The Northern Isles continued

  Little did I realise that my luck had run out. Strong winds became the rule for the rest of the week. Shoal Waters made two attempts before reaching Scarborough where she was held up for a full day by gales before reaching Whitby late on Saturday afternoon at the second attempt, just ahead of another gale warning. I found sailing in the lee of cliffs backed by higher land completely different from sailing in the lee of lowland Essex. Unlike the steady winds in Essex, here vicious gusts swept down from every undulation along the clifftop making it very uncomfortable for a small boat under sail. This was obviously as far north as I was going to get but I was determined to see something of the place before leaving. Sunday came in wet and little town filled up with despondent day-trippers and frustrated fishing parties marooned onshore by the gales. My first target was the ruins of the old abbey on the cliff top, the route to which took me up through the steep streets of the old town once trodden by Captain Cook. The view from the top is well worth the climb. At first I was bewildered by the gaps in the harbour defences but it was explained to me that any solid structure would be gone by the end of the first winter. Apparently all yachts in the outer harbour have to withdraw above the bridge by October in readiness for the winter onslaught. It obviously breeds some tough sailors and I remember reading that in its heyday as a whaling port, young men went to sea straight from school and never saw corn growing in the field until they came ashore for good. I looked at little Shoal Waters and thought of Captains Scott’s words at the South Pole,

“God, this is an awful place”. Let me emphasise to any Yorkshire reader that I use the word awful in its true meaning from the viewpoint of a small boat sailor. It certainly filled me awe to think what it must be like in a northeasterly gale. I thought of just how many skippers over the years, who in a rising gale, have had to decide between riding it out at sea and risking the harbour entrance for the comfort of home. Whitby with its historic old town and modern holiday resort is clearly a place worth a visit BY CAR!

It reaffirmed my growing feeling that we were out of our area and it was time to head for home. With the midday flood tide I ducked the mast under the swing bridge that joins the old town from the new and explored upstream as far as the mighty rail viaduct. As I passed one large motor cruiser in the rain, a deckhouse window slide open, two hands reached out to uncork a bottle of something which popped loudly and promptly vanished whence it had come. `Yachting` is a broad church! The sun came through as I passed back, under the harbour bridge and I noted that the flag on the cliff top church hung limp, sending my spirits rising in spite of the gale warning still in force at 1400 hrs. The harbour master was convinced that it would blow overnight but the local weather telephone forecast spoke of lighter winds and clearing skies. After a leisurely walk to the pierhead eating fish and chips, I decided to go.

The church clock struck five as I got under way with a small jib but full mainsail to get out between the tall harbour walls. Outside, the tide was against me and the seas were still lively but my spirits were high for somehow things looked good. Forty minutes later the lighthouse was abeam and I had a last look at Whitby and the attractive ruins of the old abbey standing out boldly against the evening sunlight. No wonder it was a prime attraction for Viking raiders! The 1800 hrs forecast still had a gale warning for Tyne and Humber NW 6/8 decreasing 4/5. Robin Hood bay closed behind me, and Flamborough Head came into view as I had a meal and set up the paraffin navigation lights. It was a perfect evening to be at sea, particularly when Max Jaffa came over the radio playing the theme from Sparticus, which was used for the T.V. series about life seafaring in Victorian times, the Onedin Line. The bright single light on Flamborough Head began to flash steadily as the blaze of lights at Scarborough appeared, followed by those of Filey an hour later while the sea continued to smooth out. The 0030 hrs forecast gave no gales anywhere with Humber variable, going north later. The tide was going my way now and the great bulk of Famborough Head was abeam by 0200hrs and then the lights of Bridlington opened up. It would have been nice to duck in for some sleep but this fair wind was too good to miss. The sun came up at 0500 hrs to herald a scorching day but it gradually killed the wind so that I had to kedge over the rest of the ebb. A long swell prevented any real sleep but I dozed and thought of the thousand of southbound colliers that must have anchored here in the same circumstances when `sea coal` was king on this coast. The tide turned at 1215 hours and finicky airs took Shoal Waters round Spurn point by mid afternoon to anchor off the old coastguard cottages while her skipper slept the sleep of the just. That evening when the tide left her on the wide firm sand, I went for a stroll to watch the sunset over the point. Calm as conditions were, even the last few inches of water still carried spiteful wavelets that raced across the water and slammed into the stranded hull hard enough to break onto the deck. This was obviously not a place in which to linger!

In my log I noted a very good night’s sleep, probably because the soreness in the rib cracked during my struggle on the Deben bar a month earlier was easing at last. I woke at 0430 hrs to find a lively breeze from the north, a pink glow over the sand dunes in the east and most important of all, no fog, my main fear for the crossing of the Humber Estuary. The dawn was absolute perfection, the sun peeping over the dunes as I got the anchor at 0505 hrs and headed for the Bull light vessel and the Lincolnshire coast. The Humber had been kind to me again. In view of the forecast wind shift, northerly two going easterly three I decided to head straight for Wells rather than hug the coast. The lack of regular buoys such as I am used to in the Thames Estuary added a touch of spice to the trip but the tall Dowsing Tower which I reached at noon was a great help. Gradually the sky glazed over as first the Burnham Flats buoy and later the Bridgirdle Buoy cheered me on my way. At 1750 hrs towards high water, I spotted the Wells entrance buoy to port and linked up the leading marks for the one and a half mile trip across the sands. To my surprise, I found heavy surf in one spot and took a lot of solid water into the cockpit in spite of the calm sea. By the 1800 hrs forecast, Humber variable 3/4 going easterly 4/5, I was safely beached on firm sand near the lifeboat house where a monument to a complete crew drowned while crossing the bar, reminded me that this was a dangerous coast. The wind blew hard from the east for the rest of the week, trapping me in Wells but there are worse places in which to be caught.

