By Tony Roberts June 21, 2003.
For some of us facing our first long trip in proper grown-up sea-kayaks, this outing was first and foremost an opportunity to buy lots of new equipment. Right ? After all, sea kayakers are famous for this, aren't they ? Who among them would set out without compass, GPS, chart-plotter, electric pump, sound system...and so on. David illustrates the point perfectly with his paddle (or rather his "main" paddle) which is made from 100% genuine gossamer, and has selectable feather angles, plus those strange bendy bits in the shaft (which I had always supposed were caused by paddling too hard).
It was disappointing therefore to be advised by the grown-ups to leave all the clever stuff in the car. On the eve of the mid-summer solstice, with the sun already high in the sky, you apparently don't need titanium wetsuits, dry-cags and helmets. Personally, I felt this was taking Thoreau's advice to "Beware of any enterprise that requires new clothes" too far. Thoreau was wrong. We looked like we'd just shopped at Primark.
Route preparation varied. Mike arrived with full Admiralty charts and pilotage notes. Nick had lovingly hand-traced and laminated some OS map sections - needing only a few sketches of Oil tanks and abandonned supermarket trolleys to complete a "Wainwright guide to the Thames". The rest of us seemed to be relying on vague memories of the river shape - gleaned perhaps from the title sequence to Eastenders.
The launch site at Gravesend was logistically perfect! It's a boating club slipway with good car access, toilets, a cafe and lots of foreshore space to lay out equipment. Between here and the Canal basin there is even a FREE car park. The plan was for a "whole tide" trip, picking up the start of the flood at around noon. An amiable drunk on the quayside confirmed this was indeed a good plan, so we duly put in, and were immediately in among the BIG STUFF.
An my goodness, this is BIG STUFF! It took a full 10 minutes to cross over. Occasionally, the sky would darken as a mountainous hulk swirled past, with prop wash like Yalding weir. On another day, Paul would probably have started surfing in its wake, but alas Paul was struggling to hold a house-sale together, and about to spent much of the day shouting "I'm on the kayak" into his mobile. Selling a house is notoriously stressful, but the added pressure of doing it from a kayak in a stiff wind-over-tide chop is not widely recognised. Good luck, Paul!
Our stomachs said it was Lunchtime. An earlier scan through the Michelin guide had revealed no restaurants of note on either bank. The reality was even more stark. There was nothing! Not the humblest bistro. Not even a Starbucks. We picked a spot on the south bank just upstream of the Darenth outfall. Stepping out here felt like landing on the moon. Some went for the rocks - hard and lumpy with a slippery seaweed top, sending those of the Gelcoat persuasion straight into their fretting routine. Others opted for the mud - among these Liz, who promptly started to sink into the mire. A brilliant medical career, at a kind of crossroads...
This lunch spot was actually not the one planned. Our aim had been "Gallions Reach", a romantically named spot which Mike and David had depicted as a Shangri-la of waving palm trees and coral reefs. This lay further upriver, but headwind and inexperience had put us behind schedule. Even so, our chosen spot was "Driftwood heaven" according to Mike, who set about stuffing armfuls of the stuff into empty hatches.
One of the charming things about paddling the Big River is that big ships start talking to you in morse code. "YOUR INTENTIONS ARE UNCLEAR" said a distant tug as we crossed from one bank to the other. Frankly, our 'intentions' at this stage were to get back to Shadwell basin and stand in one of those nice cold showers. How do you explain this in tug-speak? Buy a gas horn ? Or a set of flags and a copy of the 1960 Admiralty Code of Signals ?
The other striking thing about entering London on the Big River is that it happens so suddenly! Once through the Flood barrier, there's the Dome, Canary Wharf, and palacial Greenwich all in quick succession. Then it's a "Tuesday night" paddle back to the comfortable familiarity of Shadwell beach. This too is a beach with no waving palms, and no coral reefs. But it felt like home.
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Many thanks to Mike for organising this trip, and to Jan and the basin for the loan of some boats (including the SeaYak that I now know I wont be buying. It paddles like a dead ferret!)