Who’s afraid of alligators?

An alligator encounter was on my mind when I set out on a canoe expedition on my second day in Florida.

Having been assured by the man handing out the life vests and paddles, that they were unlikely to bother us “as long as we didn’t go feeding them”, we set out down the river fairly confidently. The same man had told us that we wouldn’t need a map, as there was no chance of getting lost in the river… If his tips about navigation turned out to be as accurate as his alligator advice, we were in trouble!

My colleague and I had decided to take in the natural beauty of a riverside location before the start of a week of meetings. Paddling out on the tranquil, if rather brown looking river, seemed like the perfect way to get over jetlag and soak up the sights and sounds of Florida’s wildlife.

Apart from alligators, we’d been told we might see dolphins and manatees, so our eyes were peeled. I hadn’t done my homework on manatees and kept calling them Manta Rays. To be honest, I really wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for, even if the water had been clear.

Paddling gently didn’t seem to require much effort as we glided with the outgoing tide leaving the lawns and riverside houses behind, the river widened out and the banks were filled with overhanging trees and thick roots mining their way into the shadowy water.

We’d set out first thing to avoid the midday heat and intended to spend a leisurely hour or two on the river. After spotting a few dolphins fishing just ahead of us, we also spend time looking at various big birds perched on trees beside the water. A couple of pink and white ones turned out to be spoonbills and we were certain we saw some kind of white headed eagle, there were also herons and egrets. It was very peaceful, with hardly any other boats in sight.

After less than an hour, we enjoyed a break from the sun under the shade of a road bridge, where we decided to turn back. We’d been paddling back upstream for some time, when we both thought the journey back seemed to be taking longer – surely we should be starting to see houses and lawns running down to the water again by now? The sun was getting stronger and our water supplies lower, I tugged my hat down and was thankful I’d put on sunscreen.

“I don’t remember this bit, do you?”

Something was wrong. We realised we must have taken a wrong turn and spotted a different stretch of water just across another bank. We wondered if it was the main river. We definitely hadn’t been this way before. We’d been out more than two hours at this point and decided to pull up the canoe – alligators or not – and see if we could work out where we were, even if it involved dragging the canoe across to the right part of the river. There were no boats about and no houses… no one to ask. So, we did the normal thing and got out a phone to check on google maps for our location. What a relief we’d taken a phone for photos!

It was however, a bit of a shock to realise we were a long way off course, down a parallel tributary and long way from where lunch was being served with the rest of our team!

The way back felt hard. The wind was against us, the tide was ebbing out and the heat had intensified. I wasn’t thinking alligators, I was just thinking, “Please let’s find the right route back!” 

We spotted a huge cross in the distance which we’d seen before and began heading towards it, only for it to disappear again. Distracted by dolphins, birds and boats speeding down parallel waterways, we continued to flounder and decided it was time to stick rigidly to google maps, checking every turn, so that we wouldn’t end up spending the night on the river. (Where are the RNLI when you need them?)

We were tiring too after more than three hours paddling in over 30 degrees. Steering became a bit of a problem and after being directed down yet another dead-end tributary by a couple sunbathing in their boat, our patience was beginning to fray. The canoe ploughed into more mangrove branches than I care to admit and at one point we had to shuffle through the shallows because we were too tired to get out and lift the canoe.

When we eventually turned the corner and saw the other canoes pulled up on the grass it was a huge relief to make land after more than four hours on the river. Thankfully there was a swimming pool to cool off in and plenty of astounded colleagues to hear our story and shake their heads… There seemed to be one common denominator in recent expedition errors and getting lost and that was me!

We heard a news report later that same day, about how a woman’s torso had been found in the mouth of an alligator not far from where we’d been paddling. That felt a little close for comfort.

A week or so later, I had second thoughts about borrowing paddleboards offered by the bed and breakfast place. They had wanted us to sign a disclaimer and said, “Be aware – the waters are murky, and you are not at the top of the food chain!” 

I did eventually spot a little alligator down in the Everglades – safely viewed from the seat of an airboat. That was quite enough alligators for one trip!

‘Swimfasting’ and paddleboard jeopardy

I’m suffering from withdrawal symptoms. I haven’t been in the sea since Wednesday and it feels like I’ve lost a limb. Faced with a month without swimming, last week I took every opportunity to get in or on the water – one of the days turned out to be a bit of an expedition and a lesson in tide and winds…

I got addicted to swimming this April, after I signed up for a six-week course of ‘chill swimming’ at the local beach. It was a mad moment, which felt even more crazy on the first morning session when grey clouds loomed and I stared down at the deserted sands framed by a distinctly chilly looking sea.

