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'Acadia' - Second Tender to 'Bumper'
The month of October will be remembered for tempestuous winds and heavy rain, but in between depressions, for brief periods, there were some calm moments when a reluctant hazy sun made his appearance. Saturday the 30th was quite exceptional. After early morning mist, a brilliant golden orb miraculously appeared in a pale blue sky which was flecked with fluffy white clouds. A cool zephyr from the south west caressed Acadia's diminutive sail as the errant canoe was drawn eastwards by the urgent equinoctial tide. She and I were on a special quest to circumnavigate Bridgemarsh Island.
Although I had sailed these waters for more than three decades, never before had I dared take a dinghy or yacht around the Island. Conservatively fearful of grounding in the shallow creek, and there to be stranded until the next high tide, I had always thought it prudent not to tempt fate. Futhermore, if the boat were to be stranded on uneven ground what would happen if she fell sideways into a muddy chasm? Would she float again, or would she be filled with unsavoury muddy soup?
The western entrance to Bridgemarsh Creek was about four miles away, but this time my confidence was high for a successful circumnavigation. Although the wind or lack of it could have been discouraging I knew the exceptionally high tide and fast-flowing current were in my favour.
I had launched my canoe at mid-day from Rice and Cole's pontoon. Because the wind was light I occasionally needed to paddle to avoid moored yachts. While silently and effortlessly gliding through the trots I had opportunity to note the characteristics of several craft. I retained mental 'snapshots' of them to compare one with another. Some were designed for speed, some for seaworthiness, and yet others for comfort, but my real desire was to discover that jewel of a yacht that would pulse my heart as when I first fell in love. In the event, this desire was unfulfilled, but I remain hopeful that one day such a gem will be found.
Suddenly, I was woken from my almost dream-like state by the ominous sound of breaking waves. It dawned on me that a huge motor yacht had only a few moments before sped by, and that her wake was about to do its damnedest to dump me in the cold water! With a quick thrust of the rudder pedal and a sharp jab of the paddle I turned 'Acadia's bow towards the threatening force. She calmly lifted her head, and with ease furrowed a path up and over the waves. Not a drop of water landed on her spray deck.
My attention was then drawn to a Russian freighter docked at Wallasea Island. She was starkly silhouetted against the sun as spider-like cranes were in the process of off-loading her cargo of timber. When in her lee I proceeded under paddle. Ahead was an expensive-looking racing machine tethered to a buoy; her high-tech sail flopped lifelessly. I was puzzled why anyone would want to own such a toy. Was it pride, macho-image, an innate desire to win, or was money of no consequence, or did the owner simply want to flaunt his riches? For sure, I knew I was contented with 'Acadia', my little treasure.
There the river widened, and I thought, 'If only the wind were to pick up, I would have a delightful sail.' Then, to my dismay, a flotilla of motor yachts sped down river. Their mega-horsepower engines were consuming gallons of diesel as they belched polluting fumes into the crystal clear air. Wakes fanned out, crisscrossing and wreaking havoc to moored yachts before dissipating their destructive force upon vulnerable river banks. Oblivious to my presence these monsters continued at full pelt. It seemed their owners had little or no thought for my tiny craft, or me! We were a mere speck on their ocean.
Once in the melee of toppling water I was pleasantly surprised to discover how buoyant and stable my canoe was. She gave no feeling of insecurity, but instead confirmed her ability by scurrying over and around the undulating mass.
As peace and smooth water returned and there were no other boats nearby, it was time for lunch, and how pleasant it was to be there in the sun. A mile or so to port was Canewdon church. This ancient Norman building with huge stone buttresses was fittingly placed in a beautiful setting at the top of a hill.
Those who live outside of Essex conjure up images of ugliness associated with Basildon and commuter towns, such as Billericay and Wickford, but there are scenic places within the county, not least, the marshlands and wetlands of the rivers Crouch, Roach, Blackwater and Colne. I have come to love these places and their abundant wildlife. Millions of native and migratory birds rely upon these habitats for sustenance and nesting.
