A Heart-Stopping Dash Over the Shallows

Leaving Burnham: The Great Ipswich Marina Quest (and a Heart-Stopping Dash Over the Shallows!)

The lure of Ipswich had called, but securing our next berth was proving to be a saga worthy of its own nautical epic! While basking in the sunny serenity of Burnham, we'd been bombarded with a fascinating (and often conflicting) array of advice from fellow sailors regarding the best route to Ipswich and, more crucially, the perfect marina for our extended stay.

The whispers from the sailing grapevine consistently pointed towards Shotley Marina, perched enticingly at the mouth of the River Orwell with its convenient lock gate. It sounded ideal – no lengthy river motor on departure, and glowing reviews. We were all set to book, only for the Harbour Master's voice on the phone to drop a bombshell: "Sorry, your 2-meter draft won't clear our 1.8-meter dredging. And with the Bank Holiday weekend keeping the lock perpetually busy, inner water levels might be an issue." Our jaws practically hit the deck! So much for local intel.

Next on the hit list: Woolverstone. An MDL marina, like Chatham, it promised familiarity but came with a price tag that made our wallets wince – a significant factor when every pound counts on this grand adventure. Then came Royal Harwich, alluringly situated on the riverfront but offering only a handful of exposed "hammerhead" berths for non-members. Tracey's inner control freak (which, let's be honest, is far from hidden these days) recoiled at the thought of leaving Halcyon Sea exposed to the whims of wind and tide while we were off retrieving our car.

Finally, we turned our attention further upriver into Ipswich itself, and that's when we stumbled upon Fox's. A smaller marina, a mere 100 berths, but from the very first phone call, they were a breath of fresh air – genuinely helpful and refreshingly accommodating. The icing on the cake? Its walk-able proximity to Ipswich rail station, a non-negotiable for our car retrieval mission. The first piece of our complex logistical puzzle was firmly in place.

With our marina secured, it was time to tackle the passage plan, a topic that had sparked even more debate than the marina choice! The local wisdom suggested a bold shortcut: "Skip over the Sands! You'll save loads of time!" Navionics, our digital oracle, confirmed the possibility, albeit with a rather alarming "0.1m" chart datum depth for the shallowest section. But with a neap tide working in our favour, the siren song of saved hours proved too strong to resist. A calculated risk, perhaps, but the prospect of bypassing a lengthy detour was too tempting.

We awoke early, the chilly morning air biting, and slipped our lines from Burnham at a crisp 8 am. The forecast promised a breezy day, gusts of 15 knots – a standard sailing (or, more likely, motoring) day, perfectly doable. Our initial trundle out of the River Crouch was serenely quiet, passing only a few industrious fishing boats already anchored on a natural shelf, their lines already in the water.

But the calm, as always, was fleeting. Soon after leaving the buoyed path, the wind began to pick up, and with the water being relatively shallow, this created a significant, unpleasant swell. We were quickly regretting not donning every single thermal, jumper, and foul-weather layer we possessed. Our teeth chattered, but turning back was simply not an option; the logistical challenge of getting to Liverpool by Friday loomed large.

We pressed on, heading towards the infamous Spitway – the shallowest, and most nerve-wracking, part of our journey. Our eyes were glued to Navionics, the pink track line of our intended route snaking across the ominously low depths. Up ahead, a tantalizing patch of blue sky appeared through the clouds – was this the good omen we so desperately craved? Nick, abandoning autopilot, took the helm, ready to pivot if needed. We prayed the swell would subside; running aground was not on today's agenda.

As Halcyon Sea, our sturdy little home, crept along the track leading across the shallows, silence descended. We held our breath, each lost in our own thoughts and fierce concentration. One eye glued to the depth sounder, one eye on Navionics (we knew it should only take about five heart-stopping minutes to cross), and another on the relentless swell and the ever-shifting weather.

And then, a moment of pure magic. For those five "bum-twitching" minutes, the sea calmed. The choppy waves subsided, replaced by a surprisingly gentle undulation. A sliver of sun shone through the clouds, as if guiding our way. We were on a neap tide, our research had been meticulous… surely, surely we could make this?

We were through! A collective, shaky exhale escaped us. We've breathed that sigh of relief countless times on this journey, but this one felt particularly poignant. Our ever-present logbook demanded its entry, documenting the harrowing hour that had just passed.

But the sea, ever a fickle mistress, soon resumed her turbulent dance. The swell increased, the fleeting sun retreated behind the clouds, and the cold bit harder. We passed Clacton and Walton-on-the-Naze, its historic pier jutting defiantly into the churning grey. In the distance, the Harwich docks emerged, their monstrous cranes a stark, industrial contrast to the cheerful pastel beach huts lining the seafront. We knew that turning to enter the Orwell River would mean facing the waves beam-on, exacerbating the relentless rolling motion that was already turning Tracey a rather sickly shade of green. Seasickness, the unwelcome travel companion, had made its grand entrance. We passed the very marinas we had so confidently (and wrongly, it now seemed) written off, a fleeting pang of "what if?"

Then, as if by divine intervention, as we finally entered the mouth of the Orwell River, all calmed down. The chaotic swell faded, replaced by the gentle ripples of river life. The only other boats sharing the water were nimble dinghies, their sails tacking back and forth in peaceful practice. We sailed under the familiar arch of the Orwell Bridge, a landmark Tracey had driven over countless times, a surreal moment of land-based memory meeting our new maritime reality. A left turn into our chosen marina, our home for the next few weeks, and the journey was finally over.

Cold, exhausted, and profoundly relieved, we put Halcyon Sea to bed. Pepper, in her new surroundings, enjoyed a long-anticipated run along the riverside before we crashed into our bunks. Tomorrow's mission: a train journey to Whittlesey to reclaim the car – a vital step in our next logistical challenge. This sailing life, we're learning, is less a race and more an epic, exhilarating, occasionally terrifying, and utterly unforgettable marathon!Lue lisää