The group of swimmers was easy to spot, all in woolly hats and colourful changing robes. Our group leader was a lovely guy called Paul who ticked off our names on a clip board, checked on our health and swimming experience and asked us to share a bit about ourselves. The idea of cold water swimming is that it is good for your general wellbeing, creating physical and emotional resilience and it is said to improve your mental health. Paul proceeded to tell us more of this as the weeks went by and we all agreed the chill ‘swimming’ was a highlight of our week.

On the first week, after a brief warm up jumping around on the sand feeling a bit silly, we waded into the sea. Most of us were wearing swim hats, wetsuit gloves, shoes and swimming costumes. The water was 11 degrees. It felt cold. We all went swimming briefly and only spent 10 minutes in the water before we were out, wrapping ourselves in robes and sipping hot drinks. I drove home and jumped in the shower. I felt very cold, but it had been invigorating and I felt more alive and prepared for the rest of the day.

As the weeks went on we stayed in longer and longer, put our heads under, swam a bit and chatted lots. A little community of buddies was being born – the ‘Nippy Dippers.’

What I have loved is the camaraderie of this disparate group of people. We’re mainly women, although we are joined by various chaps at times. The course finished some weeks ago and we have continued to gather at least once or twice a week. Sometimes the sun is out and the water is sparkling blue, at other times it’s grey or even raining and the mist rolls in across the bay. Most memorable times have been those golden summer evenings with the sun sprinkling its rays across the water. Lately the sea temperature varies from 15 degrees to 19 on the warmest days – in April it was 11 degrees – so it’s always warmer than when we started. The waves are there to dive through some weeks and at other times the sea is like glass. But the feeling is always the same, as each of us sink into the water or duck our heads below the surface, the worries and strains of the week fade away, as if the sea itself is refreshing us from the inside out.

Although I’m sad that I can’t be in the water for a few weeks due to an eye operation, I will be reliving one of last week’s sea activities for some time…

It was a sunny afternoon and four of us planned a little paddleboard expedition down the tidal river which ends at Bantham and Bigbury on Sea. All prepared with beers, snacks and water, we set off down the magical Avon river, paddling quite hard against an unexpected wind and enjoying the sights of this peaceful valley, where trees dip their branches into the dark green water and there are hidden delights at every turn. As the current and outgoing tide picked us up we began to glide more freely, and we all managed to bounce through some small waves created by a circling speed boat. 

At the picturesque lagoon just up from the mouth of the estuary, we rafted together and enjoyed our beers as we continued to drift seaward. The sun was sending its final rays across the water and I couldn’t think of anything more beautiful. There was some discussion about staying close to one side to avoid being whisked out to sea by the outgoing tide and we were all cool with that, until we all stood up and rounded the corner.

The entrance was much choppier than expected with the waves kicking up a pace, so we all headed for the beach, which happened to be on the wrong side of the river. Pulling our boards onto the sand, someone said we’d just have to wait for the tide to go out a bit before we crossed over. We were all fairly competent paddle boarders, but only one of us was good in breaking waves. And the waves were between us and our car. Meanwhile a red sun was sinking into the cliffs and it would soon be dark.

While we waited for the tide and waves to drop off, the surfer among us headed off to ‘play’. Three of us stood on the sand and looked at the waves and the stretch of water we needed to navigate. We had a choice – strike out and try to get across now, hoping we didn’t get knocked off our boards by the waves and caught by the rip pulling us out to sea, or wait till it calmed and there was a shorter stretch of water, but cross in the dark.

The Avon estuary entrance at
Bantham and Bigbury on Sea in the winter

My instinct was to “give it a go” now as I would rather not be lost at sea in the dark. My other concern was that I was struggling to see as it was and I wasn’t quite clear where the beach actually was, so I figured any more loss of light would be like paddleboarding blind. Two minutes later, beneath a faintly pink sky and fading light, we headed into the waves, kneeling on our boards and trying to make our way to the far shore, despite waves and the current pushing us out. Shouted instructions about trying to head ‘upstream’, were lost on me and I just kept paddling towards what looked like a shore or a gap in the rocks, hoping for the best. My heart stopped pounding once we got to the beach safely and one of us said: “Of course, it wouldn’t be a Farmer adventure without a bit of jeopardy!” 

