of days earlier and was being
delivered to the new owner by Arthur.

While the other two went off to examine Paradox, Ben

remained in the office to collect some information about
Ariel. Despite a careful search of the files, there were no
documents regarding her ownership or past history; the file
for Paradox was just as empty. Then, from a long brown
envelope, the assistant drew a faded piece of paper.
‘Arthur found this old note tucked in the back of an
empty chronometer box left aboard Ariel. He hoped it
would provide a clue as to who owned the boat, but it
didn’t.’

92
 Ben studied the handwritten note. It was dated 18th
September 1948, and they could just decipher the words
‘To be repaired in Malden’. Both agreed that this wasn’t of
much help other than the writer couldn't spell Maldon. Ben
thanked the lady for her help and left the office to join the
others. He found Emma and Jake rummaging around in the
darkness of Paradox's hold.
‘Was there anything about Ariel in the office?’ asked
Emma.
Ben shook his head. ‘No. They don't know who the
owner is or where the boat came from. There's only a note
that suggests she may have visited Maldon around
September 1948 to get the chronometer checked, but by
then the ghost ship would have been in the Pacific.’

Jake spoke. ‘This fishing boat has definitely been

converted from a sailing ship. The hold was once a part of
the main cabin and, like the ghost ship, there are some
brass fittings aboard, but come and look at what we found
below the wheelhouse.'
They walked back through the hold to a cabin that
contained a couple of full-length bunks, a table and a small
galley.
‘Take a look at the wood fittings around the galley,’
suggested Emma.
Ben did and could see that they had been permanently
scorched with burn marks.
‘That might have been the result of Simon's cooking,’ she
added, ‘But there's something else too. Look at that shelf
above the port bunk.’

93
 She didn't have to say another word for as they gazed at a
small wooden box screwed to the shelf only one thing was
missing: Simon's mouth organ. They smiled at each other
as they inspected their discoveries. Perhaps they were
standing in the ghost ship after all, or perhaps it was just a
series of coincidences: there was no real way of knowing.

As they were leaving the yard, the helpful assistant called

to them from the office window.
‘I've found something which might interest you.’ She
held up a large black book of nautical tables. 'I kept
thinking about the spelling of Maldon in the note we found
on Ariel, the other fishing boat. Well, there is a place called
Malden according to this list of ports and islands. Look, it's
mentioned here in the index.'
‘But where is it?’ they asked.
She shook her head. 'It doesn't say exactly, it only gives
the latitude and longitude. Malden: Latitude 4 03 South,
Longitude 155 01 West. Now according to my reckoning,
that's an island somewhere in the South Pacific.’

94
21. High and dry
Encouraged by this piece of news, they agreed to take
another trip back to Osea Island. Once there, they could tell
their beachcombing friend what they had discovered. It
shouldn’t be too difficult to trace Ariel. They sat on the sea
wall and exchanged ideas on how things might turn out.
‘If Ariel is the ghost ship, he might want to buy her back
again.’
‘And convert her back to a sailing ship.’
‘Maybe we could help him during the holidays?’
‘He may not have enough money to buy her.’
And so on. But, despite the incoming tide, Shimmering
was still aground at the entrance to the lock so there was
nothing more they could do except wait.

After a while, Emma and Ben decided to go for a stroll

around the nearby fields. As they left, Ben shouted ‘Behave
yourselves!’ and Emma shot him a Brothers can be so
annoying look. When they returned, Jake had washed down
the decks using a long hose lying by the side of the lock.
Someone sitting on the sea wall had asked him questions
about Shimmering and about where they’d been sailing.
‘I just told him we’d been around the river and that we
were getting ready to return home. I didn’t like the look of
him much, but he was quite helpful and offered to coil the
hose while I went to switch off the tap and return the key to
the lock keeper.’ Ben asked Jake what he looked like.

95
 ‘Oh, well fed, head like a thumb, and a droopy kind of
moustache,’ came the reply.
‘He sounds a bit like Ben's mysterious stranger,’ said
Emma.
The three of them gave no further thought to the incident
and took a walk around Heybridge to pass the time. But the
hand of fate was waiting silently in the river to interfere
with their plans.