The warm sunny day passed pleasantly enough exploring the extensive creeks among the saltings above the little town on the morning and evening high water and walking the adjacent countryside midday. One day I walked out over the sands almost to the entrance buoy at low water and realised how the sands move. Whenever they dry in strong winds, the fine sand drifts in long fingers much the same as winter snow. Water boots left at the edge of the dunes were half buried when I returned a couple of hours later. One such ridge had drifted across the line of the leading marks and had been the cause of my fright among the surf when entering. I mentioned this to the harbour Master come local pilot who agreed with me,

“Yes! They (the leading marks) want moving!” A study of the local history revealed that the inhabitants of Wells were once known as the `Bite fingers ` in view of the highly efficient way they removed the rings from bodies washed ashore after ship wrecks.

For some time I had realised that electricity is here to stay and purchased two smart bronze side lights that I had noted languishing in the dusty window of an Essex boatyard shed for many years. Eventually I was flush enough to try to buy them. The proprietor almost resented having to dig out the catalogue to discover the price of £7. Fitting them was a problem in view of all the screws, wiring and other gear needed together with a car battery to power them. This seemed the perfect chance to fit them with all the shops to hand and nothing better to do anyway.

The steady easterly wind was obviously changing by the weekend when my son James (aged sixteen) joined me for the final week. On Monday we had to turn back off Sherringham in rising head winds as thunderstorms swept the southeast of the country but our hectic run back to Blakeney ended up as a beat in fading evening airs. One straw of comfort was reports of flooding in Essex, which meant that there would be no shortage of water for the locks on the canal to Chelmsford. Wind from the northwest and an early start on Tuesday got the little vessel as far as Caister where she was forced to kedge all afternoon over the ebb. When the tide started to flood at dusk a light breeze from the east sent her chuckling on her way. Somewhere in the long line of lights that was Yarmouth a bingo caller plied his trade as darkness closed in. The red light at Southwold came into view, turned white and passed astern as my attention focused on the five second white flash that I knew to be Orfordness. The wind was already veering. If only I could get round the low shingle spit before the ebb set in again! It was not to be. During a heavy rain-squall, the wind swung south and rose sharply. Eventually I anchored over the Sizewell bank until dawn.

With the morning flood Shoal Waters, now close reefed, struggled south almost to Thorpness but the wind rose further and it was time to admit defeat. The choice of a refuge was difficult; Southwold with its difficult, dangerous entrance close at hand to leeward but still an easy leap from the dreaded Orfordness, or safe, easy to enter but distant Lowestoft. I decided to have a look at the former and told Jim to put on a life jacket. It looked bad but not impossible and in we went, keeping well away from the waves recoiling from the south pier until I judged it prudent to push the tiller down to start the dramatic dive into the white water filling the narrow entrance. For a terrifying moment it seemed that she would not answer to the rudder as she hurtled down the face of a wave towards the solid north pier. Then the pressure on the tiller eased, the bowsprit swung away quickly to port and we were gliding swiftly between the piers as I worked the tiller furiously to counter the swirling effect of the racing tide and keep her clear of the high walls. The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough but even the rural delights of Southwold could not relieve my gloom at the prospect of missing the rally at Chelmsford. The canal company were proceeding cautiously for most of their income these days is the sale of water to the Southend waterworks. To conserve water, passage up the canal had to be made in groups of four vessels. We were booked in for Friday. Tomorrow, Thursday, would be our last chance and the forecast at 1800hrs was SW 5/7 – 4/5, right on the nose! After a stroll to the harbour mouth at low tide to examine the remains of earlier wooden harbour defences, we bedded down early to make the most of the morrow. The sky looked more settled.

Thursday was overcast for a start but the light wind looked more westerly. The bar was still rough but the first of the ebb chucked us out in grand style at 0630 hrs as the forecast gave W 4. In fact the wind was a little north of west and Shoal Waters settled down to enjoy the luxury of a beam wind along the exquisite Suffolk coast as the sky cleared and my spirits rose. It was all over now bar the shouting. Orfordness abeam at 1015 hrs, the Cork light vessel in view by 1210 hrs and the Naze, the first sight of Essex, rose above the horizon at 1300hrs. I was so happy with life and the world in general that I even allowed my son to tune into radio One. The wind died in the afternoon but the onshore breeze came in from the southeast to carry us into the River Blackwater over the early evening flood as far as Steeple Stone where we anchored for the night. I left at 0235 hrs with the flood to complete the last five miles as the old moon rose and hundreds of sea birds squabbled over the shrinking mudflats. For a time I steered on the bright star Arcturus in the constellation of Bootes, the Herdsman; an omen that the little ship’s lonely journey was over for the next few days as she recovered among the butter cup splattered water meadows of the lovely Chelmer and Blackwater Canal.