Creeksailor: Islands And Creeks

Yielding to the seaward pull of Shoal Waters bowsprit, I headed out of the Blackwater, turning south-east to admire the unobstructed sea view that reaches far across the North Sea.
How many of us must enjoy the trance like state that open sea sailing can put you in as repeated waves move the boat up and down and from side to side in an endless soothing motion. Every once in a while a splash of spray comes over the coach-roof soaking one side of you, as if acknowledging your joy and contentment but simultaneously reminding you that although you hold the tiller, nature has a hold on your destiny. With the sails set on tack it is all to ogle the horizon and settle back, relaxed to enjoy.

Freshly invigorated by the open seascape I slid through the Ray Sand Channel swatchway, and passed the Ray buoy to enter the River Crouch for the second time this year. New navigation buoys stood out like brightly coloured lollipops beside the setting sun which was a blinding picture of a warm summer’s evening, slowly fading into the west and directly ahead. Regulars to the river will know there is not much in the way of life as we know it along this stretch of lower Crouch, so when the lonely little tree that sits on the skirt of this flatland of plains and marsh comes into view, you can’t help but feel sorry for it. To the north, the strange and almost pyramid like pill box added to the landlocked isolation I was beginning to feel. I was not alone for long, as out of nowhere two magnificent powerboats, as tall as a London bus muscled past. On the Thames Estuary macho scale my little pocket cutter Shoal Waters must be the aqua version of a 2 CV Dolly, and I would not have it any other way.

Their wash was in fact a help and pushed us in the direction I had wanted to go, into the River Roach and the beginning of what was to be some of the most enjoyable creeksailing so far this year.
I had a fair tide under, sailing close-hauled, precise and seaman-like, into the oncoming southerly wind. How well I had come to know Shoal Waters and her little ways. Each tack called for incremental adjustments to her four sheets that trim her two small headsails. Taking full and wide boards, using every inch of the Roach to methodically make way. We soon passed a few boats anchored by The Quay opposite Wallasea Island. The last time here you were able to get often much needed refreshment from the timber clad George and Dragon public house, but no longer as the remote little watering hole closed in 2007. I was soon turning at Smallgains Point and Devils Reach, where again I was heading into a blistering sunset. Here the sheets were eased for a gentle reach. Standing at the helm I scandalised the peak of Shoal Waters gaff to a sudden gust that came howling over the rooftop of a building, stood alone on that flat terrain of reclaimed salt water marsh. The landscape remained bleak; a contemporary art form, added to by a scattering of lonely little signs, painted danger red, emblazoned with warnings and erected along empty seawalls where the footsteps of man rarely tread.

This is a land of the farm field, of cows, pasture and prairie, seals and sea birds. A positively isolated one-far from anything normal that may be found through adventure in or near towns and great cities. It has been eight or nine years since I last came to this archipelago of islands and creeks under sail, so it is a visit long overdue and gives one the extra added feeling of excitement often accompanied with covering new ground. The small sea-port of Paglesham lay just ahead, a place steeped in smuggling history and the oyster. Bizarre tales hang in the mists of many creeks and during the 1950s a tropical swordfish was caught and fished out of the creeks here. Resurgence in oyster fishing has once again brought a certain magic to these creeks.

I could sail on up and drop ‘Cold Nose the hook’ to seek a sea-man’s beverage over the bar top of The Plough & Sail, that classic Essex country Inn, once a haven of the oyster fisher…hmm, a difficult call to make, but made easier by the milk-crate I had filled with brews of canned refreshments below, and the croaking call of a friendly seal in the water beside me.

I soon took another turn to port, into Yokesfleet Creek, an even smaller waterway where the wind insisted on following the bow for a heavenly beat down its length. A solitary yacht lay floating at anchor half way down, aboard were a couple sat enjoying the ambience of the creek on this classic summer evening. I waved as Shoal Waters glided gently by and we spoke in passing, sharing a magical moment. The time was now 18.30hrs with high water expected at 21.00.

I had been sailing since 05.00 am this morning, after awakening in the Leavings, back in the Blackwater, where I had spent a dreamy night. The day’s creek-crawling had begun by taking the tide deep inland, up into the Tollesbury creeks, even sailing through the breached seawall off of Johnny's Creek and beside the dead trees in a foot and a half of water. The season so far has been very erratic weather wise but what trips I've managed to get in have been really enjoyable and productive.

