Sailing Club
Clubhouse (01636) 830065
NG14 7JX
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Ladies Norfolk sail | Nottinghamshire
County Sailing Club Clubhouse (01636) 830065 NG14 7JX |
I’ll admit that, as a total novice with just RYA level 1&2 under my belt, I had no idea what to expect from this weekend on the North Sea. And I didn’t expect to have quite such a companiable yet exhilarating adventure. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to learn, see, feel, hear and swallow! And all in just one weekend – by the time we had finished it seemed more like a week!
Simon McEvoy and I were the first to arrive in Brancaster Staithe early on Friday afternoon. We were soon heading for the hard in order to get Miss Quinn ready for what was going to be an early start the next morning. The rain was coming down in sheets and the promise of clear skies the next morning seemed too good to be true. Our preparations completed satisfactorily, and back in dry clothes with a brief detour to the Granary’s drying room, we made our way directly to ‘The Jolly Sailors’. Securing our place, for what turned out to be the next 7 hours, we waited in high spirits for the welcoming commotion that accompanied the arrival of each member of our complement. In all, we were ten ladies, with a wide range of sailing experience. Most of the ladies had been on previous winter sails at Brancaster. Only Liz ‘New Boots’ Chaloner, Julie Coghill and I were Brancaster virgins. This meant, reassuringly for us, that we were both to sail with one of the more experienced helms. Liz seemed to be chuffed to be crewing with Matt. She hadn’t even seen his Wayfarer yet. Water Witch was a beautifully restored boat with a blood red hull, which had been in his family for nearly 50 years. Simon had been the senior instructor on my RYA course and my experiences then filled me with confidence now. Although I must admit I didn’t feel as excited as Liz seemed to be!
As the night at ‘The Jolly Sailors’ wore on it soon began to live up to its name. The crackle and warmth of the fire relaxed everyone and we settled down to lively tales of boats, seas, waves and flares. One thing stuck in my mind as the morning’s sail got closer. Having only ever sailed on the lake at Hoveringham, Simon teased me when I remarked that my only experience of waves was bobbing over the wake from the sailing club’s safety boat. That was soon to change.
Once back at the Granary - our designated crew lists absorbed - we found our voices and began singing merrily to the strumming of Steve Payne on guitar. Sea Shanty’s full of sadness and calamity rang out followed by more upbeat Bruce Springsteen tunes. Belfast coffee (half coffee, half whisky) ignited cheeks, and all in all it was a pleasant and convivial ending to the evening. With only 3 hours before Simon’s cheery wake up call - the wind was getting up.
Rising at 5.30am was, to me, very easy. I was convinced I hadn’t slept a wink anyway. I nimbly (at least it seemed nimble to me) dropped the 6ft from my top bunk, fuelled by shear adrenalin and excitement. I raced to be first in the bathroom. The atmosphere was different from the night before. There was a little tension, more tiredness and some anticipation hanging in the air, as we all ritually added layer onto layer onto, yes, more layers. We gathered in the foyer to attempt the last layer, the dry suit, the stretching to get one’s head in can only be likened to some bizarre re-birthing therapy session.
The wind had continued to build over night. Simon, Matt, Charles and Alan were the first to inspect outside weather conditions and get a wind report. Faces up to the clear night sky, they were able to sense and gauge the wind’s strength and direction. Although the wind had now softened to a North Westerly Force 4, the night had seen in a Force 7 that may have stirred things up at sea. This, combined with the previous week’s wind, could deliver some decent waves. If things were too challenging we would return back into harbour. We had a plan.
At 7 am we arrived at the hard. It was a balmy 4.5 C and still dark. We managed to prepare the boats quite quickly using our cars’ headlights. A well-prepared and ingenious Steve Payne was using a head-mounted torch. Once the whole fleet was rigged(1Reef & a Jib), armed with radios (some even turned on) and packing a couple of GPS units (guess who) we began our descent into the water. It was actually happening, the sun was rising in a beautifully inky blue sky, with moderate wind, and we were about to sail, in January, in the North Sea! Were we all mad?
