For the first 45 years of my life, I lived on the coast and never fell into the trap of gazing at the horizon, wondering what adventures might lie beyond the line where the sky kisses the sea. Water and I never got on. I have never been a great fan of swimming. Now, I think I am reasonably well co-ordinated, but getting through water under my own steam is something I have never mastered.

Why would anyone want to go in the sea, full of deadly creatures? Why would anyone want to go in a river, filthy and stinking, full of rats’ piss? Why would anyone want to jump into a lake or reservoir, unbelievably cold? And as for swimming pools or, even, dare I say it, outdoor hot tubs—full of discarded skin and mainly pigeon faecal matter. Nothing is attractive about getting into publicly accessible water whatsoever. Water is for fish and drinking, nothing else.

The other thing is that when I want to go right, I end up going left. No, I don’t understand it either. I have always fancied doing a triathlon, but the water bit puts me off.

In recent times, I have given in slightly and embarked on the occasional cruise. That is about as close as I want to get to the briny deep, preferably aboard something that weighs thousands of tonnes. It’s not that I am frightened of water—I simply find it repulsive.

Here I was, though, on a Friday afternoon in early June, approaching Snettisham Beach Sailing Club (SBSC from now on). When Vision Norfolk had posted out a list of forthcoming events, Jane thought I ought to give it a go. And do you know what? I agreed. What was the worst possible thing that could go wrong? Quite right—we could capsize the boat (or whatever they are called; cruise ship crew get a little sniffy when you call their ships boats), and I could drown!

Do you know what? I have now lived most of my life, so if a little bit is lopped off the end, so what? I am now determined to try as many new experiences as possible. One hundred per cent definite “nots” are parachuting, bungee-jumping, wing-walking and, although it seems totally unrelated, caving. I am sure there are others, but I just can’t think of them at the moment. No—I think I could be game for almost anything. Offers on a postcard, please.

First Impressions and Learning the Ropes

We had to pass through a campsite to get to the club HQ, along a fairly long drive infested with potholes. It more resembled the surface of the moon than a paved drive in West Norfolk. Some craters were so deep I wondered if we needed a mountain rescue team to find any abandoned people.

If the police are searching for missing persons, I wonder if they have considered looking in the depths of potholes? I crept very close to the edge of a particularly deep one, peered over the rim into the blackness, and, to my relief, there were no remains of mislaid children or Labradors.

This was as bad as it was going to get on the motion sickness spectrum—not that I was to know it. The car plunged through hole after hole, much like a sailing ship encountering a storm-racked ocean.

Getting out of the car and checking all bones were roughly aligned correctly, as they had been when we passed through the portal, we headed towards the sound of excited voices.
We were greeted by a sensational view across a very attractive lake—at a guess, ten acres or so—a filled-in redundant quarry. Conditions were idyllic. I was a lucky boy: the sun had come out during what was, as it turned out, the only dry day in a run of well over a week of wet weather. The water glimmered in the sun, not a wave in sight.

We were on the early side, so after I was fitted with my buoyancy aid (lifejacket), we sat down with the support team for tea and biscuits—all rather civilised. Not that my mind needed setting at ease, but this most certainly did the trick. Tea wasn’t bad either. No Hobnobs, though—will take my own next time, if invited back.

When it came to my turn, I was escorted out along the pontoon to where my Hansa dinghy awaited. My helmsman for the ride was a chap called Guy, who lived a couple of villages from us. He set my mind at ease by saying that it appears impossible to tip one of these craft over. In fact, he and a shipmate had tried quite vigorously one day when out on the former shingle pit but failed miserably. Why would you do that? No idea—but it served to set my mind at rest.

Did you know that if you sail, you will end up speaking a different language to the rest of us? Terms that mean one thing on land mean something totally different upon the water. I will give you one example—there will be more as we go through.

What would you call a sheet? On land, it might be made of paper, linen, silk or cotton. On a boat, ship or dinghy, it is a rope. You would be forgiven, as a land person, for thinking the sail might well be a sheet. No—I was informed that the word “rope” does not exist on a sailing vessel. More nautical terms will follow. I won’t explain them all.

Let’s start with the Hansa. This is a class of sailing dinghy developed in Australia with the disabled in mind. It is fully accessible and incredibly stable, thanks to its specially designed keel. It is not controlled by a tiller, as are many smaller yachts—we needed to use a joystick.
Get this: the joystick is connected to the rudder with ropes. I raised this with Guy. I don’t think he had really given it any thought. So, there are no ropes on the yacht—except when they are ropes.

