- Sunspot 15

…and there are storms. There are those that follow a text book pattern and can be recognised as they build. But then again, there are those that seem to materialise from nowhere - like the one that devastated the Fastnet; the one that hit the Sydney Hobart race; and the one that reached hurricane force across the south of England in 1987. The velocity these winds can achieve, the rapidity with which they can build and the ease they seem to escape the forecaster’s notice until the last minute, makes them rather scary. I’ve often wondered – with a shudder - what it must be like to be caught out in one. On Saturday the 9th. March this year, two of us had a glimpse – fortunately only a glimpse.

I awoke at 7 am, refreshed from a good night’s sleep. The air in the cabin was chilly. Languidly, I reached an arm out of the warm sleeping bag, lit the stove under the kettle and turned on the radio before snuggling back into the warmth again. Radio Suffolk broadcasts a forecast after the news and I listened in my dozy state. The newsreader’s words went in one ear and out the other. In truth, I was not much interested in the news, and was quite sure I knew what the forecast would be…………….

Yesterday, Dave Smith, with his crew Ralph had been away in Mischief, his Skipper 17 and I’d joined them with The Genie. Together we’d left the Walton Backwaters and enjoyed a fairly undemanding sail, finally going through Harwich and up the River Stour. We’d anchored for the night not far out of Mistley. Overnight, the tide had ebbed, lowering us onto the river bottom as gently as a baby being put down in its cot, then flooded, raising us up just as gently, and waking no one. Now, the sun was shining through the cabin windows and there was not a cloud in the sky. We had always known that there were to be stronger winds on Sunday, and planned to stay within reasonably easy reach of our base, but these earlier forecasts had predicted good sailing conditions for both the Friday and this Saturday.

The newsreader stopped and the forecaster took over. A vigorous new low had formed over Ireland, he told us, and was rapidly crossing the UK. As a result, we could expect strong south to south westerlies with gusts up to 55mph! I sat up - now instantly fully awake - suddenly oblivious to the chill and with my mind racing. Our base was to the south and getting there could be very nasty.

What’s more, there was little point in hanging about, even under our protective weather shore high up in the river, as Sunday would also have fresh to strong winds. Last night, I remembered the glass had dropped very slightly from Friday morning’s 1021. Now, it stood at only 1010 – a drop of 11mbs in the 24 hours! Dave and I held a hasty conference and decided to hi-tail it back to Walton as quickly as possible. By 8am, we were underway, with thirteen and a half miles to sail.

It was one of those ‘butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth’ mornings. The ebb and a gentle south wester carried us at a leisurely pace towards Harwich, in unbroken sunshine. We came on the wind through the harbour, the boats healing only slightly to a force 2 - 3. Outside, with wind over tide conditions, it was a little rougher - enough to slow a small boat. And as speed was now of the utmost importance, we tacked over into the smoother water under the weather shore at Dovercourt. Progress was good and I began to think we’d get in before the storm broke, but a look to windward suggested it would be a close run thing. A huge, menacing wall of cloud covered the windward sky. This could be it, I remember thinking. Before long, the sun was hidden and the breeze began to harden.

Then, strangely, the sun broke through again, fragmenting the clouds. They followed each other playfully across the sky, and it quite quickly became just another ‘bright day with sunny intervals’, as the weathermen might have described it. Was there a mistake? Had we given up a weekend’s sailing for nothing more than this, with a force 4 - or possibly a 5 at the most - later? The skies gave no warning signs of the coming wrath.

About 3 – 4 miles from base, the breeze started to show its hand. Two or three gusts swept us, healing The Genie until it took excessive weather helm to keep her on course. We were entering the narrow channels with the Pye sands just under our lee. The ebb was still running, so they would only get narrower. I reefed for easier control and noticed Dave made a similar decision about the same time.

By the time we were 2 miles from base – perhaps half an hour’s sailing from the Marina – the breeze began to work up to fever pitch and The Genie was, quite suddenly, crying out for a second reef, but there was no room to heave to. I had gambled that more sail and speed would get us there before the storm broke, and it now looked as if I might lose. I could only ease the mainsheet. The wind seemed to increase by the minute on the close fetch along the narrow Walton Channel, reaching even greater speeds as it leapt over the sea walls. You could hear the stronger gusts coming with a spine-tingling screech. At each gust, I’d ease the main off, letting it flog. Much of the jib was already rolled up, only a handkerchief drew us along. The helm was down to leeward keeping us up to the wind. I thought of Dave a little way astern, but had my hands too full to spare a glance.

About a quarter of a mile from the Marina, near where the channel turns to the west, we were just about managing to stay on our feet. The gusts – which were rapidly becoming the norm – were producing their banshee like noise and this, coupled with the flogging sails was quite unnerving. It was obviously impossible to tack towards the Marina after the next bend and the engine had to take over. Enough really was enough! I lowered Sooty and - thank heavens- it fired at once. But attempting to drop and stow the main and steer at the same time, single-handed as I was, became pure pantomime, with me playing the part of the inept Wishy Washy. As the halyard was eased, the slides were ripped from the track and I had a frantic struggle before it was finally lashed down. During this time, the engine, which needed high revs to work into the wind, started sheering from side to side, taking us first towards the mud on one side, then towards the mud on the other. Eventually the main was stowed and I was able to concentrate on the steering, and it became relatively easy going. I was docked in my berth by 1300 and Dave came in some minutes later. He estimated the breeze had reached a good F7 by then and I tended to agree. Checking the glass again, I found it stood at 1003 - meaning a total drop since Friday morning of 18 mbs - a whole inch in old money – with that last 7 mbs drop occurring in the 5 hours it had taken us to make the passage.

For Dave and I, it was all over. The fat lady had sung. Or to be more precise, she was still singing, judging by the Wagnerian shrieks through the masts and the accompanying percussion of halliards and shackles beating against them. We speculated on the fate of a few yachts we’d seen setting out just as we were coming in – when it still appeared to be "a bright day with sunny intervals". Two old boys on a smallish Westerly, had given me a friendly wave and now I wondered how they were getting on. I still don’t know, but doubtless a big diesel helped them to safety.

Over the next few hours, the wind continued up the Beaufort scale – and almost off it - or so it seemed. We watched large yachts, moored alongside the marina pontoons, heal over about 10 degrees under the weight of it. I tried taking some photos and as I walked along the Marina footways, I was literally stopped in my tracks by some gusts. Unfortunately, I ran out of film and couldn’t photo the sizeable waves or the spume being whipped off and flung like birdshot – all inside the marina! Dave’s wife told him on the telephone, that the radio was advising motorists not to travel unless necessary!

If there’s a simple moral to this tale, it has to be ‘Get to know the frequencies of local radio stations and note when they transmit coastal forecasts’. Certainly, there would have been no other way we could have been forewarned.

On the Sunday, these forecasters were talking happily of ‘much lighter winds than yesterday’ – but Walton coastguard was still reporting a force 7.