Mudlarking at midnight part 2

 0530 and I can feel the water lapping the base of Arwen's transom. Its creeping silently up the beach, the line between muddy water and muddy beach, difficult to discern. As I peer from under the stern tarp tent flap, my eyes struggling to make sense of the dark, Arwen lurches gently from side to side as more water creeps under her hull. Slowly, over the course of twenty minutes she floats off the beach. 

Now is the moment of truth. Has last night's re-laid kedge anchor held? Do we lie bow to the beach in this position? 

First impressions? The tidal flow is nowhere near as fast as it was last night. How strange is that? It lacks the speed, forcefulness and malevolent intent which saw me having to hold the boat bowsprit at right angles to the beach on the water's edge for a few hours last night. 

And, I cannot describe the sense of relief this news brings. It is so tempting just to crawl back into my snug sleeping bag and catch a few more hours of much needed sleep. But I'm awake, alert, restless, watchful. I won't sleep now! 

I crawl back and forth between bow and stern watching carefully my position against a transit that is just appearing in the dawn. From the permanently grounded upright scaffold pole back across the channel to a fallen tree on the opposite bank, Arwen is holding her position on this imaginary line. I ease bow and stern warps to take account of the rising tidal column and retrieve the large fender that that kept us upright on the beach overnight.  

The dawn is beautiful. Daylight is just peeping over the eastern horizon, downriver. There is plenty of cloud cover - greyish, foreboding but in places, a few are beginning to take on a peach blush along their base. This will deepen over the next half hour, I'm sure of it. Shadows are melting away and shoreline features take on sharper lines, shape and definition. The little marshy bank, the hedges and trees further back start to come alive. The dawn chorus, on some magical cue, starts and insects begin to drift up from their ground based night time hidey holes.  

The flattened beach area under the marshy bank is covered. I am now afloat ten metres offshore. I change, shave, clean teeth and set up the galley box for a brew. The white boom tent, soaked with dew on the outside and condensation on its inner surface has been folded back. There is nothing worse than getting 'wet' before the day has started properly! There is no wind but the air is chilly and I've donned an old thermal duvet jacket. To the east, the river surface is silvery, like liquid mercury, but streaked peach, pink and lemon yellow. Ripply colourful whirls, ever morphing. An abstract, Dali like water surface. Perfect. Stunning!  I pack away sleeping gear, collapse the sleeping boards and have a general tidy up, always glancing up to try and capture the ever shifting landscape vision before me. It always amazes me how quickly a view changes early morning; blink and you miss some subtle aspect and change. 

Fish jump, clumps of bladder wrack float on the surface. The trangia hisses, the kettle lid rattles. I love my galley box/stove 'percussion' performance - hisses, rattles, bubbles and whistles. Happy memories of a life time of micro-adventures - mountaineering, camping, dinghy cruising and expedition travelling. Coffee or tea? Tea! And a porridge pot with added handful of sultanas. A breakfast fit for a king spoilt by a chill dank air. I wish the sun would rise more quickly so I could feel those first tendrils of warmth. 

Nothing moves. There is a stillness. A stillness of air; of water movement; suddenly of wildlife; of the moored yachts midstream. Even tideline flotsam has ceased movement. Everything suspended in time but accompanied by a wonderful avian  orchestral symphony. I try to freeze the vista tableaus in my long term memory. 

I pack away, careful to avoid any noise. Don't want to disturb my neighbours moored mid channel. Things are stowed back in the 'lomo' dry bags and forcibly squeezed through the narrow gaps in the foredeck hatch either side of the mast. I inwardly curse under my breath about THAT hatch arrangement, once again, for the thousandth time. Wish I'd had the foresight at the start of building Arwen to turn one central hatch in this foredeck bulkhead into two smaller ones either side of the mast position. Life would have been so much easier accessing the locker under the foredeck. If only I'd been borne with the gift of foresight that most other humans seem to have! But way back then I lacked boat building experience. I didn't know then what I know now. Perhaps I should be a wee bit kinder to myself! Nah! I was an idiot with a father and father-in-law who were both engineers. I should have asked for advice - serves me right! 😆

