A Change of Plans

With only a small amount of annual leave remaining, I decided to take a Friday off and make a long weekend of it. I hadn’t used our lugger all summer, which felt like a bit of a crime.

Life had just been too full of other things. Thankfully, my brother had launched the boat a couple of weeks earlier, so the opportunity was there, and I was determined not to let the season slip away completely.

Lugworm at sunrise

My original plan was to sail from our base at Whiterock Bay in Strangford Lough up to the Comber Estuary. It's only a few miles north, but you can’t head there directly. You need to navigate around Mahee Island, home to the ruins of Nendrum Monastery, and take care around Mahee Point where there are several rocks and shallow patches, some marked by local navigation aids.

The wind was out of the west when I set off, so I headed with the wind until turning north for a close reach up to Comber. Unfortunately, as I rounded the point, the wind shifted and began blowing straight down the estuary towards me. To make matters worse, I hadn’t brought enough petrol, and high water was due at 6pm.

The estuary itself is mostly drying mudflats, except for the main channel, and even that can be shallow at low tide.

With the clock ticking and the wind and tide working against me, conditions became increasingly messy.

The chop surprised me, likely gusting to 20 knots, and I found myself getting soaked, picturing a peaceful weekend of calm sailing and birdwatching, only to be bouncing around in spray. That’s part of the lugger experience, I suppose.

I made the decision not to push on. There were a few reasons. I wasn’t entirely confident in my fuel reserves. I was running short on time to catch high tide, and although I had thought I could just wait for the return tide if necessary, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be stuck in a fairly exposed spot with poor shelter.

The following day was also set to bring stronger winds, with a southerly gale forecast, and I didn’t fancy a return trip into headwinds in an unfamiliar and shallow area.

Abandoned landing point in Curlew Bay

So I changed course. I knew of a small bay, not far from my parents' house, which dries out at low tide but is well protected. I’d visited it before on a paddleboard and found it peaceful, full of birdlife. It doesn’t appear to have an official name, but I’ve started calling it Curlew Bay. Without fail, there are always curlews calling and flitting about whenever I’m there.

I arrived around 6pm, just as the light was beginning to soften. On one of the nearby islands, a farmer was cutting straw for winter feed. There’s a natural causeway connecting the island to the mainland and I gave him a wave as I dropped anchor.

I had my small tender with me, so I went for a short explore around the bay. There’s an old stone jetty, now crumbling, likely the remnant of an estate landing with no modern access. The bay was alive with oystercatchers, gulls and the ever-present curlews.

After a quick swim in the shallows, I made dinner, a simple pot noodle and a cup of tea, then settled in with my book. I was reading about Captain Cook’s final voyage, which felt a world away from my little wooden boat, but fitting nonetheless.

A dinner for champions

My sleeping setup was minimal: a bivvy bag on the deck. The tide slipped away as the light faded, and I lifted the keel and engine in preparation for the boat drying out.

At midnight I was woken by my phone vibrating on the deck. The air smelled strongly of hydrogen sulphide, that classic briny rotten-egg scent of exposed mud. What surprised me more was hearing birds wandering about on the flats. I’d always assumed waders roosted at night, but these seemed quite active. I couldn’t see them clearly, but they were small and moved quickly, making the most of the opportunities at low tide. Perhaps sandpipers or plovers.

The tide returned around four in the morning, and the motion of the boat woke me once again. I drifted in and out of sleep until sunrise, which was nothing short of spectacular. A deep red sky stretched across the horizon, a perfect example of ‘red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning’. The forecast gale arrived later that day, just as expected.

I got up, took a few photos of the lugger in the early light, then motored the short distance back to the club. There was some activity there, and I ended up chatting with a few other members before packing up and heading home.

It was a quiet trip, simple in many ways, but deeply satisfying. I’d have felt genuinely guilty if I hadn’t made the effort to get the boat out before the end of the season. The Comber trip can wait. Next time I’ll bring more fuel and hope for a better weather window. For now, I’m content.

Some of the wildlife I saw - Barnacle Geese flying overhead

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Stories and science from the sea — written by a sailor, scuba diver, and scientist who loves the ocean.

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