Chapter 23 Why Not Try the Back Door?

The order and authority of Wells harbour came as a shock to the little gaff cutter Shoal Waters when she arrived from Burnham Overy just before high water on the Spring Bank Holiday Monday afternoon, after a week spent enjoying the wild untrammelled freedom of the other north Norfolk havens of Brancaster, Blakeney and Morston. She was waved alongside the harbour wall, which I knew from previous visits in 1950 and 1973 to be high and ladderless, by the harbour master and told that I would have to lay there instead of finding my own bit of mud or sand on which to dry out in comfort and privacy. He certainly runs a tight ship and once that I had talked him round into letting us dry on the sand, admittedly in a very precise spot, it rapidly became obvious that Wells is now a very busy area indeed with occasional small cargo ships, a busy inshore fishing fleet, many yachts, a big fleet of racing dinghies (twelve square metre sharpies), with water skiers and windsurfers galore. Keeping the channel open for the small coasters is proving a constant problem, possibly as a result of the closing off some of the little creeks and gutways opposite, so that a dragline on a large lighter stands ready just below the wharf. One noticeable feature is the population of trimarans, possibly because it is one of the few places that do not seem to charge extra for multihulls. Yes Sir! Law and Order is the rule at Wells and much as it goes against the grain to a small boat sailor, I had to reflect that it eliminated such problems as the dinghies with outboards stuck out astern, that swung about across the narrow channel into Morston and the one water skier at Brancaster who scorned the smooth sea outside and tore back and forth through the racing dinghies and other small boats inside the harbour. We dried comfortably in the late afternoon on firm sand where the deep channel had been on my last visit, and spent the evening watching the bank holiday crowds driving off into the traffic jams. A notice in the harbour master’s office showed that the charges for visiting yachts were 25 pence per foot per day alongside the quay and half that when on a mooring. Thus an enforced stay could be expensive.

In theory the larger and more weatherly yacht should get in more sailing than a smaller boat. This may well be true for craft kept in man made harbours or marinas on open coasts with few other havens, but among the wide estuaries, the small boat will give her owner many more hours under way. When strong winds rule out sailing in the open sea, the small boat can take advantage of her shallow draft and general handiness to explore with the estuary. Now Shoal Waters found herself trapped at Wells with two larger visiting yachts, one waiting to return to Boston and the other to the Humber, I knew that at least I could get some interesting sailing within the harbour itself.

The impending classic boat rally at Shotley in a fortnight meant that we must soon head south but Tuesday brought very strong winds from the North. I persuaded Joy to take the bus home, as this would leave me free to sail in heavier conditions than she could tolerate, for she subject to seasickness. While trapped here in 1979 after visit to Whitby, I found that it was probably possible to get out through the extensive marshes to the east towards Blakeney but had not actually done so. A chat with a canoeist while waiting to dry on Monday afternoon confirmed this but he said that there were two footbridges, possibly built for wild fowlers. He also mentioned that the sand outside the harbour, east of the main channel has built up considerably, making it a long trip out of Wells round into Blakeney. Thus the back door was worth a look, for it could shorten the passage home and save harbour charges. I decided to sail as far as possible through the maze of creeks to the northeast and then dry out so that I could explore further on foot when the tide had gone. Low water neaps was on Monday and they started making up today. As soon as Shoal Waters floated, I set off with one reef to explore the creek, which runs due east above the town, but there was little water and I soon nosed up into the northern weather bank and anchored for an hour. The wind increased steadily and the 1400hrs forecast gave Humber, northwest six to eight with a gale warning. I close reefed the mainsail and set the storm jib, a tiny sail of just twelve square feet. Many local yachts have moorings in a wide creek that runs east of north just above the commercial harbour. I reached back to this creek and came about to find that I could just point through the moored craft to the narrow and shallower deserted creeks beyond. Some stretches were dead to windward and mean short sharp tacks but there was bags of tide going my way. At each of the many junctions I had to make a quick choice but my standard rule for such exploration is that the following the tide will take you further in and bucking it will bring you out (provided you reverse it at high water), stood me in good stead once again. The roar of the surf on the outer bank grew louder but I was unable to see anything of it, as the saltings are fringed with rough, grass covered, sand dunes and low scrub. Gradually the creek bore southeast and I wondered if I would merely end up along the southern mainland shore again. The fair tide eased and now seemed to be flowing against me. Was this the start of the ebb or was I over the watershed and meeting the tide flowing in from the sea? I encountered no bridges although rotting posts in two places showed where they may have once been. Suddenly the channel swung sharply north to windward, to reveal a frightening sight. Beyond the two hundred yards of salting fringed creek was a wall of surf ten or twelve feet high. Yet the water sweeping into the creek was smooth! I rapidly dawned on me that the gleaming white surf was breaking on a bank some quarter of a mile away. The water between the surf and me stood out strangely smooth and black and was flecked with lumps of brownish foam that raced towards me. The tide was almost level with the saltings and as the foam reached them, the screaming wind lifted it off the water so that it tumbled on over the coarse vegetation for hundreds of feet. The tide was flooding into the creek too fast for me to beat over, so I swung the boat in against the saltings on the western side and anchored to explore further on foot but soon found my way barred by a gut to wide to jump. My glasses revealed a couple of sand and shingle banks to the east marked off with stakes and string as bird nesting areas and a few craft moored far off against the shore, presumably at Stiffkey. It was 1520 hrs, a few minutes from high water.