This evening conditions could not be better, a magical recipe of light winds, blue and red skies shaped with interesting cloud forms and warm temperatures. Basically I was taking what I could get by sailing on and on and on, through flat calm creeks with surfaces rippled by swimming seals whose puppy dog faces appeared merrily all around the boat, there calling ringing out over the whole length of the creek. The call not unlike that of a young teenage son who awakes one morning to suddenly speak haplessly the husky tones of a grown man. Yokesfleet Creek is what I class as one of the ‘glorious creeks’ that have that extra special piece of magic! But don't tell anyone else.

Shoal Waters was now completely bounded by islands. To port lay uninhabited New England and Havengore Islands, and the wide mass of Foulness with its empty and barren landscape, inhabited by so few and not only by military goings on, but masses of white seagulls that also flanked the entrance to New England and Shellford Creeks. Both of these creeks have been shut off by the building of the road onto Foulness, but would have at one time exited into the Thames Estuary. Before the building of this road the only way onto the islands would have been by boat or across the Broomway, which is an ancient tidal road, marked originally with broom sticks and running along the adjacent Maplin Sands to reach the Heads of these desolate Islands. To starboard was Potton Island, another flat and baron land that is commanded by military but inhabited by cows grazing on the low marshland. The sounds of wildlife were everywhere, and at times I was not quite sure whether it was the seals who were calling or the cows.
To think this spartan paradise was once earmarked to store government nuclear waste, a shuddering thought. This whole area is under constant threat from damaging floods that in 1953 caused havoc and destruction. The beguiling seawalls that hide this enchanted wilderness are in constant need of repair and a Potton Island farmer has come up with an ingenious idea which involves the use of helicopters, which are able to move heavy loads of rock quickly, accurately and probably more importantly today cheaply, to any newly appearing breach.

In our wake sat Wallasea Island, where ships still visit from the deep water of the Crouch, a busy wharf, haunted by nearby aged and forgotten Lion wharf at the head of the salty little Lion Creek.

I passed through the Middleway where a stray dinghy lay abandoned high on the salting fringe of Potton, ahead was Rushley Island which I almost speared with the bowsprit while my gaze fixed upon its nothingness, before taking another turn to port and into Narrow Cuts, a creek that does what its name implies. Still beating on very short and challenging tacks I was barely maintaining any ‘way’. A port marker sits at a metal staircase on the seawall in Cuts and I was punished for not keeping close enough to it. Franticly dancing about on the bow I began jabbing the quanting pole to free Shoal Waters from the mud. Being so close to high water I would never get out of here if I became stuck fast at this state of tide. This is a scenario often played out in the silence of a lonely creek and one that ShoaI Waters, with her heavy load of cruising gear down below does not take to as freely as did the nimbler little Huff. But stubbornly she just moved into freer mud, but not before I had been hit by the clonking hardness of her boom amidst the kafuffle.

Warmed around the collar by the sudden activity I was able to relax a little. I wondered at the bank of the creek along Havengore Island and which was to port. So very harsh, and seemingly inconsiderate concrete tiled affair. The creek has withies that are placed at many points along its stick thin length, but unless you are familiar with them you take your pick as to what they are placed for. I have improved somewhat over the years at playing this guessing game with the withies, so took the challenge of this wonderful little creek with relish. There were further moments of sudden activity as we slowly passed through the creek. I now had sight of Havengore Bridge with its rows of lights which if viewed from the angle I was at looked like a spaceship from another world. From the sanctuary of Havengore Creek, the hum of the massive Thames Estuary, just beyond the bridge could be felt, a fantastic feeling.

Now in Havengore Creek Shoal Waters began dancing in the night breeze. Just across the creek was an old brick works where fleets of barges once came alongside. The light was disappearing quick and the tide had just turned, but the wind still blew. I was planning a ceremonial pass through the bridge to anchor for the night on the sands and return to the Blackwater by the open sea route, but was put off by the earlier 19.10hrs weather broadcast of F 5-7 later and instead anchored back up at Shellford Creek, a haven for wild seals in the very thick of islands and creeks.

The Roach