Upon their return to the lock, they found several yachts

moored around the entrance to await the opening of the
gates. In doing so, they had hemmed in Shimmering
assuming that she was also bound for the canal. With the
help of the owners, they cleared the lines that trapped her,
but lost valuable time getting out into the river. The next
problem was the wind, or the lack of any. During the
afternoon, it had dropped to a gentle breeze and had then
disappeared completely. Smoke from a distant factory
chimney drifted straight up into a cloudless sky, and the
surface of the water was like a mirror. Without wind to
drive the sails, there was nothing else for it but to start the
outboard motor. Jake tugged at the starter cord and the
engine burst into life. It ran for about a minute and then
faded away. Having checked the petrol, Jake rewound and
tugged the starter cord several times but the engine just
gave an unhealthy splutter and refused to run. While Emma
and Ben took turns with the starter cord, Jake thumbed
hastily through the oil-stained and dog-eared pages of the
instructions manual. His efforts to check and adjust settings

96
had no effect and he thumped the top of the motor with
frustration.
‘It’s let us down,’ he groaned, ‘Just when we really need
it!’

Collier's Reach slipped gradually astern and they headed

slowly, very slowly, in the general direction of Osea.
‘This calm won't last, there's usually some sea breeze
towards evening’ said Jake hopefully.
Several other yachts drifted lazily along in the ebb
stream. Emma tried to scull Shimmering by waggling the
rudder backwards and forwards, but it had little effect. Off
Decoy Point, they altered course and pointed the bows
towards the Stumble, the shallow stretch of water between
the island and the north shore. In the distance, at the far end
of the island, the beachcomber's small blue yacht was still
at anchor.
‘This short cut behind Osea Island should save a little
time.’ explained Jake, but Emma looked at him anxiously.
‘What about the tide?’ she queried, ‘There are no other
boats using this route now.’
They carried on in silence and the gap between
Shimmering and the other yachts in the main channel
increased. After a few minutes, there was a slight stirring
on the surface of the water and the small flag at the
masthead began to lift and flutter.
‘Look! You were right,’ cried Ben.
The sails filled with air and the sound of bubbles hissing
at the bows gradually increased as the boat gathered way.

97
With the boat heeling, they sailed on towards the island and
cheered the wind as it whipped past their faces.
Their delight was short-lived. Within a few hundred yards,
the twin keels had driven into a shallow bank of mud and
gravel and were firmly gripped in its clutches. With the
pressure of the tide swirling past her hull, Shimmering
swung around and slopped over at an angle. She was
stranded on a falling tide.

Jake plunged over the side and Ben followed. The cold
water came well over their waists, but they managed to
gain a foothold on the unseen bank and struggled to drag
the boat clear. They heaved and pulled, but she was stuck
fast. Within a few minutes, they had to abandon their
efforts, as she was no longer capable of floating. From the
gravel beneath their feet, Jake guessed that they were
aground on the causeway leading to Osea Island. Back
aboard, they dried themselves and changed clothes whilst
Emma brought the dinghy alongside. There was hardly
enough room for the three of them in the small boat, but no
one was willing to remain behind, so they squeezed aboard
and started rowing in the direction of the island. It was a
slow and tiring business, but the swift current helped to
carry them some way down the beach.

Emma was first out of the dinghy and set off along the
shore with the two of them in close pursuit. They followed
a rough path above the beach and skirted several small
coves. A few deserted farmhouses lay behind the trees on
their right, whilst, to their left, the remains of disused fish

98
traps beckoned from the shingle like stark black fingers.
Every so often, they disturbed groups of sea birds perched
along the sea wall and these fled across the estuary
protesting noisily at the unexpected invasion. The path
gradually became overrun with briars and nettles and was
impossible to follow, so they continued their journey on the
other side of the embankment until the beachcomber's hut
came into view.

