T he water glitters, rippled by a rising wind, and Victorious glides silently on three huge, maroon sails. We’re the only boat in sight, surrounded by grey sea and vast sky. Every direction offers a subtly different picture: patches of blue and fluffy clouds, billowing blue-black clouds, occasional rays of sunshine beaming into the Wash.
A flock of Brent geese flies across our bows. Wash map “It just feels like she’s made for these waters. It’s magical,” purrs one of my five fellow sailors, .
We’re taking potatoes from the Fenland channel of Fosdyke to make chips in Norfolk, and the hold of our immaculately restored 42ft shrimping smack will be packed with extra goods when we reach King’s Lynn. I’m more supernumerary than sailor, lacking any real knowledge of sails, ropes or knots, but if this is sailing, it’s the most beautiful and exhilarating thing. We feel at one with the water, riding the swell and wind like a bird, and a passing peregrine falcon treats us as such, swooping low past our mast with brooding menace.
View image in fullscreen The Wash is a vast and fickle tidal estuary that shimmers yellow with treacherous, thinly-submerged sandbanks. Mirages appear and disappear, as do views of the low Lincolnshire and Norfolk coast. Then, suddenly, everything changes.
The horizon vanishes, the waves chop, and the wind whips up. A squall. A sail bangs like thunder; Victorious lurches.
We’re taking on too much wind. Everyone springs into action. I’m aske.