Out on the Water and Reflections

When Guy asked me which side I would prefer—port or starboard—I really didn’t think about it enough. I said it didn’t matter.

But it did. Sitting to the right of the control stick, I needed to hold onto it with my left hand. It is usually my right hand that I use—for joysticks or anything for that matter.

I really felt it the next day. My upper arm and shoulder were aching thanks to a lactic acid overdose when I rolled out of bed in the morning. Boy, it felt like someone had set the muscles on fire!

I took up the deckchair to starboard. It literally is a deckchair that the operator lies back in—exactly like those seen on Hunstanton prom back in the day. In theory, we were meant to be beneath the boom as it swung back and forth while we changed direction—tacking and jibing, to those of you unacquainted with the language. Most of the time we were. I only needed the thing to scrape the top of my head once to be encouraged to sit lower in my seat.
I have always been interested in the origin of words. “Joystick”, therefore, piqued my interest.

There doesn’t seem to be any doubt as to when the term first appeared. It seems to have been used to describe the upright control stick first employed in early aircraft. One reason is that it enabled those pioneering pilots to have so much fun—flying was exhilarating in the extreme for early exponents of the practice. Surely trepidation would be a more apt feeling for flying in the early days; perhaps “trepidation stick” might suit better?

The experience was thrilling beyond measure. The sensation of wind in my face one second, then a sudden change of direction, and the breeze (and there really wasn’t much of it) coming in from aft—behind, to the landlubbers among you. We sailed from buoy to buoy, turning gently each time, but without any doubt whatsoever, the greatest joy came from the coming-about manoeuvre—the landlubber term being a “U-turn.” We would charge up to a buoy before the helmsman barked out the order to push the joystick hard down, immediately causing the little craft to pirouette and head back along the line it had just travelled.

Now, what about the sailing club itself? SBSC goes back as far as 1908 and enjoyed royal patronage from Queen Alexandra, consort of King Edward VII, and great-great-grandmother of our present King. In the 1920s, the adjoining land came under the control of the Etna Stone and Shingle Company, which was licensed to extract minerals for use in the construction industry.

During the war, the site was requisitioned by the Ministry of Defence and given over to the United States Army Air Force for gunnery practice. Do you know what? There isn’t any evidence remaining that they ever hit their targets. Indeed, my father always used to say that when the Germans fired, the British ducked; when the British fired, the Germans ducked; but when the Americans fired, everyone ducked. Not sure if it is just me, but doesn’t that still seem to be the order of things today?

Whoa—hold on a minute. It has just dawned on me: what about the pockmarked drive? Perhaps that was a result of misguided American missiles.

Etna was quite an apt name for the aggregates firm based in these parts because, during the war, ballast was spewing from the quarry like lava from a volcano—extracting over twenty years of stone in around three years. The quarried sand and ballast were used to lay the acres and acres of runways needed throughout East Anglia to see off the threat of the enemy. Next time I walk around our own RAF Great Massingham airfield, I will give thought to where the raw materials had been dug up. Isn’t there always a link?

Soon after the war, a makeshift clubhouse was constructed, but the Great Flood of 1953 saw it washed away. The devastation wreaked around the East Anglian coast is still remembered to this day in many seaside towns and villages. It serves as a permanent reminder of the power of Mother Nature in general, and the sea in particular. Lest we forget.

On the day of our visit, conditions could not have been more serene—the tidal surge belonging to another age. Once Etna had vacated the area, the resources were running out, and there was a real chance that the beach would collapse into the pits and bring on another influx from the sea that would never be reversed.

It goes without saying that quarries are a blight on any landscape, but when the machines have turned their engines off for the last time, silence has descended, and the redundant pits have filled with water to create what we see today, it is truly beautiful. Out in the middle of the lake, it is so silent you almost have to pinch yourself to realise you are still alive.

To sum up, I have never received so much joy from manipulating a small perpendicular shaft at any time during my life. In fact, I am not quite sure whether it is the first time I have ever used a joystick. I have never owned a gaming device, so I reckon it probably is!

Find Out More
Vision Norfolk: www.visionnorfolk.org.uk
Snettisham Beach Sailing Club: www.snetbeach.co.uk

White Cane Ratings ©
SBSC: very good, very accessible - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)