Up a creek with no water to paddle

The yacht club on the Humber was the way I liked it best. The racing crowd had chased each other around the buoys, berthed their boats, had a beer at the bar, packed their cars and departed.

Then I often had the place to myself again. But there’d be no racing today, as it was a mid-week working day. I was on holiday and doing some long overdue work on my boat. I left the creosoted work-shed, walked into the warmth of the day and blinked in the sunlight, before strolling past a row of unlaunched yachts.

The tide was right out and the deep and sticky grey mud was exposed. Non-boat owners and non-sailing visitors did not like the mud, but our deep keeled sailing boats were held safely in its grip and owners could climb their masts with security. I glanced casually around, and to my surprise noticed an unfamiliar small sailing yacht perched on top of a grey mud bank.

It had four people in it. They’d clearly missed the marked safe channel as they came in, and were now marooned too many yards from the shore to reach it.

Attempting to walk