Ramsgate’s Fog to Chatham’s Lock Down

From Ramsgate's Foggy Embrace to Chatham's Lock-Down (Literally!)

Our rude awakening this morning came not from the gentle chirping of nautical birds, but the insistent blare of foghorns – nature's way of saying, "Nope, not today!" One bleary-eyed peek out revealed a marina shrouded in a pea-souper fog so thick you could have spread it on your toast. The foghorns, sounding their mournful two-minute dirge, seemed to be actively serenading us back to bed.

After eavesdropping on some French sailors' foggy deliberations (Tracey's O level French finally proving useful!), we decided to adopt their "wait and see" approach, resetting our alarm for 8 am, albeit with the knowledge that we were sacrificing precious tidal assistance. Ramsgate to Chatham was already shaping up to be a marathon motor-sail (emphasis on the motor, the wind being characteristically unhelpful), a good ten-hour slog even with a cooperative tide.

At 8 am, the foghorns had mercifully fallen silent. Operation "Get to Chatham Before Christmas" was back on! A brisk walk for Pepper, a hasty breakfast, a frantic tidying session and we were ready to slip our Ramsgate shackles. Permission granted by Port Control, we nudged Halcyon Sea out beyond the constraints of the harbour. We hadn’t realised that Bailey had captured our departure on his drone.

The initial leg was deceptively pleasant. Sunshine glinted off the calm sea, illuminating the charmingly colourful beach huts of Dumpton Gap and Broadstairs. We could clearly see the headland, our gateway to the East Coast. The houses perched precariously atop the cliffs gave us pause – how much longer would the landscape remain looking this way.

Then, as we rounded the headland, it loomed – a menacing band of fog. A quick consultation with the shipping forecast confirmed "foggy patches." How bad could a "patch" be, we naively wondered? We motored on a little further, until the coastline vanished completely, and a knot of unease began to tighten in our stomachs. Visibility plummeted. A mutual decision was made: abort mission! We executed a swift 180-degree turn. After all, we were only at the start, and pressing on into oblivion with nowhere to duck for cover seemed… unwise.

Moments after our about-face, our ever-vigilant shore contact, Nick's son Olly, called, slightly panicked: "You're going the wrong way! Are you doing a man overboard drill?!" It was strangely reassuring to know we were being remotely monitored, even if our maneuvers looked suspiciously like a maritime emergency. We explained our foggy predicament and our temporary retreat.

After a brief "pull yourselves together" pep talk, we donned our metaphorical "big girl pants" and turned about again. Confidence, albeit slightly forced, suggested we could handle this pea soup, but we remained ready to bail if things got truly hairy. Heading back in the correct direction (again!), we motored a little further offshore, adhering to our passage plan to avoid any unexpected encounters with shallow sandbanks. Navionics, our electronic guardian angel, displayed the whereabouts of ships with AIS, allowing us to play a high-stakes game of nautical dodgems.

The sun began its valiant attempt to burn off the fog, and a tantalizing patch of visibility opened up before us. All clear! Safe as houses! Or so we thought. BAM! Without warning, the fog descended with the speed and stealth of a ninja, reducing visibility to a mere 60 feet – a boat and a half length. This felt decidedly less "adventure" and more "potential maritime incident."

Then, like a spectre emerging from the gloom, the silhouette of a vast chemical tanker materialized off our port side. Relief washed over us as our navigation proved accurate, but our collective sigh was abruptly interrupted by the tanker's booming foghorn – a sound less like an "acknowledgement" and more like a sonic boom designed to induce cardiac arrest. Our nervous laughter that followed was a testament to our frayed nerves.

This bizarre dance of clarity and near-zero visibility continued for a heart-stopping 1.5 hours. At one point, a huge vessel, over 780 feet long and 102 feet wide, passed within a mere 200 meters on our starboard side. We heard its foghorn, a deep, resonating bellow, but never actually saw it – a truly eerie experience. The fog transformed the world into a silent, grey void, the only constant the rhythmic chug of our engine. Our voices were hushed, announcing the next ghostly marker on the chart. A profound sense of loneliness and remoteness washed over us, but there was no time for existential pondering; all concentration was needed to navigate this watery purgatory, punctuated by prayers for the fog to lift. Our eyes played tricks, every hazy outline morphing into monstrous shapes – Tracey's vivid imagination was clearly in overdrive, envisioning scenes from a low-budget nautical horror film.

