A day sail in winter

For three days now, the north-easterly gale had been raging. I hoped, when it finally abated, to have a day afloat. There should be some interesting flotsam about and perhaps one or two of the less usual species of seabirds blown into the estuary. At last I woke up without the sound of the wind round the windows, but with the forecast of a light northerly wind for the following day. It was February however and bitterly cold. Accordingly I assembled the appropriate gear. Helly Hansen Lifawear underwear and Polar suit of nylon pile on top. Over that a waxed cotton waterproof jacket — not Barbour as the brass zips seize up in salty conditions. Chopped off waterproof trousers and a Maine quilted cap completed the outfit, with ski socks and thigh waders for my pedal extremities.

The Medway estuary is quite large, opening out to about 4 miles wide at high water. Between river proper and the sea are 10 miles of channel, on either side of which are extensive creeks, saltings and mud flats most of which becomes open water at high tide. It carries a fair amount of commercial traffic. For short visits to the lower estuary I keep a flat bottom pram there on the saltings. However the tide was all wrong on this occasion with low water around midday, so the trip had to be started up river if it was to be contained within the daylight hours of a brief winter day.

Maisie Lou my Swampscott dory was ready to roll, but in addition to her summer gear she now had an outboard motor. This operates in an inboard well which is otherwise filled by a concentric locker box, fitting flush with the boat’s bottom. The engine cannot tilt when so fitted. It sits on the rear well-deck when not required. Oars must be used when investigating the shallows. Long, slim and with slack bilges the dory needs little power to make her move whether under sail, oars or motor. One and a half horse power is OK for normal conditions, but in rough weather a boat requires much more power for the same speed and three horses is good insurance in her case. When under power and single-handed she needs a bit of trimming ballast in the bows and I carry a five gallon can of water for this purpose. Her design is a lightweight version of the original type. The Swampscott’s legendary sea-keeping characteristics depended on being propelled by oars or small engine not necessarily sails. It was later developed for faster sailing and racing but it then became larger, beamier and required decking, all at the expense of its easy handling under oars. Given moderate weather Maisie Lou may not need the engine and sail will suffice for longer passages, but she doesn’t have powerful sections to resist heeling so strong winds may make the engine advisable in winter. Alternatively lack of wind would make it essential, to avoid being overtaken by darkness. The proposed trip would total about 20 miles.

The weather was as forecast and when I got to the water small patches of pale blue sky were showing but visibility was a bit poor. Before I started I followed an old wildfowling habit and dunked my hands in the icy water. Although this is painful to begin with, once one hands come round again they become comfortable and resistant to cold for a few hours. I set the spritsail and set off close hauled downriver with the ebb. After an hour the estuary widened before me. There was certainly plenty of bird life. A massed flight of waders poured overhead, probably on their way to the mud banks still uncovering. In the distance I could see a raft of wigeon about 200 strong on the water, and beyond them a party of about 40 brent geese. There were other varieties of duck, but as I was looking into the eastern light it was not possible to sort them out.

As I continued a thin dark line became apparent near the horizon to starboard. This was my eventual destination which Charles Stock an ex-DCA member, calls the Great Marsh, but I first intended to visit some saltings nearer the open sea where I knew much floating debris ended up. This was a lee shore but still within the estuary so the surf wasn’t anything to worry about in the present conditions. I dropped anchor a little way out and drifted in, finally stepping out into knee deep water. As I was not sure how long I would be there and therefore what the state of the tide would be when I left, I had attached a long thin line to the crown of the anchor before anchoring, carrying the end with me to fasten to my sounding pole which I stuck into the mud further inshore.

Extensive saltings run out from the mainland at this point, so my beachcombing involved a fair amount of exertion during the hour or so I was there, as choice object might be carried by the tide and wind right up to the seawall. Actually my haul was a bit disappointing, not nearly as good as in summer when yachtsmen scatter fenders and dinghy oars around like confetti. A full can of German beer, an unopened carton of talcum powder (good for when repairing bicycle tires) and a couple of sizeable pieces of timber that I identified as ash (useful for making tillers). I also found two new scaffold boards and an eight by four sheet of shuttering ply for which I couldn’t find room in the boat, also about thirty metres of 35 mm polypropylene warp, for which I didn’t have a use. Finally I waded out towards Maisie Lou, pulled the anchor towards me by the tripping line until I could get on board, hauled out to the anchor and then rowed into deeper water. A gentle half hour sail took me to the Great Marsh.

