Sea fever

I’m not usually a “morning person”. Never have been.

Ever since my days at boarding school, I would routinely seek permission for “late study”, enduring solo passage through the darkened corridors to enjoy the almost eerie silence of the deserted prep hall and for the first time coming to terms with being one Acquainted with the Night.

The years that followed included military service, university interspersed and overlapping with the restaurant and hotel industry and finally (for the last two decades and the foreseable future) journalism – none of the above is exactly renowned for the regularity of its hours.

Initially subconsciously but later very consciously, as with many people with (in my case fortunately mild and managable) Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome (DSPS), I have channelled my career choices toward those areas where my chronically anomalous relationship with “normal” sleep/wake patterns is an asset rather than a liability, like my penchant for night photography.

One of the lightships that mark the channel between
Harwich and Felixstowe

Simply (too simply) put, when a “normal” person looks at their watch and sees it’s midnight or 01h00, a little well-conditioned and programmed switch falls in the back of their brain that tells them “it’s late and past your bedtime” and they begin to feel sleepy and drowsy. DSPS people just say, “Oh, it’s midnight,” and carry on with whatever they were doing.

The maxim of “early to bed and early to rise” is woven into our culture as a virtue, so there have been times in my life that I have been shoehorned into (and frequently thrived in) a standard 9 to 5 existence. However, as is usually the case with DSPS, as soon as the reason for early rising disappears (such as when you succeed in landing the night shift) you revert to “vampire”.

The result is that I’ve seen a lot more sunsets than sunrises. As a photographer, the soft light of a clear morning (not least being awake to enjoy it rather than cursing its invasion of your sleep) is a rare pleasure.

On a recent quick trip to the UK – I cross the Channel several times a year –  the Thursday evening outward journey from Hoek van Holland to Harwich was not suitable for photography. The icy death throes of the hurricane-force winds that had lashed the northern British Isles for the previous few days were whipping-up the waters of La Manche and depositing chilly wet squalls on its eastern shore. While I’ve never shied from the cold, that evening I was thankful to pass quickly from the warmth provided by Messrs Daimler & Benz to that of the Stena Britannica.

My meetings in London required what I call a period of “normal time conformity” and when that mode is activated (it’s not difficult but it must be conscious), I sometimes get to “see the morning”. I had spent the night at the Cliff Hotel in Harwich – an archetypal Victorian English seaside hotel on the Marine Parade that’s been nicely renovated and offers great value and service. I’d only checked in long after dark, so I just had a few minutes between my 06h45 wake-up call, ablutions and check-out to enjoy the view sou’eastwards over the North Sea, past Margate and eventually to Calais as the seagull flies.

The Dawn Patrol flies in
in perfect formation

It was spectacular. The wind had abated and a clear night left a fragile layer of ice on my windscreen. I was glad for my ushanka as I scraped myself some visibility. Driving a left-hand-drive Continental car in the UK is not difficult, but you have to keep your eyes open.

The sky was alight but the sun itself was still below the horizon – visually stunning but Stena Line check-in beckoned more urgently than my Nikon. One of the by-products of DSPS is a tendency to be anxious of oversleeping or being late.

As I turned, I drove along the deserted Marine Parade. I think I might have slowed in salute to the obligatory bronze 2/3-size statue of Victoria Regina & Imperatrix, Fidei Defensor etc. Had I driven the other way, I would have done the same at the Cenotaph to the Fallen of Harwich, where the poppy studded wreaths from November have yet to fade.

As I crossed the Phoenix Bridge toward Harwich Ferry Port, the moon was setting like a massive yellow cheese. Shutter-button finger itching like hell! Nowhere to stop! No time to stop! By the time I reached the check-in queue, it was gone. Mother Nature can be such a terrible tease…

There are several logistical as well as financial reasons I almost always choose the car ferry over flying. I love the experience of flying itself but I especially prefer the Ferry check-in process which does not require me to get there three hours beforehand, get (infuriatingly and needlessly) half undressed three times before boarding and then confining my 195cm frame into a seat designed for jockeys.

My car can be laden with goodies from Sainsbury’s (like Xmas mince pies) or vacuum-packed steaks and cutlets from Franklin's Farm in my on-board cooler (no 20kg airline limit). It’s parked on the car deck and I go to my cabin (where I have a private bathroom and there’s ample space for my legs)… The movie is on an LG flatscreen, not a fuzzy LCD and if I want to see the latest releases, the ship has its own cinema. I could go on...

I couldn't help drinking up this stunning morning, however the sun had yet to warm the night air and just before a man in a day-glo safety suit directed me up Britannica’s fore’ard ramp, my dashboard thermometer read -0.5 deg. C. Crossing the Channel by car ferry is an exciting experience but for a DSPS person, especially for one with an itchy shutter-button finger, seeing a morning like this is far more so. I dumped any unnecessary kit in my cabin, changed the bulky ushanka for a watch cap (beanie) and headed aft on Deck 9 where a set of two automatic doors give access to the promenade through an air lock.

The waters of the estuary and mouth of the River Stour that separate Harwich from Felixstowe were like the proverbial millpond, stirred-up only by the passage of the massive ferry and a very handsome motor yacht that followed in our lee a’ starboard before powering-up and disappearing, plumes of spray in her wake. The Christmas shopping in Amsterdam is great and with horses like that on board, His Lordship could deliver Her Ladyship to the PC Hoofdstraat in no time!

There wasn’t much to photograph after we’d cleared port. There was hardly a sea running and the massive ship’s only perceivable motion tends to rock you to sleep like a nanny. I'd had a restful six hours' shuteye during "normal sleeping hours" but the pull of DSPD is strong. After lunch (some antipasti I bought from an M&S along the motorway) and a few waves of the very eager Baccardi hand of Jonno, one of Britannica's ever-smiling Philipino stewards, the effects of that hour on deck took their toll. My bunk, which had beckoned flirtatiously when I boarded, was now issuing direct orders. After a few hours of intent obedience to said orders, the pitch of the ship’s engines slowed and I realised that we were nearing the Dutch coast.

Back out on deck, the wind had whipped up a little, producing a chill factor of -5 deg. C. Just one other lunatic shutterbug and I were treated to some interesting opportunities: a heavy-lift vessel, some tankers and bulk carriers.

 

By the time the ship approached her berth at Hoek van Holland, the crisp winter sun that had risen over Harwich was calling it a day. Mother Nature played with the light for a while and by the time the call came for disembarkation, it had set.

Click here to see the full photo series on my Facebook profile. - AMB

“I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking…”

- John Masefield (1878-1967, English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)


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