Water Witch was the first to beat out of the harbour using the back eddies to help against the incoming tide. She looked every bit the lead boat so graceful and elegant. We were all close to follow Miss Quinn with her fiery red sails. Charles stood out like a beacon in his hideous luminous green hat (sorry girls). It was a shame he wasn’t sailing with Wye Rush as he would have complemented their luminous striped sails. Whodeet and Topsy made up the rear to complete the beginning of our Wayfaring adventure.
I shared my crewing responsibilities with the bubbly Julie C – a sea-virgin like me but a more experienced sailor. We picked our way through the shallow water of the harbour keeping close to the sand banks where the water was deeper. It didn’t take long before we were at the bar – the waves becoming sharp and angular.
We tacked into the wind and close hauled directly out to sea. As the swell grew I realised just how precisely we were cutting through the breaking waves – some reaching 3 meters and some so steep I wondered how on earth we were going to get over them. Simon asked if we wanted a go at the helm. We both decided to give it a miss at this point! Each wave had to be hit face on and at times this seemed to grind us to a complete halt. Each wave had to be dealt with separately with its own unique challenges. It must have taken considerable concentration. Blissfully unaware of this, I rejoiced in every bounce, buck, crash and spray. Simon had to ask me politely to be quieter, if I could. Completely drenched and taking the full brunt of Neptune’s moderate wrath, I held on tight, taking on mouthful after mouthful of salty water. It was refreshing yet sobering, uplifting and exhilarating. I loved the surrounding atmosphere of danger and with my eyes stinging, ears ringing, nose dripping, I clung on, totally naive and ignorant of the real peril – all my unquestioning trust in Simon’s hands.
We match Water Witch tack for tack, bearing away after each towering wave. Then came a new and unexpected feeling. We were picked up by the sea and shot forward as we literally surfed down the face of the waves for 150 metres or more. “Don’t look behind you!” someone shouted. Looking behind me I saw a white wall of breaking water threatening to drown us all. But like an Hawaiian surfer dude on Big Wednesday, our Wayfarer kept one step ahead of the curling breakers. Wayfarer surfing in the North Sea was a new and wonderful water sport for Julie and I. Once again, and to our skipper’s evident yet mild dismay, vocalised my appreciation with the usual gusto. Simon’s nonchalance continued to put me at ease and enhance my pleasure; although thinking back, it was actually quite scary. After an unfavourable assessment of the conditions and Julie’s brief off-stage discussion with Neptune, it was decided to turn homeward.
There’s no ‘h’ in Whodeet
This decision was reinforced when Whodeet, running back to safety, jib furled, was hit from behind, broached and capsized in the broiling green water. This wasn’t nice for anyone, particularly Chris, who fell in and became trapped under the sail – having to swim free in fear of her life. Meanwhile Karen lost one of her sea boots – a ‘remarkable’ echo of ‘Pincher Marten’ a well-worth reading tale of the sea from rare British Nobel literature laureate William. Well, you’d have to read it to understand!
Schedule of lost articles:
Wye Rush
was the next North Sea’s victim - capsizing in waist-high water! We waited
eagerly to see Doug’s tan sails righted and, to everyone’s relief,
up they came in short order. Alan and Julie B soon had Wye Rush righted
and we met, according to our plan, on the shingle at the east end of Scolt Head. We anchored and waited for the others as we watched
the seals rapidly sloping off to sea.
We all managed to warm up a little and started to share our stories including some seemingly near-death experiences. Liz was reassured to hear about Matt’s stylish recovery of Alan’s lunchbox. She commented that her ‘man over board’ worries were now partially alleviated by the slick lunchbox retrieval. It must have been a very special lunch to get such lavish attention! Group photos were taken and hot soup was imbibed by the greedy, or just the less rattled. Whodeet was collaboratively bailed dry and everyone looked for Doug’s car keys. Like most men who lose things sometimes they are in the most obvious places. Yep, his keys were in his bag strapped around his waist. The only real loss inflicted was the letter h in Whodeet. It had gone to Davy Jones’s locker forever.