The next evening as I enjoyed my last sea swim, just along the beach from where we’d landed the night before, the conditions couldn’t have been more different. No wind meant the sea was pretty flat and that night we wouldn’t have had much trouble making our way across the estuary… but then we wouldn’t have had such an exhilarating evening and a story to share.

Now I can’t wait until my eye recovers and we can set out on some more adventures – at least this time I should be able to see where the dangers are!

All at sea

Have you ever been in one of those crisis moments when you say to yourself, we’ll look back on this tomorrow and think, ‘what a great adventure that was…’?

That was 24 hours ago…*

“I’ll just do it then, shall I?” It was one of those questions I didn’t need to ask, because there weren’t any other options left.
“Boom!”
Another huge waved crashed across the bows of the boat which were immediately rising to the crest of a second wave. I had butterflies in my stomach as I turned to inch my way along the deck, the lines of my safety harness scraping along the tape secured to the boat.
‘Be brave’ was the only thing I could think.
Half way along the deck I sat down gripping the metal stays with one hand as I unfastened and refastened the clip to the next set of tapes. My body was tense and my fingers trembled, mainly with cold. Up ahead at the bows the next wave was pounding down showering me with spray and I kept low edging my way towards the ‘pointy end’…

It had already been quite a day at sea. We’d set off, just the two of us, at 6am to catch the tidal stream. Daybreak sails are some of my favourite. As the sky begins to lighten and sun’s rays are soft and golden, full of unspoken promises of what lies ahead. The wind had been a bit stronger than forecast and we’d made good progress hoping to push through to Dartmouth – our final destination. But after a change in wind direction and with the tide turned against us, we decided to divert to Salcombe till later in the afternoon when the tides would be in our favour.

Always expect the unexpected in sailing. As we attempted to furl the genoa (pull in the sail at the front which wraps around a wire) the rope snapped. It wasn’t an easy fix, so sadly, we found ourselves returning to where we’d come from – more than three hours sail west. Four hours later, furling line temporarily fixed with a bit of help, we headed back to sea. We’d made reasonable time and decided to try and make Dartmouth that evening. The voyage took us through the notorious Start Point where the sea can be quite rough. Neither of us had sailed there before. We’d got into big waves about an hour earlier, but now they were getting higher and there were white horse breaking all around us.

We were more than two or three miles off shore, as we began to round the light house, and watched the blue curve of Start Bay emerge in the distance. 

“I don’t think we can make it…we’re going to have to turn back.”
It was one of those moments. You could call it mutiny.
Waves were breaking across the front of the boat. The sun would be setting in an hour. The wind was coming from where we needed to go. We’d been sailing pretty much non stop for more than 12 hours. But there was one other option… to me this was better than going back again.

This involved one of us going to the front of the pitching boat to fix the tangled line and help wind in the sail by hand. Meanwhile, the other steered the boat through the waves while juggling two other ropes to enable the awkward sail to be safely pulled in. We’d planned to be in calmer waters for this procedure, but we couldn’t risk the furling line breaking again.

So, there I was, kneeling at the front of the boat on the biggest and scariest white water roller coaster ride ever. In between each fresh wave, which broke across me, I attempted to untangle the rope, while the stressed skipper shouted instructions above the waves. Apart from being scared of slipping in, the biggest problem was my bobble hat which insisted on sliding down over my eyes. I thought the rope was untangled and then saw it wasn’t. As I gripped the metal stanchion to steady myself while the boat slammed down onto yet another wave, I did think, ‘Hopefully, we’ll be laughing about all this tomorrow.’

The best thing about moments like that may not be the moments themselves, but it’s the contrast of looking back and being glad you got through it.

An hour or so later as our little boat nudged its way between the rocks and the castle guarding the entrance to Dartmouth, the sun was beginning to sink behind the hills. A mooring buoy was beckoning and the boom of a canon up above at the Naval College signalled that the day was over. 

We both sighed and smiled. What a day it had been! Some 88 nautical miles travelled since first light. Now the dangers were past, we were in calm waters and a safe harbour for the night. There is no better feeling. And it’s one of the many reasons why I love sailing.

*at the time of writing

The ghost of Thorney Island

I’m not afraid of ghosts. These past few weeks I’ve been living with a very lovable one and I don’t think he’ll disappear until all the boxes are packed and the removal van chugs off down the road.

It’s three years since we arrived to live on Thorney Island, in the heart of Chichester Harbour. I never expected to become so attached to this place, but it has a way of seeping into your soul. I’ll miss the rattle of the halyards from the boat yard, the whirr of planes overhead, even the noisy chatter from the squirrels.