And then, as suddenly as it had descended, it began to lift. We emerged from the oppressive grey into a world of hazy sunshine. But Tracey's imagination wasn't quite ready to retire. Looming ahead were strange, otherworldly formations jutting out of the sea. We'd never seen anything like them. They resembled the menacing AT-AT walkers from The Empire Strikes Back! In reality, these bizarre structures were the Shivering Sands Army Fort and, a little further on, the Red Sands Fort. These Maunsell forts, built near the Thames Estuary for anti-aircraft defense during WWII, were once interconnected towers. The Shivering Sands fort, the last of the Thames Estuary forts to be constructed, was grounded in late 1943. Three sets of these forts, named after their designer Guy Maunsell, were built in the Estuary (the Nore forts have since been demolished). After the war, the rusty sentinels were abandoned, their access ladders removed to deter trespassers. However, they became unexpected havens for pirate radio stations, with Radio Invicta and its successors broadcasting from one of the forts in the mid-1960s. While largely derelict now, a charity, Project Redsand, occasionally runs boat trips for those intrigued by these eerie relics. One fort even remains semi-habitable, with a landing gantry for visitors.

As we entered the Thames Estuary proper, another, more sobering historical wreck came into view: the SS Richard Montgomery, a ghostly American Liberty ship built during WWII to carry vital supplies. In August 1944, laden with a terrifying cargo of approximately 7,000 tons of munitions, she joined a convoy bound for the UK and then Cherbourg. Upon arrival in the Thames Estuary, she was directed to anchor off Sheerness. Tragically, on August 20th, 1944, she dragged her anchor in the shallow water and grounded on a sandbank, lying precariously close to the Medway approach channel. While efforts to unload her began, a fatal crack appeared in her hull, and the forward end flooded. Salvage efforts continued until late September, by which point only about half the cargo had been removed. The vessel then completely flooded, and the salvage operation was abandoned. Her masts remain eerily visible above the water at all tide levels, a constant, silent reminder of the estimated 1,400 tons of explosives still entombed within her forward holds. History lesson over – and perhaps best not dwelled upon too much!

The pretty bays with their colourful beach huts had faded and made way for a more industrious landscape as we were now amongst busier shipping lanes in Thames Estuary.

Finally, we entered the winding embrace of the River Medway, racing against the dwindling tide to reach the lock entrance for Chatham. It was going to be a close call. We called the marina and were granted permission to enter the lock, instructed to move as far forward as possible to accommodate a small motorboat following us in. Tracey, blissfully unaware of the critical depth readings Nick was monitoring, experienced a surge of (okay, a lot of) panic as it appeared we were heading directly for the lock gate, not the lock itself. In her calmest (read: slightly high-pitched) voice, she "encouraged" Nick to turn. Meanwhile, Nick, battling his own rising anxiety with a mere 0.1 meters of water beneath our keel, was hesitant to make any sudden maneuvers for fear of grounding. But we made it! The lock gates closed behind us, and the water surged in with surprising ferocity, sending Halcyon Sea bobbing around like a cork in a bathtub. We quickly tamed her with a forward spring line attached to the midship cleat. Directions to our berth followed, another tight squeeze next to a rather imposing powerboat, further testing Nick's docking prowess.

With the boat finally secured, Tracey practically sprinted Pepper ashore for a long-overdue potty break. A celebratory (and slightly shaky) drink followed, a toast to surviving our foggy odyssey. Dinner at Wagamama's provided the perfect setting to recount the day's bizarre and slightly terrifying events. Utterly relieved, content, and completely shattered, an early night was non-negotiable. We think a couple of days in Chatham to catch our breath might be in order. After all, this isn't a race…もっと詳しく