Twenty minutes later the tide flooding into the creek had eased and I tacked out just beyond the saltings to anchor in three feet, marvelling at the smoothness of the water. In fact I was tempted to sail on the see if there was a clear channel eastward behind the surf but discretion ruled the day. Far better to dry out where I was and `look see` when the water had gone. In fact the tide fell very slowly indeed, presumably because the water had difficulty in getting off the sands into the teeth of the howling wind. It was 1645 hrs before she grounded and took another hour to dry, by which time the water in the creek had changed direction and was flowing back into Wells harbour. The 1800 hrs forecast gave Humber northwest four to five and Thames north to northwest five to six going three to four. In glorious evening sunlight, I walked along the sands as the water retreated, finding that after couple hundred yards, my channel turned east, to run parallel to the massive ridge of sand, onto which the surf had been breaking when I arrived, for about a mile before swinging north again to dive into the surf towards open water. Where it turned towards the sea, another channel going eastward could be seen beyond a narrow sand bar. Next day I was to learn from a bait digger that once this had been the route of my channel which had continued eastward behind the sand spit to join up with the channel from Stiffkey before entering the sea. Recently it had turned north to find its own way out. He was a member of the Wells lifeboat crew and came up with the useful information that when towing in rescued craft, they often came into Stiffkey because there was much less surf on the bar that at either Wells or Blakeney. Presumably the exit to my channel would enjoy the same advantage. After repositioning my anchor so that once I floated next morning, I could retreat into the saltings under headsails if necessary, I watched the sun go down over the sands and so to sleep ready for an exciting early start on the morrow.

Wednesday, 0200hrs. No sign of water in the creek but plenty of noise from the advancing surf and a bitterly cold wind.

0220 hrs. No change but surf louder.

0235 hrs. Still no water! Dozed again wondering if I might be neaped.

0300hrs. Water in the bottom of the channel at last. Smooth as silk but the gale seems wilder than ever. I got dressed as the tiny cabin warmed rapidly from the heat of the stove and the radiant heater. The first signs of dawn were already in the eastern sky as a tired old crescent moon rose above the horizon. After making tea, I refilled the hot water bottle and put it back into the sleeping bags for I had not done with them yet. When I had dressed with two sweaters and topping off with a scarf and duffle jacket (this was no time for artificial fibres), I settled onto the bridge deck with my feet in the cabin and elbows on the cabin top to watch events. The radio reported extensive frost inland. I thought of my neighbours, several oyster catchers sitting on their eggs, and reflected that it must be a cold old job.