Refreshed, calmed and safe we sailed on into tamer water. We took our reefs out in the harbour and sailed on Norton Creek. Now we were able to concentrate on sailing and not on just trying to survive. We were each able to take the helm. But it was frustrating, having learnt in a centre main, I couldn’t seem to just click into using Simon’s aft main. We ran aground a few times – it seemed strange, having only sailed on a deep lake, to see Simon just jump out and put us on course again.
You can imagine my surprise when I had to shout to my crew that Matt was just about to capsize. Disaster was swiftly rectified by his nimble bucket work. Matt capsize? Surely not, we all thought, and in such shallow water! We discovered later that it had been a stuck Genoa sheet. We then had only to gently beat back in against the ebb tide and safe into the hard.
It was time for celebration. We were all safe. Simon switched on his radio and Matt’s GPS was showing a staggering 60mph – that was, of course, his top speed to get to Brancaster. You can tell Matt’s a policeman – staying well under the speed limit! Actually, we had sailed about 9 miles, and our experienced helms said that our surfing speed had been around 10-12 knots. Simon produced some champagne flutes and Buck’s Fizz and we all gathered around and toasted our very wavy morning’s sail. And it was still only 11am. It felt more like bedtime but there were still loads more to pack in.
Back at the Granary - dry suits off and tea imminent – home made cakes lined the table making a welcoming sight and we tucked into a well-earned lunch. Refreshed and replenished, we sat and chatted about each individual drama of the morning. We went over and over our favourite moments and some of the not-so favourite moments. I had enjoyed everything but particularly the surfing and thrill of the sea’s power.
With renewed vigour we all set about completing the next item on the agenda – deciding what to do next. Steve Payne, equipped with his unfeasibly large telescope and binoculars, set off with his party of intrepid twitchers. Liz and I decided to reconnoitre the Fat Face shop next door – with rumours of a sale – we couldn’t resist.
Finally, Matt, Gill, Simon, Liz and I headed off to Thornham for a brisk walk along the coast, skirting the beautiful marshes. We had a lovely afternoon with idyllic scenery, great company and lots to natter about.
It wasn’t long before the boys pointed out the much acclaimed and heartily welcoming sight of ‘The Lifeboat’ – a Free House with Adnams and Abbott ales on offer. We shared a huge plateful of freshly fried whitebait – a finger-licking treat of this coast. “A swift half” turned into several pints. Our banter became ever more animated attracting local attention and even securing an invitation by Bobby to the local sailing club. I could have stayed much longer – my cheeks reddening from the heat of the huge fire and the alcohol, of course. As we left ‘The Lifeboat’, in the dying light of dusk, I could see on the horizon the faraway lights of distant ships – one magical moment amongst many on this magical adventure.
Back at the Granary, the evening was well under way with the spicy aroma of mulled wine floating in the air. The gathered twitchers were mulling over marsh harriers, golden plovers and godwits. We had an action-packed evening ahead, with the Chinese takeaway on order; a ritual I am told. We started to play the game of ‘spoons’, which lived up to its reputation of being very aggressive and competitive. The ladies launched themselves into it, snatching and elbowing their way to get at the precious spoons. Well done to Liz who managed to scoop up that spoons trophy! And she didn’t stop there going on to win all the games and quizzes that followed. It was a truly fun evening with lovely warm people but the rate of alcoholic consumption meant many sought their well-earned beds early. The hardcore decided that a midnight walk to the hard to hear the halyard chorus might send off the night nicely. And what a send off and when I went to bed I could still hear the wind in the rigging and I was still rocking from the waves. Well, the Bacardi was probably helping.