The first thing they noticed was that the tarpaulin, which
had covered the roof and entrance to the hide, had
disappeared. They scrambled up the bank and looked
inside; all signs of occupation were gone. The fireplace
outside had been cleared away and the bricks lay piled on
the floor of the hide. Emma and Ben peered through the slit
that overlooked the beach, but there was no sign of the
beachcomber's yacht. Jake climbed on top of the hide and
stared down the river. In the distance, the small blue yacht
was sailing away towards the entrance of the estuary. They
shouted loudly and waved from the top of the embankment,
but it was pointless. No voice could have carried over such
a distance, and the little boat continued on its journey.
‘He's gone and he won't be coming back,’ said Emma
‘And he's taken everything with him.’
‘Not everything.’ replied Ben, pointing to the roof of the
hide. There, furled and tucked in the timbers above their
heads, was a large and colourful umbrella.

99
22. A brief phone call
Several miles to the north of London, dusk is descending
over a large country mansion. Though the building appears
deserted, in the study, someone is searching through a stack
of documents. The papers litter the heavy oak desk and
spill over onto the floor. Suddenly, the sound of a phone
ringing disturbs the silence and the search.

‘Hello. Who’s that?’

‘Who do you think?’ The caller, a man, sounds tetchy
‘You were meant to phone me earlier.’
‘I had a few things to sort out.’
‘Well is everything ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, but what about those kids?’
‘Just forget about them. They think they’re going home.’
‘I don’t want any stupid mistakes this time.’
‘There won’t be.’
‘You said that the first time.’
‘What about my money?’
‘It’ll be here waiting for you.’
‘Right, I better get on with the job.’
‘Come straight back here afterwards.’
‘Yeah, I’ll see you later.’

Pausing briefly to replace the phone, the woman continues

searching for a document she knows she must find.

100
23. Fire down below
Jake was right: Shimmering was aground close to the
causeway. A few feet either way and they might have
avoided the small bank of shingle on which she was now
forlornly trapped. They dragged the dinghy along slowly in
the few remaining inches of muddy water and secured it to
the stern. Any conversation was mixed with
disappointment. If only the motor hadn't packed up like
that. If only they had sailed to the south of the island. If
only. Two of the saddest words in any language.
‘Perhaps we shall meet him again one day,’ said Emma,
but didn't sound too confident.
Jake agreed and added, ‘What a pity we didn't get his real
address: To the Beachcomber, Summer Residence, Osea
Island, River Blackwater, Essex. We think we have found
the ghost ship.’
Jake's sense of humour rarely failed to cheer them up, but
it didn't work on this occasion. Later, however, Emma
wrote a short note with a similar message, walked back
along the beach, and pinned it to the umbrella.

While Jake tinkered with the outboard motor, Ben sat on

the hatch and listed the things they had discovered about
Ariel. She was a fishing boat that may have been converted
from a sailing ship. She may have sailed the South Seas
with a chronometer problem: a clue that might yet prove to
be a simple spelling error. It didn't really add up to much
and the other two agreed.

101
 ‘Well, I think the search was good fun,’ said Emma, ‘And
we certainly know a lot more about the river than we did a
week ago.’
Jake gave a cry of triumph as he found the cause of the
engine failure. There was water in the petrol tank and he
wondered if their new friend by the lock had something to
do with that. Fortunately, there was a spare supply aboard
and the engine would soon be running smoothly again.

Night fell and, from their perch on the causeway, they

hurled the anchor out on to the riverbed. It slid silently
under a layer of black ooze. To the East, a green beacon
stabbed away in the dark over The Spit. The only decision
that faced them now was when to leave the causeway. No
one wanted to spend another day on the mud so they chose
an early departure with the morning tide. For a while, they
sat in the cabin and played cards, then Emma set the alarm
clock and they turned in. When Ben awoke, a few hours
later, he heard the sound of Jake hauling in the anchor
chain, and went up to join him.
‘You were both fast asleep when the alarm went off so I
left you there. I can manage alone if you want to go back
down again.’
Ben shook his head and gave him a hand with the wet,
slimy chain. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could
see the water rising slowly around the hull. A cold easterly
wind blew across the estuary and but he resisted the
temptation to return to his dry warm bunk and pulled on
another jumper. Soon, the noisy outboard motor broke the
silence of their deserted anchorage and, with a brief

102
shudder, Shimmering slipped off the bank and headed
upstream to Maldon. As they crept toward Collier's Reach,
a small figure emerged from the cabin.
‘Morning all.’ Disturbed by the noise from the engine,
Emma had come to join them in the cockpit. She smiled as
she recalled the song contest during the van journey to the
coast, and started to hum the sea shanty that she and her
brother had sung to drown their father's mournful choruses.