Over the centuries this land area has been slowly sinking. In the nineteenth century the marsh was a farm on two islands with access over strayways at low water; before that a low lying sedimentary plain where the Romans established a pottery. It used to be commonplace to find shards and even whole pots from time to time but archaeologists have plundered the area digging into the seawalls in the process, which aggravated the erosion and now all is salt marsh. At low tide there are some 2000 acres of comparatively dry land. At high spring tide I doubt if there is as much as two acres of seawall still above water. Nevertheless the wildfowl love it — and wildfowlers. Although it is all a private shoot my presence is tolerated on the perimeter. With Maisie Lou’s painter over my shoulder I waded up a small creek, keeping to the centre where the mud is firmer underfoot. I was aiming for a hump in the marsh which was once the site of a farmhouse. Now only a few tumbled bricks remain. There I made myself comfortable with beef sandwiches, hot coffee and whisky and mounted my binoculars. The sky was never empty. Parties of duck flighted across the marsh, wigeon, teal and pintail. Several of the flocks were two to three hundred strong. I was seeing what was but a small proportion of the total population as several thousand duck winter in the north Kent marshes. Small groups of brent flew by about the estuary and even the odd parties of greylag and Canada geese. The larger waders, curlew, godwits and oystercatchers moved across the marsh in groups. The smaller waders wheeled across the sky, so many in a flock that they looked like smoke floating across the landscape. When they turned their plumage caught the light and the colour of the smoke changed from grey to silver. When they came across the marsh I was able to identify the individuals; ringed plover, grey plover, dunlin, redshank and turnstone. Across a main creek on the mainland I could see a short eared owl quartering the fresh marsh, but on my marsh I was rewarded by a view of a female hen harrier which glided over the saltings on set wings. Still I had seen nothing unusual for a winter’s day on the estuary. The variety of birds is much greater than in summer when only breeding species are to be seen. At this time of the year the vast number of winter visitors is present which breed further north, as well as the residents. Looking outwards across miles of mud flats I liked being able to contemplate a true wilderness, possibly the last apart from the sea itself. The area between the tides is pretty much as it has always been. It is fortunate for the sake of those who like the wild places that so many birds find rest and food in this type of environment as it thus becomes the concern of the RSPB. The considerable muscle of this society was recently drawn into a fight on this estuary to successfully ward off a commercial development on part of these mud flats.

The tide was creeping into the marsh and I paddled out against the flow. The wind had increased a little and to be on the safe side I reefed before I left the shelter of the creek. Once in the main channel I was on a close reach for the most part and surged along homeward bound as the sky grew darker. Snow flakes began to fall, a sparkling contrast to the dark sky and brown water. They blew past the sail in twisting patterns and then were immediately obliterated when they touched the surface of the sea. Visibility began to deteriorate and I almost ran down a group of birds on the water. As they took off they demonstrated a rather ‘Roman nose’ appearance and revealed themselves to be eider duck. At last something out of the ordinary. Seen here a few times before over the years but at least noteworthy. In summer I would see them in Aberdeenshire.

The wind now felt more spiteful and the tideway more agitated. I reminded myself that I hadn’t seen any sign of the human race all day apart from a tug and a pilot vessel. I wouldn’t survive very long if I was tipped into the icy brew. I therefore sailed towards the windward shore to get smoother water, gently luffed up into the wind and gingerly released the sprit. It was obviously not before time that I was striking sail. As soon as the canvas was roughly rolled and tied off I undid the mast gate and brought the mast and sail down into the boat. I then opened the engine well, unlashed the engine and lowered it into position. I blessed the inboard arrangement which saved me having to hang out over the stern. Second pull on the starter and off we went I could now fasten the hood of my jacket around my face to protect me from the driving spray. I also felt the need for my Dachstein wool mitts, which even when soaked still give warmth and settled down cheerfully to the uncomfortable plug for home, a bar of chocolate in my pocket, the snow flakes whirling ever more thickly around me and the comforting hum of Japanese ponies behind my shoulder.

Some time later, glancing behind me I saw the dim outline of a small cargo ship, coming up on the flood. It must be about half a mile behind. Plenty of room for us both I thought but nevertheless moved outside the line of channel buoys. The weather hadn’t done with me yet though as the snow thickened and the wind suddenly increased. Visibility was dramatically reduced to near white-out conditions. I could hardly see the bows of my boat. I told myself there was no need to panic as I could easily just run into the shallows. However this might not be such a good idea with the freighter overtaking as the edge of the channel to leeward at this point was steep-to and firm. Its bow wave could throw us onto the mud, a very uncomfortable situation for Maisie Lou and me. On the other side of the channel there were shallows but obstructed by a coal jetty stretching out from a power station inland. However I had automatically checked the compass heading when the visibility deteriorated and reckoned as I was on a straight stretch of channel, that I could hold course for a little while if I slowed down. The situation might improve. After some minutes I could hear the throb of the ship’s engines above the noise of the outboard, but looking over my shoulder all I could see was snow. I was just making up my mind to take a chance and head off at right angles towards the bank when I saw the more intense whiteness of the bow wave through the murk and realised the snow was easing. Then the black bow of the ship appeared above it. When I looked forward again it was to see the red steel bulk of a channel buoy dead ahead, a hazard I had forgotten about in the excitement. I thrust the tiller violently away from me to dodge inshore of it, just as the ship rumbled past leaving mixed odours of hot engine oil and lamb stew in its wake.

An hour or so later I was in the river and the snow faded away as the lights of the town ahead began to come on. Eventually in smooth water, I glided up to the deserted club pontoon.

Checking the trailer before leaving for home I noticed the gunwales of the dory were now coated with ice and the stars were twinkling from a clear sky above. As I got into the warm car I thought to myself that the wilderness was all very well, but civilisation has its points. It would have been a long cold night down on the marshes!