5.30am felt almost a surreal time to get up! I joined Matt and Simon cheerfully downstairs. Classical music and a monasterial calmness radiated as I bolted down banana, neurofen and coke. Matt’s pomegranate and blueberry smoothy left me particularly uninterested. I was eager to be ready before the mêlée of faffing with flasks and packed lunches so I prepared myself with a quietly focussed intent. We slowly begin to gather – a little bleary of eyes and weary of limbs. Yesterday had taken its toll as walking wounded from the sailing and the bird walk decided to rest their aching limbs.
The wind had increased to a F6. It was still very gusty and with the silhouettes of the pine trees thrown around in the night sky, we knew another white-knuckle ride was just over the horizon.
As we prepared our dearly cherished boats, perhaps now with more affection and respect than before, the beauty of our surroundings overwhelmed me. As if in a film, shot entirely with a rose-tinted filter, everything was bathed in our planet’s most perfect pink – I couldn’t help smile in utter delight.
Armed with radios, and GPS receivers we were eager to get out there and take some decent readings. So, with two reefs and a storm jib on Miss Quinn, our company set sail out of the harbour negotiating the shallow sandbanks. It wasn’t long before we had picked up speed and all three of us were hiking out. Splash after splash the icy cold, brain hurting, water soaked my battered face and skin making me wetter and wetter. I even heard Simon say, “I got wet then!” Leaning out, feet securely under toe straps, notching up about 9 knots, I looked up at the parallel tell-tales, and was convinced I had found the perfect hang over cure. With not a tack in sight it was lovely just to sail and try to go faster.
The Royal West Norfolk Golf Club passed us by and we reached on to the beach at the south side of the harbour to anchor there. It turned out to be a chocolate stop and an abundant one at that. Rather salty chocolate Roses were handed round to those currently capable of ingestion. And retrieved from Miss Quinn’s numerous crannies, Ferrerro Roche and Maltersers were also added to the cocktail of chocolate decadence. Fuelled and still swaying I watched and smiled at how picturesque our 5 Wayfarer’s looked anchored up together there on the beach. It’s the only way to travel!
With time ticking on and the chance of more sailing ahead we changed course and headed to Titchwell Creek. I hadn’t expected it to warrant such action. We were soon in a flurry of “ready” and fast tacking. No sooner had we “lee hoed” than we had to be “ready” again. As if this wasn’t enough I had to be on centreboard surveillance. It was up and down like a yo yo. How on earth could you helm a Wayfarer single-handedly? Luckily it’s something I don’t have to worry about for some time, that’s for sure. Charles, aka Hartley 1, capsizing broke my reverie as we witnessed another shallow water casualty. That’ll be the centreboard.
Titchwell Creek proved quite gusty. It was here that a more competitive element came into play. However fast I thought we were going 8 knots or more, I was amazed to see Matt and Liz doing even better, gaining steadily behind us. Water Witch, cruising at 12.7 knots, wind in her sails was sailing with great alacrity. Would she beat us into the harbour without tacking, gauging her entry perfectly, or would she like us have to tack? Simon’s furtive glance back, followed by a few readjustments assured me of his confidence. Matt may have had the speed but we were still in front. Tacking perfectly, without heading up too much we tacked smartly against the ebb tide bringing us in triumphantly before them marking the end to a totally brilliant weekend.
A group photo, hugs all round, and we were all completely exhausted. My thanks to the McEvoy’s for inviting me and totally enriching my life. I’ve learnt loads, and I’ve also learnt I know nothing about sailing! But I do believe it’s going to be fun learning and a privilege to be with such enthusiastic and encouraging people who know how to have fun.
And finally, here are my lessons learned:
1) There are lots of ways to capsize!
2) The wind and the waves make an awesome combination
3) You don’t need to be in Hawaii or Devon to surf
4) Norfolk is a beautiful, eerie place
5) We love our boats but the friends we make are just as important
Octavia Heath
