Under Constable Skies
Per Mare Per Terram by Martin Van der Wal
BY DAWNS EARLY LIGHT — THE RETURN
The motto of the Royal Marines, ‘By Sea,By Land’ includes everything in between we might presume. Places like the Norfolk coastline where sea and land merge and mingle in the ceaseless pulse of flood and ebb. Under Constable skies renowned for dramatic light and sudden changes we sallied forth, a lucent blue sky with high clouds defied the forecast. Five braved the predictions, poetic souls with an understanding that nature to be fully appreciated must be dwelt in with an open heart. Two had declined. Oh it might rain, lets cancel! I suppose people either have the spirit for a petite adventure or they don’t. Wasn’t like we were setting off across the Bay of Storms! Just a modest creek crawl through the swatch-ways of Wells by the Sea up to the River Glaven at Blakeney. A three hour jaunt divided equally between motor and sail. Five of us, our intrepid captain had indeed earned his stripes as a Royal Marine Commando, three city folk of a certain age cut from the best British Cloth, and your humble scribe, a supernumerary of Antipodean extract completely bemused by a sea prone to regularly disappear and reappear with such total conviction.
“There is a time and tide in the affairs of men,” Well you know the rest! The Immortal Bard was almost certainly a sailor. Our timing of the tide was crucial ! A bridge too low may bar our path conclusively if the timing was not spot on. An anxious skipper is a particular study in human emotional control. There are those who just don’t have any. Best avoided, it can get ugly. However one might expect an ex-commando to be an exemplar of control. Henry, the principal of the Coastal Exploration Company, did not disappoint. He shepherded us amiably through the pre-departure small talk of greetings, bags to be transferred, life jackets donned and, not so nimble bodies transferred shore to ship. One might have been unaware of his alacrity, such was the careful and cheerful demeanour. Cast off! Before we knew it we were heading west down the channel from the Granary Wharf. Tide swelling behind us, the big Beta chugging solidly. Our sixty year old, twenty foot ,open, wooden, lug rigged Crab boat, charmingly named ‘My Girls’, made good time towards the narrow creek entrance a few hundred yards down the channel. It had been a tide bereft ditch less than ten minutes earlier, the water was surging as it carried us with it. We were riding a swirling, muddy bore as it swiftly took us deeper into a rich carpet of tussocky marshland.
TIDES OUT
Gulls rose lazily at our approach as we slaloming between the banks with the occasional check as she plowed through a ridge of mud. Cheerful ship-mates drank it in! Quite a unique experience! Clients comprised a London publisher and two Cambridge academics, desultory conversation struck up, Arthur Ransome, Erskine Childers, the division of the English between Twitchers and Spotters, back to the Riddle, and We Didn’t Mean It, the British knowledge of tides in their conquest of the world, Scylla and Charybdis. All this time our little bubble magically swept into a simpler world. Wide horizons, flat landscapes, big skies, the immediate bond of an adventure shared. Henry worked the channel; which he had professionally recce’d on foot, with quiet assurance. Occasionally, he would indicate a sight of passing interest, a historic anecdote, the name of a feature or a bird, effortlessly ensuring everyone felt comfortable. He constantly corrected as the vessel was grabbed first by stern then by bow as the roiling water swept us around corners, passed tributaries, midstream islands, and gripping mud. “This is the shallowest section;” he said,“we will get stuck numerous times but the water is constantly rising”. No sooner had he said it, than we grounded with a lurch, everyone was sitting safely as he gunned her in reverse, pulling off the mud and making a charge at the other side of the channel. She twisted, she bucked, she writhed her way forward, stuck then free, stuck again, free again. We rode comfortably! Her beamy, double ended form had plenty of freeboard, the powerfully chugging engine and professional action at the helm ensured an open hearted cheerfulness prevailed amongst those on board.