As the current carried me and my boat like a latter-day baby Moses in a cradle of reeds, I was shortly to be discovered, not by the maid of Pharaoh's daughter, but by a most unlikely candidate, the owner of a posh yacht! He was genuinely fascinated with my mini-cruiser, and to that end I supplied him with the address of my web site, which contains information about the canoe. Thus satisfied, he made his departure towards Burnham.
When we were only a mile from Bridgemarsh Creek the wind increased from the south west. There was sufficient of it to make about half a knot through the water. Only a stone's throw from the river's edge I had a close-up view of a large gathering of lapwings as they rested contentedly within a swathe of short reeds. They took no notice of the red canoe with a white sail which moved by courtesy of wind and current. I supposed they considered they were not threatened by this 'autumn leaf' in harmony with nature.
With forty minutes left before high water I knew there would be ample depth for our passage through the main creek which ran north of Bridgemarsh Island, but not having a chart I felt like a Christopher Columbus intent upon discovering continents with the hope of finding riches and fame.
When entering the creek I was at first uncertain where the main channel lay, but by the appearance of the water I was able to differentiate between deep and shallow areas. Deeper places had a rippled surface, but shallow areas were smooth. The wind also helped to define depth because of its frictional effect upon currents. Another telltale to depth was the colour of the water itself - because flood water was generally clearer than residual water. Reeds were yet another indicator of depth and current direction.
Not surprisingly at that time of the afternoon, because of the thermal effect of the sun, the wind backed so that it came from the south east. This meant the only sure means of making reasonable progress against the last of the ebb was to paddle. I found myself unexpectedly enjoying the physical exercise. It was not difficult to stem the tide, and the rhythmical action needed for efficient paddling brought about an almost trance-like state, which I found most pleasurable.
Bridgemarsh Island is not really an island at all, but a series of mud banks interlaced with natural channels. At low water these banks are almost linked into a single entity.
As I made my way to the east, I passed several inlets between the banks. Near the entrance to one of them I discovered a grey dinghy which seemed abandoned, although anchored. She had an old Seagull outboard attached to her transom, and inside the boat there was a pair of oars. I noticed her bilges were dry. This probably meant she had not been in use overnight when it had rained heavily. I was therefore concerned for the wellbeing of her owner. Where was he? Why had he abandoned his vessel? These questions puzzled me. Perhaps he had landed on one of the reed banks for duck shooting? But would he be stranded, as the water was still rising?
Nothing more could be done to reassure myself that all was well, but since there was no evidence of misadventure, I proceeded on my way. The main channel widened into a broad expanse, where, to the north east, by the water's edge, there were some people enjoying a picnic in the afternoon sun. Now and again their dog would leap into the water to retrieve a branch that had been thrown there by one of their party. Some way out from the bank there were three bird hides cut off by the rising tide. Perhaps they were used by the shooting fraternity for annihilating ducks? I would prefer to think they were for the benefit of birdwatchers rather than killers of wildlife.
A bit further on I could see Bridgemarsh Marina, and although rather small, it accommodates a densely packed assortment of motor and sailing yachts. I noted a few of them were in a state of disrepair, but others gleamed as if new - perhaps reflecting the pride and care of their owners?
After the thunderous passing of a diesel train through the nearby station of Althorne, there was a heightened period of silence, but it was soon shattered by the roar of a powerboat speeding down the River Crouch. I was glad not to be near that high decibel, polluting machine.
On emerging into the River Crouch itself, I discovered the wind had moved a point to the south. This enabled me to progress under sail. With the exceptionally strong ebb, plus the wind, I felt certain there would be a speedy conclusion to my voyage. 'Acadia' was briskly transported as if on a magic carpet. She soon passed Cliff Reach, then pressed on while ferry gliding through the trots towards Rice and Cole's pontoon. There, close to the sea wall, so as to avoid the main stream, I brought my canoe alongside the pontoon. A welcoming party of youngsters fishing for crabs greeted me, and I was pleased they thought the Captain was too large for their bucket!
Bill.
15.11.04