Norfolk's Sandy Havens continued
Assuming that the tide was against me, I kept inshore over the extensive flats as much as possible but, of course, she must not touch. Off Wells I turned in along the line of buoys that I had spotted on the trip westward a few days before but could see only a complete wall of breaking surf ahead of me as the boat raced in towards the shore. It was a tense few moments before I realised that one of the buoys was outside the surf and that from there the channel must turn to starboard to the next buoy which was inside the line of surf. All went fine and the water smoothed rapidly, giving me a fine sail into one of the most attractive a harbours anywhere. Those buoys had saved my craft and probably my life. I learnt later that they had been laid a month earlier for the first timber ship to visit Wells since the war!
Wells is an almost perfect rural port. Once the incoming craft crosses the one and a half miles of sand and reaches solid land, there is thick woodland to starboard and sand dunes to port with a few scattered trees. The channel runs due south for half a mile with a road alongside it to the wharf at the edge of the town where it turns eastward and divides up into a number of channels winding away into the saltings towards Blakeney. The town is delightful and it was here that I found my first self service supermarket, albeit a small one. A sobering sight was the monument to the crew of the Wells lifeboat that was lost on the bar with all hands many years before. My thoughts were dominated with the problem of getting back to Yarmouth. The fresh wind was still blowing from the northwest, which was certainly the right direction. I decided to leave at noon, prepared for a lively start followed by a reach and run to Yarmouth in smoother water under a weather shore. The forenoon flood was spent exploring the saltings with one of the local sea cadets as a pilot. After dropping him at 1230 hrs I put two reefs in the mainsail and left.
You can never tell with sailing. Over the bar the wind dropped right off and the reefs had to be shaken out in a hurry to keep the boat moving in the heavy swell left by the blow. During my stay, I had walked over the bar and knew the way now. The tide off the coast was foul and with the wind gone completely, there was nothing to be done but anchor off the flats and get some sleep. On this sort of hard sailing, rest stored up is like money in the bank. You never know when you will need to draw on it as I was going to find out over the weekend. Later I moved on with a ghost of a breeze from the west but lost track of my progress and anchored until first light. At dawn the Blakeney entrance buoy was a few hundred yards away but that was the last of my luck. There was still no wind when the tide set easterly so I just let her drift along while I dozed. The breeze eventually came in from the southeast and I was soon enjoying the first serious windward work of the trip. Off Sheringham I realised that the favourable flood tide was done and anchored to sunbathe while the ebb roared away northwest. The coast had already begun to fall away to starboard and the last stretch to Yarmouth is due south. The chances of my getting there before nightfall looked remote unless I could make enough progress on the afternoon flood to be able to point the last ten miles or so but even then it would be impossible to enter Yarmouth over the ebb and Lowestoft was another six miles further on. Anyway it was a glorious day and I was reluctant to run back to Blakeney.
The wind seemed to be a little east of southeast when the flood set in around midday and with the help of the tide, Zephyr enjoyed a wonderful afternoon’s windward sailing. Gradually the port tacks became encouragingly longer as the coast eased away southwards but when the ebb set in off Sea Palling, I still could not point straight down to Yarmouth. I anchored for a meal but it was too rough for comfort. The tin of soup I picked up was mulagatawny, the first time I have had this variety, and as I opened the tin, one thought ran through my mind, tinned seasickness! I lobbed it over this side and hung over the gunwale after it. This was the first time I had been sick on my own boat. I settled for a cup of coffee and got underway again. At dusk I reefed, the first time I had ever done so underway, and was pleased to see that I made a much better job of it than when reefing the mainsail before hoisting.