A wide-screen sky refreshed itself with menacing patterns as a distant gloaming approached. An oblique, low hanging, long dark finger spearing in from the South east. We came to the bridge. Duck! Our skipper commanded, we ducked, sweeping under with over a foot to spare. Yes, this was an adventure! No! We were not attempting a moonshot. This was adventure in a pastoral landscape, nothing more serious than a bruised roll cloud gathering speed across the horizon behind, heavy rain poured out of it. We still had blue skies above and fair winds behind. The watershed had been reached, no longer was the tide sweeping us forward, it was from ahead. Water rising slowly now, flow slackening, I took a line ashore as we came to a gentle stop alongside the grassy bank. Henry drove a couple of stakes into the mud and we were secured. A full moon was east rising amongst the fleeing rags of a fine day. A God fingered sunset was falling through the livid western horizon. It was time for tea, coffee, and a delicious light repast. Our half way point, how that time had slipped away! Henry, swept a weather eye through the full arc. Dealing smoothly with the well practiced catering, he remarked that he was confident the storm would probably not catch us. “If it did”he said,“an effective shelter could be erected quickly and he would get us home dry.” The jocular response from the passengers was truly British in its stoicism and acceptance of meteorological realities. After all this was an ‘adventure’!
CATCH US IF YOU CAN
Rumbling tummies well soothed by healthy home-made food, we raised the mast. Boom-less lug sheeted on a broad reach, engine off. The magic entered an entirely new dimension. Reverential! That sweet lip-lap of water on clinker hull, gentle heel, wind filled canvas. A collective sigh! We slipped out of Stone-meal Creek into the Bay. Here we were ostensibly at sea, although well within the three miles the vessel is licensed for; sand banks protected us from the full force of the waves whose whitewater was clearly visible seawards. There was a brief open water interlude as the arms of two sandbanks did not quite close. These Crab Boats are designed to take to the sea in the area of England that has the highest number of lifeboat callouts of anywhere along her coast. They are beach boats, traditionally pulled onto the sand to unload a catch. Steamed oak framed, copper roved on ten inch centres, clinkered in wide planked larch on oak backbones, designed to twist not break, when stressed. ‘My Girls’ engaged in a gentle waltz with the quartering sea. No problem at all as we scooted past Blakeney Points seal colony then smoothly into the lee. Casting an expert eye around at dramatic clouds determined to encircle before pouncing, Henry commented that it was usually here that the sail gave way to motor again, but because it was such a perfect evening, he was happy to keep sailing if we were. No question about it, the chorus of “Yes” went up. The rest of the evening went like clockwork, a romping sail up the bay as the gloaming gathered. A quick motor through the sea wall gates of the Glaven, rounding the base of the windmill as night fell. Disembarkation and farewells accomplished in very good humour, all made fast and tidied smartly. The first drops of rain chased us into our respective vehicles, only then were we hit by a very satisfying storm. Henry had timed it to a ’T’, ‘Per Mare Per Terram’ indeed!
ARRIVAL
The following morning I accompanied Henry on an early return voyage to deliver the boat back to her home-base. The storm scoured sky with high banks of fast moving cloud slowly opened to a sunny day. Chasing the tides in reverse we had to make the bridge just in time to squeeze under to catch the rapidly vanishing water on the other side of the watershed. The storm had whipped up an ugly, steep, head sea which squeezed itself in between the sandbars. Henry was kept busy heading up and throttling back for the worst of it and making good our course for the rest. There was never a moments doubt as to the capacity of both the boat and her skipper. A wet ride for twenty minutes, all good fun. We made the bridge with time to spare, tied up to it and had a very satisfying mug of tea as we waited to squeeze under. The watershed was reached in good time, and down we sluiced with the receding water all the way home.
The motto of Henry’s ‘COASTAL EXPLORATION COMPANY,’ is “recharge on nature”! Just add a dash of ‘Per Mare Per Terram’ to the cocktail. Very refreshing !
WELLS BY THE SEA