Way-hay and up she rises

Way-hay and up she rises
Patent blocks of different sizes .......

Suddenly, she froze and gripped Jake’s arm. ‘Patent

blocks ... that's it ... why didn't I think of it earlier?’ Then,
before the others had the slightest idea what she was talking
about, she tugged at his sleeve and pointed to the shore.
'Quick! Pull over to Paradox before the tide sweeps us
further upstream.’
Jake eased the tiller and guided Shimmering across the
dark water to the beach where Paradox lay.
‘I'll need some light.’ Emma ducked below to get a lamp
from the cabin, ‘Just get close enough for me to hop
aboard. I'll only be gone a couple of minutes.’

Jake cut the engine and let Shimmering drift gently into
the shallows near the beach. A large and familiar shape
loomed up out of the darkness some yards ahead. It was
Paradox and Ben stepped up to the bows to fend her off as
they came alongside.

103
 ‘Now we can hear each other think,’ said Jake, ‘What’s
this all about?’
Sitting in the cockpit, Emma lit the lamp and repeated the
line about patent blocks. She had just started to explain
when they were distracted by a strong smell of burning.
Something was on fire and it wasn't the lamp; it seemed to
be coming from Paradox. They hauled themselves aboard
the old fishing boat. Smoke was billowing up from a
hatchway near the bows and a sharp crackling sound could
be heard from within the hull. One door of the wheelhouse
was flung open and an orange glow flickered around the
painted woodwork inside.
‘This boat’s on fire!’
‘We must get some help quickly.’

The nearby boats were deserted but Ben saw someone

standing on the jetty by the boatyard. A long plank of wood
had been left near the bows leading to the beach. Ben ran
down the plank and hurried to the boatyard. When he
reached the jetty, he hauled himself up using one of its
slime-covered posts as a support. Peering over the
planking, he froze at the sight of a large rat perching inches
from his face. Having inspected the new arrival, it scuttled
away and disappeared through a hole in the planks. The
jetty was empty but from somewhere across the other side
of the yard came the sound of running water. Ben walked in
the direction of the noise, which seemed to come from the
back of a large boatshed. Turning a corner, he saw a man
crouching down and washing his hands under a tap at the
rear of the building.

104
 ‘Can you help?’ he asked, ‘There's a boat on fire near the
yard.’
The man was clearly startled by Ben's sudden appearance,
but recovered very quickly. 'Yeah, I'll phone the fire
brigade. You better shove off, OK?’
Then turning, he ran off in the direction of the office
overlooking the jetty. Ben certainly had no intention of
‘shoving off' and decided to follow the man, particularly as
he hadn't asked any questions about the fire or the name of
the boat. By the time he reached the office, however, the
man had disappeared. Ben looked for a light being switched
on and listened for a voice; the boatyard remained dark and
silent. Puzzled, he walked along the front of the office and
tried the door but it was locked.

In the darkness, at the back of the office, Ben noticed the

store that he had searched earlier in the week. Although its
metal door was open, the store was deserted. He checked
behind the store, but there was no one there. Then, as he
turned back, he saw the man crossing the yard. He was
clutching a lump of wood as if he were about to give
someone a beating. To Ben’s horror, he realised that he
might be that someone and looked around in panic for a
way to escape. Before he could move, however, the man
had walked straight past him and into the store. He hadn’t
seen him at all. Ben decided to remain in the shadows and
hoped he wouldn’t be noticed. Behind him, a wire fence ran
along the rear of the boatyard; it was too high to climb.
Ahead lay the office and jetty, but these were in full view
of anyone inside the store. Ben remained by the side of the

105
store for several minutes, though it seemed like hours. Why
was the man taking so long to look for him in the store?
Surely, he must have seen that it was empty. Glancing up,
Ben noticed a small window at the side of the store and,
beneath the window, a large oil drum. He climbed up on
the drum as quietly as possible and peered inside.

