- getting to know the waters of the Dee Estuary and gate-crashing a commodore’s cruise.

Commodore’s Cruise or jamboree for all? Everyone on the Dee seemed to be heading in the same direction: toward the great gathering of people on the West Hoyle Bank, nominally the Dee S.C. Commodore's Cruise, but really a cluster of parties involving all sorts of groups, including the Old Gaffers Association, and now graced by a small delegation from the DCA.

Brisk was eagerly launched in fine weather an hour after HW neaps at the Dee S.C. slip. Tacking downstream against the light northerly F2, helped by the ebb, we deftly dodged the barely covered sandbanks with the generous use of that wonderful piece of depth-sounding technology: a well- placed oar. Approaching Hilbre Island, we looked for the Welshman east cardinal buoy, but someone had apparently pinched it and put a green starboard buoy in its place, with HE4 scrawled all over it, when it was obvious that HE4 was a couple of miles north. Some people! I made a mental note to update my chart.

The West Hoyle Bank was just beginning to dry. The native population of seals were loitering with intent to bask. The local sailing fraternity were loitering with intent to party. Did I detect a conflict looming? It wasn't time to land yet; we had some serious sailing to do. We headed across the estuary towards Point of Air, feeling our way over occasional shallows where the surprisingly clear water revealed clean sands, shoals of minnows, and the occasional jelly fish. Following the Welsh Channel, we passed the old lighthouse, perched disconsolately on the sand below the high water mark, backed by dunes. I didn’t want to turn back yet; I was having too much fun. I wanted to venture much further, explore the coast, make the epic journey, have something worth writing about; but the teenage, party-hungry crew rebelled…mutinous dogs! Near Prestatyn's splendidly unattractive groyned beach with its leisure complex and quaint concrete steps, I capitulated and we turned back. The wind had dropped so, keeping to the shallows to cheat the still-ebbing tide, we motored for a while.

The ingenious plan was to cross the West Hoyle Bank using the Welshman's Gut channel which on the chart dries 1.4m; we had at least 2.6m of water. We set off to traverse the estuary this way, but part way across someone had, rather inconsiderately I thought, deposited a large amount of sand across the channel, blocking the way, and condemning us to a considerable detour. So much for good ideas. All these changes: was there some sort of English-Welsh dispute over how the estuary should look or something? I made a mental note to update my chart.

The drier-than-expected channel would be un-navigable for some time yet, so we had a choice: continue upriver toward Mostyn and hope to get across that way (and who knows what they might have done to the sands there!), or go around the West Hoyle Bank on the seaward side. We headed back toward the old lighthouse to embark on the latter course. Almost all the way around the bank we were in rather shallow water, usually no more than a metre or so. The disgruntled seals had retreated to this remote end of the bank away from those nasty interlopers. Breakers to seaward suggested we'd messed up and would have to make an even longer detour, but we got away with it and made it to the Swash. An enticing assortment of boats welcomed us on the bank: cruisers, dinghies, catamarans, gaffers, fishing boats, speed boats. On the sand was quite a crowd with barbecues, patio sets and beach tents. Some enterprising folk had set up a bar (one of the sailing clubs, I think). I looked for John Hughes, who I was supposed to meet, but he found us after we had given up looking. We chatted for a while and I met his family. They'd been crewing aboard one of the gaffers in a race that they had abandoned, apparently because they were lagging so far behind.

We hadn't been there long when people began to leave with the flood. We followed suit and, aided by the tide, we enjoyed an easy run up the river. Things were going swimmingly until we ran aground yards from the slip, and the wind insisted on pinning us there. We dropped the sails and rowed in for the last bit.

Later, I checked the chart again. It was based on surveys made during the 80's, and warned of shifting channels; but to this extent? I made a mental note to ditch the chart and get a new one, for what it's worth.

All in all, a full day: over nine hours spent on the water covering about 27 sea miles, gate-crashing a party, and an abject lesson in navigation. Well, you know what it's like… easy mistake to make…anyone could've done it… even if Welshman's Gut has been effectively closed for ten years or so (according to Joan Abrams' article in bulletin no. 12, it used to be navigable at all states of tide).