Bags stowed, galley box tidied away and secured. Tarp tent folded and stored under the foredeck. I stand up and untie various halyard and sheet lines from the mast and reconnect the topping lifts into their correct positions. The boom is raised slightly. Everything is ready. We are shipshape. Sort of! I inwardly cringe at the amount of dried mud that coats the foredeck and the front part of the cockpit. Thick, glutinous, treacle like Tamar mud! A reminder of my poor understanding of spring tides. And that mud is whats left AFTER I had rinsed myself down earlier this morning at 0200! 

Hey, you aren't a real small boat sailor until you have waded knee deep through mud to re-lay or retrieve an anchor, are you? 

Today's departure plan is simple. To go forward and untie the bow warps. There are two of them tied together in one long loop.  Each loop 'end' is secured to the stem post. The warps snake away to the beach scaffold pole/stake, eight metres away on the marsh bank. The theory is that by pulling one end, I can haul all the mooring warp back around the post, through the water and back into the boat and then haul the stern anchor rope along the starboard side to the bow where I can then pull myself in to deeper water.  That's the plan but of course it depends on remembering which side of the pole the big sheet bend knot is tied (that joins the two warps). As it happens, I remember and the warp comes back quickly. I'm able to untie the sheet bend and coil and stow both warps easily without Arwen drifting too far. 

In fact Arwen has drifted backwards a little into the deeper water and is now lying bow facing upstream. She is held, as planned, by her stern kedge anchor. I carefully walk the warp down the starboard side and slowly Arwen turns bow into the last remaining incoming tidal flow. 0815. We are ready for departure. The tidal flow is lessening. High tide by 0900. Barely a breeze. A quick zephyr running down channel. Insufficient to overcome the last bit of incoming tide. I ship oars and row a little but Arwen isn't built for distance rowing. I know I will have to resort to outboard before long but it would be polite to try and clear the moored yachts so as not to disturb their morning lie in.  

We round the little spit and hug the shoreline down to the start of Tredown lake entrance, a distance of around sixty metres. The little outboard finally splutters into life. The sea surface is glassy but colourful. It truly reflects, like a shining mirror, the streaked sky above. Fluffy ribbon like banner streaks of colourful cloud. An artist's palette; shades of peach and amber, pinks and oranges, yellows and lemon. A few early morning illuminated high altitude jet trails. All is reflected in these still waters. It is tranquil, still, beautiful. A soundscape of gurgling water lapping against hull. The barest hiss of wake left by a rudder. The sound of the dawn chorus from every hedgerow lining the riverbanks. The Canadian geese flocks who begin to make their noisy presence heard. 

Off black rock point, I tie up at a vacant mooring buoy and await some morning wind. It will be here soon, I'm sure of it. The sun just needs to rise a little more; it's rays just need to heat the land a little. I snooze awhile; still in my duvet jacket with a fleece blanket over my knees. I slept fitfully last night. A few winks now are appreciated. 

And just like that, thirty minutes pass. A flutter in the mizzen sail penetrates my sleepy senses and I come to abruptly. The starboard shroud tell-tale flickers, rises and falls and promptly repeats the sequence again. And again. And again. 

A breeze. A mere flicker - light, negligible. But, a breeze all the same. I rapidly unfurl the mainsail and raise it quickly, sweating the halyard to gain the highest upper yard position I can; right up against the top mast sheave box. Tension the downhaul, adjust the snotter; get some belly in the sail. Loosen everything a tad. But despite this effort, the sail stays stubbornly along the midship line.  Ho Hum! 

I push it out across the starboard beam and it fills a little. Is it enough? It fills and flutters and fills once more. Painter is slipped. We start to drift downriver carried by a combination of the first ebb of the tide and a northerly VERY light breeze. Jib unfurled; it fills a little and then sags across the middle of the foredeck, its sheets hanging uselessly below. Mizzen downhaul and outhaul are eased. The mizzen sail fills a little. "Every little bit counts", as they say! 