It was going to be a long night beating over the ebb tide. On the port tack reasonable progress could be made down the coast but gradually the roar of the breakers got too close. Then I had to put about onto starboard tack pointing straight out to sea where the northbound tide swept me back level with the tower of Sea Palling church. At least I wasn’t loosing anything! It was a fine night, in fact the finest of that I can ever remember. Happisburgh light winked astern of me; there was a red light somewhere over Winterton, while the sky above was like a soft dark blue velvet mantle. It was nearly midsummer and the glow left by the setting sun never really faded away. It just moved slowly round in the sky to the east. A crescent moon and then the sun climbed out of it as the ebb began to ease. I was sick again at dawn, probably due to the constant pumping. During the long night I consoled myself with the thought that at least if the worst came I could always run the boat up the beach and wade shore. Of course if the wind had been offshore I should have been consoling myself with the thought that at least I hadn’t a lee shore under me. One has to be an optimist to sail far in small boat. At dawn I shook the reefs out of the mainsail and began to make even better progress on port tack and lose much less on starboard. Suddenly the sand dunes ashore were clear under the starboard bow and the bowsprit was pointing into the sparkling sea. From then on it was just a case of gradually easing the sheets until Yarmouth pierheads came in sight. There were some heavy seas rolling in on the beam but Zephyr took them grandly. I decided to stop bailing and to get into Yarmouth as quickly as possible by taking all but the biggest of the seas without luffing into them. She went down the coast like a train. Caister water tower passed astern and the next problem was the dead run into Yarmouth harbour. A heavy gybe in the entrance could conceivably mean a capsize, for a lot of water has to run into the Broads in a very little time and any sort of current or counter current could be expected. The boom was topped up and the peak eased to scandalise the mainsail and take the vice out of the inevitable gybe. All went well. The harbour walls closed round me and in a few moments I had turned north in smooth water with barely steerage way. The rush of water past the hull stopped for the first time for many hours and I was able to take stock of things, in particular, the bilge water two inches above the floor boards..
By the time that I had bailed out, made a cup of tea, the three miles of busy wharves had swept by and I got the mast down for Southtown bridge. At the entrance to the River Bure I accepted a tow from an elderly boatman with a sturdy rowing boat for I was very tired and had little idea how much flood tide was left. (At this time few of the sailing hire fleet had engines and several such boatmen made a bob or two helping them between the rivers once they had their masts down). I dislike Yarmouth as a place to lay in a small boat so I decided to press on to Stokesby, a lovely village clustered round a ruined windpump. It was a hectic sail and I drove her hard with the last of the flood to moor alongside a grass bank, lay out all my wet gear and get a little sleep. Then I had a big meal, a walk to stretch my legs and a long night’s sleep, which I felt I well deserved.
The wind went back into the west to take me back through Yarmouth on Tuesday and while I was drifting down the harbour setting the rigging up for sea, it went northeast to take me to Lowestoft. After another good night’s sleep I left at 1230hrs on Wednesday in spite of steady rain for the wind was still northeast. Fair winds are few and far between for the journey back from the Broads to the Thames Estuary and a wet shirt is a small price to pay. The steady passage was enlivened off Aldeburgh by the sight of Bob Robert’s mighty barge Greenhithe, anchored over the flood in time honoured fashion en route north. The light breeze picked up as the evening wore on and by dusk I could pick out the flash of the Cork light vessel. It had been my intention to stop at Harwich but by this time I was very wet and decided that I might as well carry straight on to Heybridge. A chap on the stern of the light vessel seemed surprise to see me loom out of the night (no navigation lights!). The illuminations at Dovercourt went out, leaving a few solitary lights as I stared out into the dark ahead of me for the Naze. Suddenly there was a very heavy rain squall and the wind went southwest in minutes.
I turned back for Harwich. Zephyr was travelling fast now and I wanted to keep clear of the main shipping channel on the eastern side of the wide entrance but had no idea how to tell that I was clear of the breakwater that reaches out from the western side for it was not lit at this time. I remember reading that it covers completely at spring tides and was terrified of running onto it for it was nearing high water. In fact there is plenty of room and I never saw the iron post on the end. It must have been well past midnight when I rounded up into the southwestern corner of the harbour, put up the tent and dropped my sodden clothes into a heap in the sternsheets. Dry pyjamas and blankets felt very good indeed. Next morning I was almost scared to lift the tent to see what sort of a day it was for wet clothing is a depressing sight indeed. I need not have worried for the sun shone and there was a cheerful breeze from the southwest calling me to get weaving and take the last of the flood down the coast. At the top of the tide I anchored close inshore off Frinton and dried my gear while the ebb ran north for six hours. Then in light westerly airs I beat slowly south in the evening to anchor off Mersea Flats at dusk as the wind died for the night. Next day I completed the voyage and most of my sailing for 1950. I had been very lucky indeed and picked the best weather in a very poor year covering well over 500 nautical miles.
