SHEER PANIC

With Editor Dom Moore  //  Photo Rob Small

It was a day like any other. Neap high tide, about 15 knots of wind from the west-south-west and a modest couple of foot of residual swell still knocking through from yesterday’s big blow. Perfect conditions for me to bang out a quick hike before tea time. 

My intended route was straight out through the ‘keyhole’, diagonally across the bay to the large headland, around the massive granite stack that sits just off of it, and then a gentle assist home thanks to the wind n’ swell. The entire circuit is about 12km.

Hammering into the cross on headwind at the start was pretty enjoyable, and I was seeing how many strokes I could get on my windward side by balancing a bit of rail steering with draw strokes. Fifty, yes! I got to the huge granite stack that even in a benign sea state, is still a patch of water that you want to be mindful of. A deep water reef lurks just off to one side, producing the largest wave with any sort of shape in Cornwall. The reef itself is covered with sea grass and it gives a black colour to the water and creates a bit of surface chop amongst the gentle undulations of swell. You find your stance gets a fraction wider and the strokes a touch quicker as you pass over it. Despite this, I was feeling insouciant and rather than heading around and straight home, I decided to carry on this trajectory and go around a second, distant granite stack that was sat off of a much more remote headland 3km further along.

As I neared, I could see a very small line of whitewater in the narrow race between the rock and the mainland. Getting closer, I could see that a tiny stopper wave was breaking. As I made it into the race, I realised with consternation that it was about 6 inches deep in places, 10ft deep in others, and a nasty current was dragging over it churning the water into a choppy bouncing mess. A seal snorted at me from the rocks; like a prat I was clumsily making my way though a wild seal sanctuary. I doubled down round the back of the rock, ready to slingshot home with the wind on my back.

The water on the ocean side of the rock wasn’t really any smoother than the water in the race. I put the hammer down for about three minutes to get out of there when I heard a loud indignant snort directly behind me. Glancing over my shoulder I saw that a large bull seal was on my case. “What’s he doing out here?” I thought for a split second, then I realised with a start that I was still level with the rock and after three minutes of head-down, downwind ‘zone 3’ paddling I hadn’t budged an inch. I was stuck in a tidal race. Shit.

I hastily weighed my options; this current was only going to get worse as the tide flowed faster, and it looked like the wind was starting to shut down. Should I turn around and continue down the coast with the flow, then make a left into the next beach and call the missus to come and pick me up? Or should I head further out to sea to deeper water, away from the effect of the tidal sheer, and slog home from there? Either way wasn’t that far, but I was suddenly aware that no one knew I was here, no one could see I was here, I couldn’t see anyone else and if I knocked out a fin or snapped the paddle, I’d have to come up with a self-rescue strategy pretty quick. To compound the situation, the west winds had now shut off and a humid, dark bank of air was approaching from the north east. Already it had shrouded the lighthouse 15km up the coast, what would it do to the local viz if it made its way to where I was?

I headed out for the deep water and maintained a slightly panicked gear. The bull seal was obviously still agitated for he followed me right up to the halfway headland, puffing and snorting with derision. What a silly mammal I was, perched on a wobbly board, using tools to propel me.

I made it home to write this up, but a little bit of background: I’m trained as a commercial boat handler and can read charts and tidal almanacs and plot routes, and really should have anticipated this, instead I completely under-estimated the sea and put myself in a stupid position. After two decades on the water that was the closest I’d come to being an RNLI call-out. Later, I was telling Smally about it and he didn’t seem surprised, but what he said summed up everything one needs to know – “well, it is the Atlantic Ocean”. SUP