27

Kentish Flats

The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.

– Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad, 1899

John uncleated the mooring buoy alone in the early hours to allow us the timeless experience of waking up under sail. The rhythmic rocking movement of the boat kept me sleeping until late morning. I finally awoke to the sound of the keel gently scraping against the soft mud of the riverbed. Rain was falling hard on the hatch above. I quickly pulled on my waterproofs and poked my head up out of the companionway: it was a white-out: the edges of the riverbank had disappeared in the mist and the water was an angry dark green.

The keel temporarily touched the bottom again as we left the Swale, heading for Four Fathoms Channel. There was a moderate breeze with a fair tide, but then the weather turned dramatically, the winds reaching up to force seven. It was hard to see ahead but, as we sailed back out into the mouth of the Estuary, travelling at a good rate of knots, I saw the great wind turbines turning at the Kentish Flats wind farm – the first offshore wind farm in the Thames Estuary. It was originally constructed as a thirty-turbine farm but fifteen new turbines will be installed there over the next few years. When fully operational, they will generate enough power for 42,000 homes in Kent. During the construction of these first few turbines, the noise created by piling the giant legs into the seabed was so loud that residents in Whitstable were kept awake at night as the sound echoed around the bay.

We kept skating across the riverbed on our way out of the Swale, not an uncommon experience, sailing on such a low tide, but rather frightening to me. Our skipper decided the best course of action was to take a short cut to get into deep water quickly, although he was aware there was still a chance of touching bottom. He was trying to find the Overland Passage, which extends from the west end of Horse Channel in a west-north-west direction across Kentish Flats to Four Fathoms Channel. The passage leads between sandbars on its north side and shoals extending from the Isle of Sheppey on its south. Numerous wrecks and obstructions lying in the vicinity of the Overland Passage were visible on the chart. We hoped the charts were accurate, as we were reliant on them to find safe passage through the sandbanks.

John thought the incoming flood tide would help us along. We were travelling at a speed of five knots, trying to reach deep water on the last ebb of the Thames. There was a light chop at sea and a strong wind of twenty knots from the west, edging up to force six. The boat was pitching hard into the dark water. I could see white-capped waves further out in the Estuary. The sky was flat and white, with a band of deep grey along the horizon. Suddenly, the water depth on the guage dropped to below twelve feet. I was worried and told John the reading, and he nodded solemnly but did not look overly concerned, just told me to keep him closely informed.

Heeling to starboard, the depth reading went up to fifteen feet as we passed the Red Sands Sea Forts. As we sailed speedily along in the pouring rain, I stood beside John at the helm. I asked him if touching the bottom of the riverbed earlier that morning could have harmed Jacomina in any way. He explained that the soft mud of the riverbank would not hurt the boat; however, if we ran aground on the shingle of the estuarine sandbanks, the damage could be serious.

Fingers of high, hard sand stretched out in all directions on either side. We were travelling at a speed of five and a half knots, close to the wind farm, when we came to a sudden halt: we were stuck on a small sandbar called East Spaniard. It was quite a moderate grounding but still forceful for a nineteen-ton boat and the vessel hobby-horsed forward and aft alarmingly.

Simon and John worked for some time, furling and unfurling the genoa before putting the engine in reverse to try to break free from the sandbank. Eventually, their efforts paid off and we were sailing once more, but within a few minutes we ran aground again, heavily this time and dangerously close to the wind turbines. The boat pitched dramatically, then began to heel right over. The echo sound read six feet and the keel was embedded two and a half feet in the sand, causing a great amount of strain. The rain was coming down in sheets, there was a strong wind and the sea was a menacing black-green and choppy. I gripped on to the side of the boat as electric fear coursed through my whole body. The violence of the crash brought back all the memories of my previous sailing accident as the boat began to heel over further to starboard. I tried to calm my rising panic and looked to John for reassurance, watching him closely to try to assess the danger of the situation we were in. I could see the anxiety in his face, although he remained cool and composed at all times. I knew I had to get out of his way: he had enough to deal with without worrying about me. With great difficulty, I managed to crawl along the steeply angled deck before sliding down the companionway. James was lying below deck, suffering with seasickness. It was hard to stand up, as the boat was heeling so much, and the sound of the waves battering against the sides of the boat was dreadful. I made my way into my cabin. My hands were shaking as I reached for my mobile phone. I was not really expecting to be able to get a signal out there, but somehow I got through to Jonny, who calmed me down a little and reassured me that this was quite a normal sailing experience out in the Estuary. At worst, he expected we might be stuck out there until the tide turned.

