On Thursday 18th August (full moon, spring tides, high water mid-morning) Cavatina and I sailed from Studland to Swanage in warm sunshine and a steady southerly breeze of 8-10 knots. We stood several miles out to sea until, deciding not to carry on to Cherbourg (only joking), we came about, sailed across Swanage Bay and eventually (see below) made a leisurely landfall on a shingle beach on the north side of Peveril Point next to Swanage Sailing Club, for a late lunch. Then a tranquil run back past Old Harry with the wind dead aft, and some pleasant sailing in Studland Bay before the wind quietly died in late afternoon.
That’s not quite the whole story. In my pathetic defence I have to say that I haven’t approached Swanage from the sea before. I had looked at my Imray chart, and knew about The Red Buoy at the outer end of the Ledge. However I confused Peveril Point (which I hadn’t realised is such a puny promontory) with the much more impressive Anvil Point (Durlston Head) beyond it. And crucially I had, in the balmy conditions, forgotten that we were past high water and that the spring high tide had begun to ebb. While I was trying to orientate myself, I became aware of increasingly confused and noisy water around us. We needed to get out of there soonest. Help! We couldn’t. We were trapped in the Peveril tide race. Idiot!
In no time, or so it seemed, we were headed north on a dead run against a tide of (I’m guessing) 3 knots, which was both seriously ruffled by the steady breeze blowing in the opposite direction, and also heaping itself over the north edge of the Ledge some hundred yards ahead. Stretching away on either side of us, to the shore in one direction and out to The Red Buoy in the other, were lines of more or less stationary white water waves about 1/2 metre high with, between them, a turmoil of pyramidal heaps of water boiling up and bouncing into Cavitina’s bows, stern and midships, generally knocking her about and making steering problematic. Occasionally she was rolled so that the end of her outstretched boom was perilously close to catching in the maelstrom. The noise of breaking waves was incessant, loud and menacing.
The wind held steady. Had it increased, we might have extricated ourselves more quickly, but I guess any more wind against that tide would have made conditions within the race (where we were) much more challenging. If it had dropped, we would have lost ground and, I suppose, eventually would have been spat out of the southern end of the race, wherever that was. Another option would have been to turn into the wind and sail close-hauled down-current, but I decided that, a broach was almost certain if I turned upwind in those conditions. Sailing upstream/downwind was hairy enough.
Cavatina is no slouch. Those who have sailed with her, eg on Ullswater and at Weymouth, will recall that downwind she can keep up with Bay Raiders/Cruisers. In the next 45 minutes I have no idea how far we travelled through the water - several miles?! Over the ground it took us at least that long to cover the 100 or so yards to the north edge of the race where the water became smooth. We rocked and rolled our way by inches to eventual safety, while I steered from midships, crouched on the cockpit sole to keep our centre of gravity as low as possible. At times we were sailing a bit by the lee: this is no problem with junk rig, and a gybe was another manoeuvre to be avoided at all costs.
Eventually we crept oh so slowly out of the seething edge of the race into smooth conditions, where the water was deep but still speeding south under us towards the north edge of the race itself, which was now dropping astern, albeit with agonizing slowness. Around us sudden whirls of water about 6 ft across appeared on the surface in complete silence, catching the bow or stern to knock us off course before disappearing as suddenly. (I believe that the technical term for these is ‘up-wellings’, which sounds to me like outdoor footwear with social pretensions.) It was another 20 minutes of creeping slowly northwards against the tide before, about a hundred yards from the reassuring presence of the Swanage Lifeboat lying placidly on her mooring, I realized that our speeds over the ground and through the water had become much the same. We were free. What. A. Relief!!! As we made our welcome beach landing, my mouth was dry.
Rounding Old Harry on the way back to Studland, intermittent roaring in the distance turned out to be the Red Arrows showing off over Bournemouth. Their display over there needed several re-aligning swoops circling low above us so that they could adjust themselves to the nearest inch at 300 mph. Clever stuff - unlike the escapades some get up to...
It had been quite a day....
Michael Rogers (+ Cavatina - it wasn't her fault and she was brilliant)