0320 hrs. Boat afloat at last. Calculated the time of high water at 0335. This is a very different tide to that of yesterday afternoon, at least two feet lower. In the sober light of dawn it became obvious that the wind was much lighter.

0335 hrs. Boat afloat at last. Shortened the chain so that she lay in the middle of the channel. Flood tide seems to be slackening already.

0410 hrs. Tide ebbing although much of the sand spit and wide bay to the west that was covered, yesterday, was still dry. I decided to sail out along the creek. The first hundred yards was dead to windward and as it was too narrow and shallow to beat in, I removed my trousers and waded out, leading the boat by the bowsprit into deeper water until I could sail off with the wind on the port quarter. Five minutes later I anchored at the limit of the calm water, south of where the sand spit dived into the surf, and crawled back, into my sleeping bags to thaw out. I left the radio on for the forecast but dozed off and missed it. .

0650 hrs I looked out to find the spit had grown half a mile eastward leaving a much narrower channel. I was in two feet of water and obviously on the northern side so I got the anchor up and let her drift south into four feet. The local waters forecast at 0700 hrs on the radio gave west four as far south as the Wash and northwest to west force 4 to the North Foreland.

0730 hrs. Shoal Waters grounded on golden sand in the middle of the channel. Twice during the forenoon I tramped over the sands to the entrance. The last of the ebb went out very fast, hitting the surf in an horrendous jumble of water but I decide that it might be possible to get out through the surf on the flood, as then the water would be moving in the opposite direction and, hopefully, slightly quieter. The new entrance/exit was comparatively narrow with a shoulder of sand on the western side and a gradual slope on the east. Provided that I got there before it covered, this shoulder of sand on the western edge should give me a good guide to the best water. The wind seemed a little more westerly which should bring it on the beam as I hit the surf and as the flood tide would run in hard, I decided on full sail. It was worth a try! Another attraction of the plan was that I would catch the first of the east going tide along the coast, which starts about two hours before high water. This is usually very difficult to achieve under sail from the main entrances to Brancaster, Wells or Blakeney for when the wind is fair for the fifty mile trip to Yarmouth, it will normally mean beating out over the strong flood tide.

1200 hrs. No signs of the returning tide. Waiting is always worse than doing.

  1230 hrs. First signs of the returning tide in the bottom of the channel.

  By 1300 hrs I was well afloat and got away under full sail. It was difficult to steer on the run in the very shallow water for I could not lower the rudder blade at first but the deepening water soon solved this problem. With half rudder and half plate, trousers off ready in case it was necessary to go over the side, either to save the boat or even myself, and the water just level with the top of the sand to port, she handled the popple in the channel easily. As I had anticipated, the advancing surf had lost its fury on the swiftly flooding tide, much as a boxer’s furious punch falls lightly on an opponent moving smartly backwards. In fact she has often met worse at the entrances to the Rivers Ore or Deben but beyond were three advancing widely spaced lines of advancing surf. She reared up over the first two, which were not breaking but the third was like an advert for washing powder and solid water, with showers of spray, came right over the boat as far aft as the stern. Then it was open water, albeit a little confused, as I eased away northeast to keep well clear of the tide sweeping into Blakeney.

  The rest was routine. I put in one reef and then shook it out again. The wind eased a little and as the coast swung more southerly it came right astern and the headsails flapped uselessly most of the way. The long trip was brightened by a Broads style motor cruiser at anchor off Cromer and rolling wildly. The rubber duck lifeboat put out to her to find if she wanted assistance and discovered that they were lost, but looking for Lowestoft! She set off south, only just a little faster than Shoal Waters. The lifeboat came alongside for a chat for half a mile or so and to assure themselves that I was O.K. It was 2200hrs when at last I reached Yarmouth, too late to catch the last of the flood into the harbour, and had to anchor south of the mole until 0335hrs which wasn’t much fun, but then if you cannot take a joke you should not take up sailing!

  That weekend we were able to watch the Three Rivers Race and then sail south for the Classic Boat Festival at Shotley in Harwich harbour, thanks to my decision to slip out of the back door.