Most of all I’ll miss the shoreline; its rhythmic beauty as the tide slides in and out, alternately masking and revealing the bright green grass and muddy banks that lie beneath. I’ll miss my walks to the beach, watching white sails glide past the fields and breathing in those big skies that stretch right out to the Isle of Wight. I’ll definitely miss the swimming at all heights of tide and in all temperatures – including Christmas Day – knowing a hot shower awaits just around the corner. I’ll also miss the serenity and the sound of nothing but birdsong, most of the time.

Today, as I wander through the empty rooms of magnolia walls and beige carpets, merging into one, it feels as if our time here has been sucked up with the final hoover. There is barely a sign that our family, and particularly our cat, ever lived here.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw him around every corner. I heard the rattle of the cat flap – even when it had been removed. I heard his meowing chatter as he arrived in from a night of hunting and saw his face at the window peering in. It has been like living with a ghost – the ghost of Simba past.

Simba was the Cypriot cat who arrived without warning in our garden in Cyprus one morning, and who for the past five years has been a big part of our family. None of us are keen on cats and yet he found his way into our hearts and it was very painful to see him waste away over the last few months and eventually succumb to his illness.

Simba was a character. He accompanied us on walks beside the sea, he scared off spaniels beside the sailing club with his massive mane spread out and back arched high, he stalked squirrels, caught mice, sunbathed on the decking and was the longest cat living when he stretched out on the settee. He was also very beautiful and loved to cuddle up close, nestling into your neck on a cold winter’s night. He was known as the ‘Lion Cat’ by our neighbours – knick-named for his fantastic mane and lion colouring.

Now it really is goodbye Simba and farewell Thorney Island. The two will stay together and when we return, as I’m sure we will, we’ll pause by his favourite pine scratching tree and remember our time here with one member of the family who is sorely missed, but not forgotten.

 

 

sea addict

I have to confess. I’m addicted. I can’t go a day without it and I’m afraid I may get a little shaky if I don’t see it. I didn’t realise it could be so addictive or I’d have been a bit more careful. Photographs don’t do it justice – they don’t capture the smells and sounds that make it such a wonderful ‘drug’.

I never imagined moving to live beside the sea would be so delicious and leave me craving for a sight of it every day. This afternoon I ‘ran’ to the beach (not the kind of running you do when being chased by hungry lions – just the kind that keeps pace with a slow cyclist). I knew it was going to be beautiful when I noticed golden blades of grass casting sharp shadows on the sand in the dunes. A bright white sun was starting to slide towards the horizon across the channel lighting up the ripples in the muddy coloured sand as the rays danced across the water. There were shallow dark pools on the wide expanse of empty beach. In the distance a solitary sailing boat bobbed mid channel and high up in the distance a flock of migrating birds swooped and swirled in a cloud, before disappearing out to sea.

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This is a special place. The only sounds were some strange sea bird noises and what I think might have been baying seals on the sandbanks. This afternoon it was as quiet as a nature reserve. I had the beach to myself. The light was unreal in a golden ethereal way. It felt like it was going to be the kind of night for smugglers to pull up their boats and haul their contraband up the beach…the kind of night for stories and secrets to be shared around a fire on the cool sand while the waves creep closer.

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I’m not sure how or why I’ve developed this addiction to ‘see the sea’ over the past few weeks. I could also describe it as a love affair because no matter what the state of the water – dark and stormy, grey and choppy or calm and blue – I can’t help but love the view. I even love it when the tide is out and messy dark green sea plants are left exposed, with the channel a remote blue strip beneath the boats. There is a reassuring rhythm to the tides. I’ve been waking up trying to remember what state the tide will be at – we can’t go far around here without noticing if it’s in or out. Now we’ve stuck a tide chart up in the kitchen and most days someone checks out the tide times and heights.

The sea here gives me a sense of space and freedom as its wide-open skies wrap around the island. It’s a sea of possibilities. A reminder that there are so many stories out there as people set sail or launch into open water – a lone fisherman inspecting his nets, an anxious sailor battling against a retreating tide, or a man on a motorboat heading into the deep. It’s a place of inspiration too. There are mysteries here to unravel and stories to be told… even crimes to be solved. I’m going to indulge my addiction for now. After all it’s not expensive or unhealthy and I have a suspicion the sea has something to tell me. And most of all – we live here…

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