To the kayak! On Friday lunchtime. I got my time and tides all wrong. Oh dear. I arrived at the Sailing Club to find the rowing club were packing away after an earlier session.
Something’s not quite right here…
For some reason I had read my tidal times all wrong. I’m not sure why this happened. This is the amateur tide reader who, don’t forget, spent the best part of a month putting together a highly complex spreadsheet that automatically pulled in tide times and then adjusted them. Oh well. Now I’m here I might as well make the most of what remains of the water.
The rowing club weren’t the only water users packing away for the session. Half-term week meant the young cadets were coming in to the Sailing Club hard in their dinghies. I had to wait a few minutes or so before I could launch.
Finally I was out there. There was no one else around on the estuary. Fancy that.
I got a little lost in my own hippie shit aquatic ways. I ended up being carried on an outgoing tide to Whitehouse Beach. I then realised I was running out of water. I didn’t fancy my chances taking it any further.
I hovered around for a short while and heard a little bit of splashing underneath my hull. I had a slight fear of what may be lurking deep down below. This was no time for hanging around. It was probably just more endless shit floaters.
I heard a distant cuckoo on the opposite shore. This was my homing signal to get back to the Sailing Club. I panicked slightly for the final 10 minutes remaining, fearing I would run out of water. Either side of me I could see mud banks emerging. On more than one occasion my oar churned up thick, dark brown Essex estuary mud.
I managed to recover my kayak with around half a metre or so of water left on the hard. Dick.
I wasn’t the only river user out there who had fucked up. An army of jet ski flotillas were struggling to make it past the barrier. It couldn’t happen to any nicer fellas.