Yes, movement. A distinct gurgling along the hull line.  Now time to turn attention to the huge rafts of floating flotsam. Twigs and branches even trunks; draped in rafts of seaweed. Flotsam clunks off centreboard, hull and rudder. Arwen and I steer a course avoiding the biggest debris rafts. The wind dies. The ebb tide strangely falters. We resort to outboard once more; nervous, vigilant, seeking out those dangerous floating wood laden flotsam rafts. One of those trunks hitting the outboard and one broken prop pin later. I shudder involuntarily. It doesn't bare thinking about.

It is, of course, a slow morning's progress back down the Lynher under an ever changing combination of motor, sail and just bare poles drifting. Switching between the three modes keeps me busy and fit.  Off Wearde quay we almost come to a standstill. No wind, barely any tidal movement. Plenty of time to watch the bass herding small fry to the surface. It is a savage carnage. No mercy is shown by the marauding bass. They chase and harry. Mackerel and whitebait jump out of the water to escape. Seagulls dive bomb the surface picking off any stragglers not quick enough to return to the deep. 

On the shore, right under the trees, with the high tide almost cutting off his escape route back to the quayside, a lone fisherman casts and retrieves; casts and retrieves. He switches lures and immediately grabs a bass and gives a shout out to his mate. I missed him. He is camouflaged so well, against the trees and low hanging bushes, he is almost invisible. I'm impressed though, for both may be in thigh waders but each wears a life jacket. Sensible precautions! These guys are experienced! 

It is 1200 midday. I'm back on the buoy I was on yesterday; the one in the middle of the mooring trots just a way downstream from Saltash quayside. Kettle is on. I'm grabbing a brew. Sun is shining but I'm still a tad chilly so I've grabbed my old duvet jacket once more. One of those favourite pieces of kit; like an old friend, it goes everywhere with me. Grimy, threadbare in places, it is a well travelled jacket. An extra layer when stargazing; my go to outerwear on early mornings wherever I am in the world. 

Traffic is a steady stream across the bridges. There only occasional boats passing up and down the river. In the far distance, one of the MOD Police boats does lazy slow circuits around the dockyard frontage. A few minutes later and I am caught by surprise when I glance up to see the same boat entering the Lynher. It seems that Jupiter Point naval training station also falls under its remit. The MOD Police are very skilled at 'sneaking about' unnoticed! 

Three hours into the outgoing tide and I am able to slip the mooring and drift down the line of trots under mizzen sail and into the confluence of the two rivers. The winds are shifting once more, this time to the east, so I should get a sort of beam reach sail down most of the river. Easy sailing with steady 7 knot winds. 

Of course that doesn't happen. The winds drop completely. I have to use a combination of bare pole drifting, drifting under mizzen and occasional use of the outboard to make any progress. Its nice lazy boating. No dolphins at the Millbrook shoals but three small private fishing motorboats slowly trolling between the trots. Plenty of bass and small mackerel again. I've stopped once on the way down to tie up at a vacant buoy so that I can refuel the outboard. It has a small internal tank and I can't fit an external one to it. So I buoy hop! 

Now on a buoy at Wilcove, I catch the first stronger breeze. The afternoon winds are kicking in. I'm able to sail off the buoy and so make the remaining journey down through the Cremyll narrows under full sail. By the time we reach Drakes Island, the winds are a steady 12 knots. 

The afternoon passes with some lovely sailing around the sound. Up through the gap between the breakwater and its round fort; along the windward side of the RFA Tide Spring - not so close as to cause them alarm but close enough to get a good explore of the superstructure. Down through the Bridges on the western side of Drakes Island, avoiding the dragons teeth antisubmarine traps - for now it is 1500 and almost completely low tide. 