Although the window was filthy and covered in

cobwebs, he could just see the man hiding behind the door.
He was breathing heavily and still clutching the wooden
post. From his shiny head and large moustache, Ben
recognised him as the man who had tried to remove the
metal plate from Paradox several days earlier. He was
hiding from Ben, but it was clear that he intended to use
that lump of wood on whoever might discover him.
Suddenly, from somewhere across the yard, he heard
Emma calling.
‘Ben, where are you?’
She had come to see why he was taking so long and was
standing in the yard and looking around. With a finger on
his lips, Ben waved at her to join him and, for a second, she
appeared to do so. But then he realised that she hadn’t seen
him and was walking directly towards the store. What if
she stepped inside? There was no time to waste. He slipped
silently off the oil drum, and ran to the front of the store.
The metal door had a large handle and a sliding bolt.
Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the handle, slammed the
door shut, and slid the bolt home.

106
24. Search’s end
The cabin beneath the wheelhouse was filled with smoke,
but the fire seemed to be coming from the hold. Coughing
and choking in the fumes, the crew of Shimmering grabbed
some old towels that were lying in the galley, soaked them
with water, and wrapped them around their faces. Then
they went down into the hold to investigate. Flames licked
around the base of the wooden mast and the hull reeked of
charred timbers. Despite the dense smoke, Ben thought he
could see sparks shooting up through a gaping hole in the
main deck. The smoke cleared briefly and he could see that
the hatch covers above the hold had been removed
deliberately so that the night breeze would fan the fames
below; flames that were creeping steadily in their direction.
‘Let’s get out of here before it gets any worse,’ he yelled
and turned to make a hurried exit.
Jake held him back and shouted. 'No! Let's try to put it
out before it takes hold.'
Before it takes hold! Ben thought Jake was mad, as it
seemed that the ship was already engulfed in flames. Jake
and Emma grabbed some buckets and scrambled up the
steps leading to the wheelhouse. As Ben followed them, he
remembered there was a hand pump near the hatch with a
length of hosepipe attached to it. It was a pump to clear the
bilges. He worked the handle up and down and, within
seconds, a stream of filthy water gushed out of the pipe.
Perhaps Paradox's leaky old timbers were to save her?
With the pipe leading over the hatchway, he worked the

107
pump like a demon. Meanwhile, Jake and Emma filled their
buckets from the ship's side and threw the contents on to
the flames rising from the hold. Within a few minutes, the
bilges started to dry out and the pump stopped working; it
looked as if they were fighting a losing battle.
'We must get to the heart of the fire!' shouted Jake,
carrying a bucket into the wheelhouse.
Ben grabbed Emma's bucket and ran after him. Down
below, they saw that their attempts to contain the fire had
been quite successful and the smoke was starting to clear.
At the far end of the hold, however, a small bonfire was
raging. It looked as if the hatch boards, the covers, some
rope and stores had been piled up and set alight. All they
had done was to dampen the flames licking from this angry
inferno. Ben noticed that one of the hatch boards was the
main source of the blaze and decided to try and shift it.
Though heavy, he managed to lift it clear and was about to
throw it to the side of the hold when something caught his
attention. Illuminated by the light of the flames, he thought
he saw a figure moving through the smoke towards him.
Could the man he had locked up in the storeroom have
escaped? Then, as he went to throw the burning hatch
board, something gripped his arm and he dropped the board
to one side. He swung around to see who had grabbed him,
but there was no one there. Not a living soul. Whatever the
cause, it may have saved their lives.

Then Emma appeared through the smoke in the hatchway

above. 'Ben! A basket of blocks.' she cried. 'Can you see a
basket of blocks?’

