If you sail on an estuary where half the
water disappears at half-tide all is not lost as for the small boat with
shallow draft there is still plenty of opportunity for adventure.
Transit Creek - A Mud Bolt-Hole
by Tony Smith
Of all the tranquil and quiet
creeks, out of the hundreds to choose from in Sea-Country (the Thames Estuary), with all their
various attractions, there is one creek that comes close to being the ultimate
bolt-hole for that ‘away from the maddening crowd’ moment and it happens to be
right on my own doorstep, inside that most Viking of briny waters, the River
Blackwater, and goes by the name Transit Creek. This small, half-to-low-tide
waterway can be found south-eastward of Thirslet Spit and takes its name from
two metal transit markers sited at its mouth that strike a line across the
river and mark a local fishing boundary.
This mud-stream also happens to be sited just a few miles downriver of
my own home creek, Goldhanger, and could well have been carved out by the metal
swords of those Viking raiders who it is thought first came to our shores at
Lindisfarne in the 8th century to pillage and plunder, and by the 9th
century had made their way south, to East Anglia, before collecting the first
ever payment of Danegeld in England after the Battle of Maldon in 991, and in
the bargain pledged the River Blackwater with island names Osea and Northey. Both
of these islands in the Blackwater are peaceful sanctuaries today offering
opportunities for relaxed small-boat cruising among the sparkling waters that
surround them at high-tide, but their names are clues of a more turbulent past.
Mud- Sailing
The time was three hours after
high water and the sun shone brightly over the great levels that uncover in St
Lawrence Bay - home to hundreds of screeching gulls, and which had become a
waste where the sun’s heat rises to burn at its fiercest in the entire river.
Cracks appear in the mud within hours and heat radiates from what, by then, has
become vast brown mud-ovens. Of all the creeks I like to frequent Transit
Creek is certainly the muddiest, the most trench-like, and void of anything human.
Only dunlin, shank and similar waders land here as the tide ebbs to feed on
crustations, and is when the sea-bed comes alive with the harmonies of salt water
gurgling and dribbling from holes; surface bubbles bursting, all fluxed together
in an orchestral mix of bird-cackle, salt, mud, wind and tide.
Shoal Waters rattled and shook whilst anchored in the main river,
at the mouth of the creek, as a turbulent tide ran its course past us flowing
forcefully from the mudflats and gut-ways that were uncovering beside us to
the south. The 20 foot of chain and her 17lb fisherman anchor were buried
beneath the soft mud that lay at the bottom of the five feet of water we
floated in. As I climbed forward to haul up the anchor an easterly wind whipped
its way through the rigging, and short chop slapped at the boat. As soon as the
anchor was set free she stirred.
I had boded
the time well for the right moment to make our move into the muddy pasture, and
as I rolled out both the jib and staysail she began to glide toward the flickering,
silver mud. We slipped into the creek and were soon passing between the
glistening banks on either side with ease. As we crept further inward I noticed
the heads of every seabird within half a mile had turned toward us, their eyes pierced
us with their startled but guarded gaze. Agitated oyster catchers hopped around in
circles, and began crying out loud ‘kuweeet’ ‘kuweeet’, while others took
off screaming.
How I enjoyed coming into this
small creek. It was so near to home and yet being so wild had the ability to
take you far away… It is a mini adventure, too, as you never know how far you
will make it in before coming trapped by its ooze. I sailed as far as was
possible, rounding west, before a slight turn east had us in irons and Shoal Waters stopped dead. Her heavy
ballast and cabin full of cruising gear, combined with the headwind, made her stone-like.
Slowly she crabbed sideways before settling on to the lee bank. I furled the
headsails and worked the muddy quarters with the quant pole for the next half
an hour of close-quarter attrition to gain further ground.
The creek then rounded south
again and I could roll out the staysail for a few moments of ‘lift’ and she
clawed her way over more easier ground. The depth had by now vanished to a mere
18 inches which negated using any centreplate to get a bite in order that we
could sail in a mostly forward direction. To add to our challenge the creek had
narrowed from 50 feet to around 10 feet wide and the wind carried on pounding
away at us from the east, until we were overwhelmed by it and bullied against
the slippery ooze of the lee bank again.
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Hidden, in the depths of a peaceful, muddy world |
A further wrestle with the long
quant pole ensued. The 1.5 inch diameter pole flexed like a longbow and sprung
us forward with every downward thrust I made. It’s time like these when one is
thankful for undertaking a thorough repair job on it after it snapped in two
while being used for poling out our ghoster come cruising chute the year before at an Old
Gaffers do. That is two major repairs the trusty pole has undergone in its
lifetime and the epoxy and glass tape binding were holding up well again just
when I needed them to.
It was 2hrs before high-water and
Shoal Waters had cemented herself
between the close banks where we succumbed to the defences of one of deepest
burrows of carved mud the River Blackwater holds.
Largely, there is nothing of the
shoreline visible while buried below the cover of mud and your boat is unreachable,
and invisible, to other vessels on the main river, other than the sight of her mast poking
above the mudflats. Interestingly, all that can be seen from the depths of this
creek is the top half of a row of popular trees, on rising land to the south-west.
Through a hazy heat they resemble an imaginary army of shields held upright in
defence of an impending Viking raid. For the next few hours, until it’s time to
make our withdrawal, the pressures of everyday life fall away to a trickle with
the flowing tide and what is left, for me, is imaginary Vikings, cloying mud,
blue skies and birdsong.
Enjoy your creek-sailing, Tony
Enjoy your creek-sailing, Tony
By purchasing any of my three books you are assured plenty of shoal-draft adventure but to read more of the dozens of named creeks I have explored inside the River Blackwater purchase a copy of the new mono edition of my book 'Ready About on The River Blackwater' - Exploring The Creeks And Ditches in a Small Boat. Here's the link Purchase Ready About On The River Blackwater