Simon came below deck to put the bilge pump on. I imagined the boat filling with water and felt physically sick. He gave my arm a quick squeeze before leaping back up the ladder to help John. I stood at the foot of the companionway, holding on to the handrail for support, staying in the shadows so that I could see what was going on above deck but they could not see me. I was afraid. During the course of researching this book I had learnt too much about the dangers of running aground on a sandbank out in the Thames Estuary. I knew that the Montgomery, Juliana and hundreds of others vessels over time had all either broken their backs or been smashed to pieces by waves after grounding on sandbanks, and we had the added danger of being extremely close to the wind turbines. If our rudder broke, we would not be able to sail away and could collide with the great metal legs of the turbines; it would be like throwing a matchstick model against a concrete wall. And even if we managed to get off the sandbank, there was a great risk of grounding again – we had no idea how to locate the deep water.

I watched from below as John radioed through on VHF Channel 16 for help. He got through to two support-and-maintenance vessels which were on site at the wind farm, but the first was unable to get a visual on our position and seemed reluctant to advise us. Luckily, someone on the second, Valkyrie Whitstable, jumped into the conversation and came to our aid. ‘We can see you. If you sail near to the wind farm, there is deeper water there.’ They warned us to be extremely careful; there was another working vessel laying cables with four anchors on the wind farm on our way out.

Finally, John and Simon managed to release Jacomina from the sandbank. I came back up on deck as they put up both sails. We turned north-west along the perimeter of the farm and immediately the depth started to shoal dramatically again. It was even more dangerous to ground out there in open water with a wave height of six feet, and John took to the radio once again. Valkyrie advised us to sail directly through the wind farm, where there was guaranteed deep water.

Travelling at a speed of six and a half knots, with the boat heeling right over to ensure the keel was angled away from the seabed as much as possible, we sailed right through the middle of the wind farm. Rows of giant turbines spun in the strong wind either side of us. It was still raining hard, with a good breeze, in excess of twenty-five knots, the wind at force six. John asked us to sit on the leeward side to help tip the boat further and reduce the draught. We were inches away from the water, spray was coming up over the deck of the boat – it was absolutely exhilarating. Valkyrie escorted us out, making sure we had safe passage to the edge of the farm, then the crew on board waved and turned back. For centuries, vessels at sea have assisted each other in all levels of difficulty like this. ‘There is an unspoken code,’ said John as he waved goodbye to our rescuers.

We sailed past the sea forts again. The millpond of the day before had been transformed into an entirely different landscape: wild, aggressive and dangerous. A mist had descended, obscuring the coastline on either side. It was a relief to be in the safer waters of the Knob Channel, but we were travelling at a dismal speed, there was a strong wind against us and a steep chop. We were all exhausted, the weather was dreadful and we were having difficulties finding a good berth in London, so a decision was made to cut the trip short and head for Chatham instead.

We tacked towards the Medway. With the wind and rain beating over us, I felt extremely cold. As I helmed us into the mouth of the river, a large container ship passed on our port side. We sailed past the three visible masts of the SS Richard Montgomery starboard, which were covered in seabirds. The prohibited area around the stranded wreck was clearly marked by lighted buoys, which formed a circle around the site.

Two tugs came out of the Medway. I steered to starboard towards a green buoy, showing our intended course to the vessels. The wash of the container ship rocked the boat as the tugs chugged past. As we sailed along the Medway, past the circular forts where Stephen Turner had lived all those weeks, I could feel the adrenaline from earlier leave my body. I started to shake uncontrollably. I went below deck and lay on a sofa, wrapped in a blanket, shivering violently, but I just could not get warm.

We moored up in Chatham dock and debriefed below deck before going our separate ways. John was visibly upset, and I was so sorry that his long journey on Jacomina had ended this way. He is such an experienced sailor, he had read the charts thoroughly and calculated the tide height to plan our route, but even with all this, and the added support of depth readings and GPS, we had run aground.

Sandbanks move all the time and buoys are continually adjusted; nautical charts become little more than a record of a moment in time – abstractions of the actual landscape beneath the waves. Unlike most places out at sea, the contours of the Estuary shape-shift constantly with the wind and tides, sandbanks rise up and disappear again, safe channels can become danger zones overnight. I was reminded of the many fishermen and sailors I had spoken to who suspect this process has happened at a much greater rate since the DP World dredging began.