108
 How these would help to fight the blaze, he couldn't
imagine, but he looked around in every direction. By the
light of the flames, he could see a large wicker basket lying
on its side with several wooden blocks spilled out across
the deck and almost reduced to ashes. The basket lay
behind the fire but the heat was too intense for a closer
inspection.
‘I can see it,’ he cried, ‘But I can’t get near it.’
Within seconds, a large metal hook thudded down on the
deck beside him. It was Shimmering’s mooring hook and
line.
‘Try to grab it with that,’ yelled Emma.
Ben threw the hook in the direction of the basket and,
after several unsuccessful attempts, caught it and dragged it
clear of the fire. Emma was still peering down through the
hatchway, her eyes streaming from the smoke. ‘Now pass
up your buckets using the hook,’ she called.

The buckets disappeared up through the hatchway on the

mooring hook to be filled with water and returned. For the
next ten minutes, they worked hard to rescue the old ship
and the fire was gradually brought under control. The air
was thick with the acrid smell of burnt pitch, which had
melted and dripped down from the seams above. Beams
were charred and smouldering, and blistered paint peeled
from every plank. That the ship was badly damaged, there
was no doubt, but they had managed to save her. As the
smoke cleared, several red metal containers could be seen
piled up to the side of the hold. They were marked Petrol -
Highly Inflammable. Ben remembered trying to cast aside

109
the burning hatch board and silently thanked whoever, or
whatever, had stopped him from doing so. If the flames had
reached the metal cans, the boat would have exploded.

Exhausted and filthy, they slumped down on deck by the

door of the wheelhouse. Their faces were streaked with
sweat and soot, and their clothing scorched. After a few
minutes, Ben remembered the man locked in the store and
describe the events in the yard to Jake.
‘It sounds like an insurance fraud to me,’ said Jake, ‘The
owner gets someone to set the boat alight, claims it was an
accident, and picks up the insurance money.'
‘But why did walrus-face try to remove the metal plate
earlier?’
‘It must have had the ship's registered number on it. With
two similar boats next to each other, he probably took it to
check with the owner that he had the right target.’
Then, as they sat wondering what to do next, they heard
Emma was calling up to them from the hold below. With
some reluctance, they dragged themselves to their feet and
went down the steps to join her. She was leaning over the
wicker basket that Ben had rescued. It was upside-down
and she held a lamp over its wooden base. ‘Do you
remember that Dad had seen a crate or basket of blocks on
one of the fishing boats? Well, out there on the river, it
suddenly occurred to me that it might be the basket that
was used to ferry stores to the ghost ship; the one that the
Pacific Islander repaired. Just take a look at this!'

110
 Puzzled, they looked down to where she was pointing.
There, in the flickering light of the lamp, they saw a map
with names and figures, carefully engraved almost thirty
years earlier by an old man in the Galapagos. An old man
who wanted to share a secret with people he could trust.
The first rays of the morning sun pierced the smoke still
rising from the ashes and someone appeared in the entrance
to the wheelhouse. They had found the ghost ship and were
about to share their discovery.

111
24. A final surprise
A familiar face appeared on the steps above; to their delight
it was the beachcomber. ‘She's a bit different from when I
last saw her, but it's the old ghost ship alright.’
‘And look,’ said Emma, ‘Here's your treasure map to
prove it. But what brought you back this way? We didn't
think that we would ever see you again.’
‘I saw you waving from the island as I was heading down
river. Then I remembered that I’d left my umbrella behind
but the tide was too strong to turn back. I lay at anchor off
Stone for the night and returned to collect it on the flood
tide early this morning. That's when I saw the note you had
left, so I continued up the river to look for you. But what on
earth has happened down here?’
While Emma and Ben described the events of the last few
hours, Jake went ashore to phone the police. When he
returned, they were still explaining to the beachcomber
how they had pieced together the various clues.
‘Did you check on my prisoner?’ asked Ben.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Jake. ‘He had tried to escape through
the small window at the back of the store, but he got stuck
half way and is still there now. I won't repeat what he
called me when I refused to release him!’

In the daylight, the four of them explored the ship. The

beachcomber was obviously delighted to see her again,
though saddened by her wretched condition.

