It was a long time ago. 1972 or 1973 I think. At the time I had a fair bit of dinghy experience, and had been a crew member on small yachts in the Solent with my Dad.
I had also sailed with the ICC from Salcombe on Provident, a converted Brixham trawler, down the Devon and Cornwall coast and the next time across the Channel to Biscay and the beautiful west of France (including Belle Isle, L'Orient & Vannes). So I was experienced, so I thought! And at 22, of course I knew the lot!
A group of eight of us chartered two boats from the muddy port of Bradwell, on the East Coast, for a weekend. I had been once before, with someone else skippering, and we had good tides and bright breezy days. This time I was in charge of the second boat, a Snapdragon 24 with bilge keels. My crew, Peter and Linda (a recent “couple”), and Ian, were all sailing virgins.
The sailing weekend began with a Friday evening drive from London to Bradwell, where we did notice that the tide was out. This meant we couldn't leave until enough water arrived. Mud berths are just what they sound like … and enough tide would not be in until about 11pm.
Funnily enough that was the local pub's closing time. So fish and chips were bought and consumed, and the pub provided a place to await the tide.
About 10.30pm we all trooped to our boats and made ready to depart. The plan was that we would motor down the river in convoy, and anchor or tie up in deep water to sleep, then depart early on Saturday morning.
Colin and his crew were more clued up and their boat was a bit further downstream, so they got away smoothly.
Then we were ready. Peter wasn't sure where the chart was, and I assured him not worry as “we'll follow Colin and I know the river anyway”. My crew were briefed on how to read the spinning blip on the echo-sounder, and to keep a good lookout.
We set off, but our lead boat was well away and we could just see what we thought were his lights. “It's ok,” I said. “The river goes right then left then almost straight on for ages. Then we'll have enough water anyway.”
But soon the crew were saying: “It's down to three feet and dropping,” and: “Are you sure it's this way?” Buoyed up with beer-confidence (look it up) we motored on. The keels touched the mud and we veered one way then the other following the depth for perhaps 20 minutes until we slowed and then peremptorily stopped.
No sight of any other boats, no sounds, just the river disappearing as we shone the torch around the boat … It looked like someone had pulled the plug out.
The male crew all tried to assist by emptying their beer over the guardrails, as the heads wouldn't pump through (sea toilets only work in the sea) but it wasn't enough. So we climbed into our sleeping bags to await the morning.
I was woken by Peter, who stuck his head up through the hatch and then said: “There's a lady with a baby in a pram, wanting to know why we are here.”
We went on deck - we were high and dry in the middle of a field near a path at the edge of a housing estate. And a Land Rover was lurching towards us.
The Land Rover was driven by old John whose boat we had parked in the field. He explained (in blunt words of one syllable) that this field only floods at the top of exceptional spring tides, and it was usually a football field rather than a boat park.
We spent the day digging trenches behind the keels as John “hoped that we might just get off on the next high tide, otherwise the boat would need to be recovered by crane and lorry, and can you lot afford that?”
We were lucky and we did reverse out ok. We caught up with the other crew who had been getting rumours about our exploits from the pub in which they had awaited our appearance (no mobiles in those days).
The lessons: use the info that's available (charts, tide tables and forecasts, local advice); be aware of tides; look and plan; if you really aren't sure don't commit to possibilities; don't overdo the beer; do know your own limitations, etc. etc.
