Written by Gordon Aspey
19 October 2019
I recall during October 1988 two friends inviting me and Babs to join them for a spot of sailing in the Balearic’s. They were members of a small group of south Londoners dedicated to a more leisurely life style. Important events like Coronations, Christenings, Elections, Weddings, Funerals or whatever were secondary to a bit of fun on the water. If wind and tide were favourable with a sunny outlook, telephones would be busy and a small flotilla of trailers and sailing craft would head towards the sea.
John, a cockney with a mop of bright ginger hair would ring me ‘Hey Gord, the wind is variable 3 to 4 and tide is right we can give you a lift.’ I was on the periphery of this group having three kids a cat, mortgage and business to consider, my freedom was more limited. However I did join them on numerous occasions. John had a wicked sense of humour and would have us in stitches most of the time. My abilities in the dingy sailing department were questionable having dinged the same port hand navigation mark on two occasions. John thought my ability as ballast made up for my deficiencies at the helm.
Ron was like a Russian General square jawed and serious with a keen interest in fine detail. I remember trying to explain to him the workings of a TMP gearbox (I didn’t have much idea) he said ‘stop waffling Gordon your talking bull shit, he never minced his words. He had a 28ft yacht in Brighton Marina,it had every imaginable gadget fitted, useful or not. As a result the top speed was reduced to 3 knots. Sometimes the only way he could get out of the marina would be to motor out in reverse gear. For some unexplained reason it was faster going backwards. He wasn’t very popular with the lock master who used his loud hailer to register his disapproval but Ron ignored him.(the lock has since been removed).
I was in the old port of Marseilles, waiting for a break in the weather. I was delivering a motor boat to Malta in late September 1988.
The harbour master was explaining to me how the wind worked in cycles of three. He suspected this was a nine-day version, so I might as well relax and enjoy myself. This seemed like a good idea. Then out of the blue John and Ron appeared. The temperature was in the middle seventies and they were dressed in motorcycling gear and sweating like pigs. They had parked their huge black motorbikes next to the harbour master’s office. He wasn’t very keen, but the linguistic problems of dealing with two aggressive-looking Englishmen in leathers left him shrugging his shoulders in despair. They made good use of the shower and other facilities and came aboard for drinks and a chat.
‘I’ve bought a motor-sailor from a bloke at the yacht club and we sailed it down to Mallorca,’ said John. ‘We’ve had a great time. Now we’re biking round the Med for a bit, then we’ve got some mates coming over next week to do a bit of sailing, and then my nephew and his mate are coming over for a week.’
‘Blimey!’ I said ‘Don’t you blokes ever do any work? No wonder the country is in such a state!’ John grinned and scratched his gingery thatch of hair. ‘You only live once, Gord.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Ron. ‘We’re a long time not here. Why don’t you and Babs come and join us for a week? You’d love it. You can use all the hotel facilities, including the swimming pool across the road. They don’t seem to mind.’
‘I’ll have a chat with Babs , you can put my name down for certain. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’ Babs had tried to get tickets but they were fully booked the following week.
We were enjoying a glass of wine after a late dinner with the ten o’clock news droning on in the background. Then Babs gasped, ‘Did you hear that? Something about the Edith Carol and two lost at sea, presumed drowned – and he gave out the names of John and Ron. We sat staring at each other with disbelief. The report on the television gave no details of the loss apart from the fact that they were caught in a storm returning from Ibiza to Mallorca.
The British consulate later reported Edith Carol had been sunk in collision with Sirius belonging to the Greenpeace organisation. Sirius had come to their rescue when Edith Carol fired her flares. Ron had been at the helm when a wave swept him overboard. John went forward and clipped himself on to the mast, while the vessel circled in the darkness to locate him. John’s nephew was at the wheel and his friend was in the cabin; both were complete novices. The nephew was still at the wheel when Sirius collided with them. Edith Carol sank almost immediately with John still clipped to the mast. The nephew and his friend jumped into the water and were saved by Greenpeace crew. It was thought John would have been killed instantly when he was hit by Sirius’s bow. Ron was never found. The rescue operation took over four hours, and included the rescue of the Greenpeace wireless operator who’d taken a whack from Edith Carol’s mast. The rescue was arguably a bit of a shambles but to be fair the Greenpeace crew were all volunteers. But every October is a sad reminder for me of two mates who never came home.
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