112
 ‘I've passed this beach many times, but never imagined
that one of the fishing boats might be the ghost ship. The
name Paradox didn't mean anything to me.’
‘We though that another fishing boat called Ariel might
have been the ghost ship,’ added Emma, ‘The lady in the
boatyard said it had visited Malden in the South Pacific.’
‘Or Maldon on the Blackwater,’ added Jake with a grin.
The beachcomber hunted around the cupboards and
drawers in the wheelhouse until he found a large
screwdriver, then he beckoned them to follow him back
down into the hold.
‘Let's take it off the basket. I don't think anyone will miss
it.’
‘Or deserve it,’ added Ben.
The beachcomber removed the copper screws holding the
wooden base to the basket. When it was released, they
brushed away the dirt and tried to decipher the words and
numbers carved on its surface. Nobody took any notice of
what was lying on the original base of the basket. It was
only when they turned the map over and saw six circular
green stains in the dark wood that they glanced back at the
basket. There, to their astonishment, in a layer of thick dust
and rotting wood, lay half a dozen large coins.
‘So that’s why he wanted us to take his map if we ever
left the ghost ship. It was meant to be a surprise. He put the
coins here when he repaired the basket. They must have
come from the treasure trove on his secret island.’
‘Pieces of eight!’ gasped Ben.
‘No, pieces of eight would be silver; these are gold.’

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 They passed the coins around, turning them over and
studying them carefully. On one side there was a coat of
arms and the word 'Hispaniola'; on the reverse, a king and
queen stared coldly across at each other.
‘Do you think they came from a Spanish galleon?’
‘Possibly, but just think of the men who fought and
probably killed each other to possess them.’
‘And now they are yours again.’ said Emma.
The beachcomber turned the coins over slowly. No one
spoke, but they guessed he was wondering what he and his
companions might have done if they had known that the
coins were concealed in the basket. Then he looked up at
them and smiled.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I want you to have them. They're no use to
me. They would only collect dust on a shelf at home. But
they are probably worth something. You deserve them and
it's the best way that I can thank you.’ He handed them
each two coins and continued. ‘It's so easy to fill your life
with dreams yet end up in a rut having done nothing about
them; the years can thunder by. Perhaps the coins you are
holding may give you the chance to escape, to travel, to see
the world or to do whatever you set your heart on. But
remember that money isn't everything; I had to learn that
the hard way. You must have the courage to follow your
dreams.’

And that's about as good a place as any to finish this

story. Their suspicions that the fire was deliberate were
right. The owner had arranged it in order to collect the
insurance on a boat that was of no further interest to her.

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She had employed an accomplice to do the job; both were
arrested and charged with various offences including arson.
The third fishing boat had been destroyed earlier through
their botched plans. Naturally, no insurance was paid and
Paradox eventually passed into the hands of the yard. She
remained on the beach by the sea wall for two seasons.
Arthur placed a large 'For Sale' sign over the wheelhouse,
but she attracted little or no interest from passers-by. Twice
a day, the tides brought life to her timbers then lowered her
gently into the mud again. But, just when it seemed that she
was to be towed away and scuttled in the deep waters of the
North Sea, someone bought her. The mast was restored, the
ugly wheelhouse removed, and the hull repaired and
repainted. And then, one night, she sailed away from the
river and has never returned.

The crew of Shimmering kept in contact with the

beachcomber for a few years until the day a large flat parcel
arrived in the post. With it came a formal letter from a
solicitor regretting that their friend had died. In his will, he
had directed that the enclosed be sent to them. The
solicitor’s letter described the contents of the package as
'One simple wooden engraving without a frame. Of no
apparent value.'

And what of the three companions today? Well, they

often talk of finding a larger boat and going to look for that
treasure. They may go one day, but time is passing swiftly
as their busy lives unfold. But how about you? You could
take up the search instead. Why not? There’s rather more

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truth in this tale than you realise. You know the route and
the map of the atoll looks genuine enough. Unfortunately,
the oceans are rising and the atoll may soon disappear, so
there’s no time to lose. Start to plan your voyage now and
we can talk about the money later. Don’t forget, you’ll need
to pack plenty of shark repellent and a metal detector. Try
not to damage the coral, and, if you can remember, leave a
message in that old barrel on Post Office Bay.

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