Some bosuns whizz by, hard sailed; expertise on display from their double crews. The winds are picking up. It gets lively across the northern face of the island and back towards the Cattedown.

Arwen and I play all afternoon. The earliest we can retrieve back at QAB marina slip will be 1700. And then I make my mistake. A silly one really but there we go. I decide to go for late afternoon coffee and cake at Mountbatten water sports cafe. I'm directed to tie up at the very outer end of the outer pontoon face. I'm informed that I should still have 10" of water under me even at very low water. 

I return from delicious coffee and cake to a disaster! Firstly, Arwen is in 8" of water. Secondly, no one told me about the rocks and mudbank. You'd have thought the team would have mentioned that! But here I am, sandwiched between pontoon and an exposed rock and mudbank. I cant go forward. I can't go backwards. I cant push off the pontoon. Trapped! I'll need to wait at least an hour before there is sufficient water around me to enable me to escape! Very frustrating! 

But, I'm not the only one. For the work boat from the Tectona Trust - the situation is worse. Because they couldn't move me, they had come in to drop off some crew on the very edge of the pontoon and now find themselves well and truly stuck. They had pushed off, gone 3 metres and run onto the same mudbank which was trapping me. 

The work boat is around 20' long, 8' wide with a large inboard engine. A real workhorse gaff rigged sailing boat. Traditional carvel hull and the two crew really know their stuff. Proper salty seadogs. I am treated to a master class in how to free your heavy boat from a mudbank. the crew stand on the side decks; they run from side deck to side deck. That boat rocks side to side; the engine is engaged and driving hard; the stern waves and wash are truly impressive. They use poles and oars to push and level themselves side to side, backwards and forwards. 

It is truly exhausting to watch their exertions but nothing! That boat does not move one iota. Zilch. Well and truly stuck! And then out comes the anchor - it is thrown forward, pulled taut and they try to haul themselves off. Nothing! They can't get it far enough. A boat pole probes the depths. A decision is made and one brave soul jumps overboard, wades forward many metres up to his waist and buries the anchor. 

The boat engine is reversed and forwarded; reversed and forwarded. Both crew haul and haul. Nothing! 

A passing dory with a huge outboard is called across. Tow ropes are attached. The dory skipper tries everything. I beat  hasty retreat further back down the pontoon, I swear blind that boat cleat is going to be ripped off its dory deck! Nada! Nothing! After thirty minutes of these antics, the crew resign themselves to, like me, having to wait for the tide to rise! 

The take away lesson I have from this incident is that I give up way too easily when things get tough! I could have waded out and probably got Arwen off the mud and into a metre of water. I just couldn't be arsed frankly. The Tectona crew? Oh my they are impressive, good humoured and determined. And highly. highly skilled. They had to be places. There were more people to collect and drop off.  They waited 15 minutes!

That crew member waded out once more and under a combination of engine, anchor rode hauling and poling off - that boat was freed. It was genuinely impressive. An absolute master class in seamanship and experience. It was what it was. They held no ill grudge towards me being stuck at the end; no ill grudge against the centre for not being informed about the mudbank. These things happen - part of life's rich tapestry - some thinking, a rizla fag or two - some hard effort. Anything can be resolved. 

After they had left, I made a quiet promise to myself. For the master class I'd been given in how to free your stuck boat, I have promised that next time it happens to me, I will wade in to the waters, I will try all the techniques they showed me. I owe it to them and their organisation and outstanding community work. 

When the tide had reached 70 cm depth, I was able to pole Arwen over the mudbank and lower the outboard safely. we motored across the short distance to a vacant buoy. I packed away various bits and pieces, stowed sails properly and untied shrouds. All ropes were tied to mast in preparation for its collapse back into the boat. I arrived back at QAB at 1730 and there was just enough water to allow me to tie up alongside the pontoon. By 1750, Arwen was back on her trailer being washed down at the top of the slipway! 

You know what? It had been an adventurous weekend and we'd had fun!