In the Skippers own words, a chilling tale of a close quarters situation in restricted visibility.

Our plan was to sail from Newtown Harbour on the north western shore of the Isle of Wight, to Portsmouth on the south coast of Hampshire, not via the direct route along the Solent, but instead we would go the long way around. We would head westwards to the Needles, then as the tide turned, sail south around the island, down past St Catherines point, and then head north east to round Foreland on the eastern tip, and then into the Solent via St Helens, through the forts and into Portsmouth Harbour.
The ‘Marinecall’ forecast on Friday night promised south easterly winds of Force 3 to 4, Veering around to eventually come from the south west later on Saturday, almost the perfect sailing breeze for a gentle offshore passage. The weather for Saturday was for mist with fog patches clearing later in the day, and I was confident that any fog we encountered would lift as we sailed around the Island and so, with all three of us unanimous on our passage plan, we left Southampton on Friday evening bound for an overnight anchorage at Newtown Harbour.
The evening had started out quite clear, but as darkness descended thick fog fell with it, and as we rounded Calshot Spit following the GPS and feeling our way with the echo sounder in visibility down to 200 Metres, my gut told me Saturday mornings 06:00 departure wouldn't be the kind of sunshine start to the bank holiday weekend that had been promised all week by every radio station in the south of England.
On Saturday Morning we set off on time in heavy mist with a favourable neap tide to help us to the Needles. There was no wind to speak of, so the sails stayed under their dew coated covers and the diesel pushed us along at about 7 knots over the ground. It was difficult to gauge visibility, we could see the tree lined coast of the isle of Wight to port, and astern of us another yacht was clearly visible about 500 Metres off our port quarter, but to the north and ahead nothing but the ghostly pale grey of the morning mist.
Approaching the track of the Lymington to Yarmouth ferry, we could hear the horns of the Island bound vessel, and slowed accordingly. I went below to attend to breakfast where I could better hear the VHF. Fi, a competent and experienced sailor, was at the helm, whilst her boyfriend Matt, also competent and with good local knowledge, was also on deck as an extra pair of eyes and ears. Anti collision flares and a 3,500,000 candlepower torch were still on deck from the night before, as well as the silent comfort of the ‘Blipper’ radar reflector mounted two thirds of the way up our 43 foot mast. I had just checked our GPS position on the chart and was confident we were still too far from the entrance to Yarmouth to be bothered by the car ferry I had heard announce its departure for Lymington, when I heard a panicked shout from the cockpit. Leaping up the companionway steps, I turned to see the bridge of a Wightlink ferry swinging away across our bows, a lookout in his high visibility jacket stood on the fly bridge and sombrely acknowledged our presence. Fi had stopped the engine and the brief panic was over as the vessel sounded its horn and passed less than a cable ahead of us. The deep moan of the other ferry could be heard somewhere ahead so we cautiously set off again into the morning. Minutes later the fog lifted slightly and the presence of the Lymington ferry so far east was explained when the Yarmouth bound ferry drifted into view quite a way west of the harbour entrance, the two ferries were obviously taking extra precautions because of the fog and crossing each other well apart in an attempt to avoid a close quarters encounter.

The Decision is made

At 06:45 we passed Hurst castle along with a variety of outward-bound fishing boats, heading toward the grey tower of the Needles lighthouse that we were using as a visual way point. As we approached the famous line of white rocks another dense patch of drifting fog closed in and the lighthouse, by then less than half a mile away, suddenly disappeared completely from view.
"I hope this fog lifts soon Skipper" remarked the Helm.
"Me too" I replied "Wouldn't be much point sailing around the island if we can't bloomin well see it.”
I checked my watch, it was just before 07:00.
“I will get the latest Marine call forecast at seven o’clock when they update it, it won't be too late to turn back if its forecast to stay like this, though my feeling is we would be safer out at sea where there's no commercial shipping than having to run the gauntlet of the bank holiday traffic in the Solent. We don't have radar for the shipping, but the GPS can tell us where the cliffs are and they wont be moving."
The crew agreed, I dished out the sausage sandwiches, set the GPS for a suitable waypoint, and with the wheezing rattle of the Needles fog signal receding astern, we steamed onward on our satellite guided journey around the Isle of Wight.
The signal on my mobile was dead at seven o'clock and then again when I tried at quarter past, but every now and again a haloed pale yellow disc punctured the grey above making us feel confident that the fog would lift before lunch, so by the time we were through the tide eddy off Freshwater bay and my crew, both employees of a major mobile phone company, had jeered at my choice of network provider, it was too late to turn back when we eventually received the forecast of poor visibility and fog patches that would not be not clearing until the evening.
There was nothing to see save the GPS screen confidently informing us of our position, the occasional fishing pot appearing out of the gloom, and a few flocks of small birds skimming the slick swirling surface of a flat grey sea.
After a few watch changes the GPS told us we had passed St Catherines point, and in that time the monotony had been relieved only twice. The first time was when a tiny willow warbler, on its migratory flight from Europe, landed in the cockpit. Too exhausted to be frightened of us it hopped around the cockpit cleaning its soaked feathers before finally taking flight into the mist. The second was when we stopped the engine to listen to the silence, straining our ears for the tell tale rhythmic throbbing of a diesel engine we thought we had heard only seconds earlier.
The mist was changing its consistency, thickening and thinning as the walls of grey ebbed in and out. It was hard to gauge what the visibility actually was as the ocean blended with the sky in a curtain of cloud. Our eyes frequently played tricks on us as we saw dark dangerous mirages in the distance that followed our gaze as the eerie shapes stayed on our retinas like sunspots. We saw a fishing vessel to starboard about a quarter of a mile away, but apart from that and watching the occasional flock of birds flying past we had little to gauge just how good or bad the visibility actually was.
Even with the forecast as it was I had fully expected the heavy fog to burn off before lunch and thought we would be left with a clear view of the island, or at the very least a lighter and less dangerous mist, but as midday ticked past and we closed on the eastern approach to the Solent, concerns of meeting other traffic in the continuing fog were starting to play on my mind. A cockpit debate knocked about the options, and my clear intent was to go no further than Bembridge if things had not improved significantly.

Back in the Solent

There is a certain satisfaction in reaching a visual fix after a prolonged period of navigating out of sight of any visual reference, and the friendly sight of the West Princessa coming into view was a great comfort after hours of trusting the readouts of our little black box, and we were finally able to crosscheck its information with our own eyes.
I switched the VHF to Southampton VTS to listen for traffic movements as we swept along with the flooding tide past the eastern tip of the Isle of Wight.
As we reached the time to make the decision to either turn to head for Bembridge or press on, the judgment was made for us. As if on a cue, the lights came up and the curtain lifted on the St Helens Roads and Bembridge Bay. The sun was bright and glinting off a blue sea and there was no longer any debate required, the fog was definitely dispersing and there was no need to change our plans and seek refuge. Ahead of us there were several large ships lying to their anchors, the Solent Forts were visible, as was the smaller St Helens Fort and the entrance to Bembridge harbour and we could see clearly across the shipping channel to the flotilla of boats fishing off the entrance to Langstone Harbour, at last we could relax and serve lunch.
The tide had turned by now and started to gently push against us as we crossed the big ship channel close to the two large forts, No Mans Land and Horse Sand. These two structures have been standing guard since the 1860's protecting the home of the Royal Navy against unwanted visitors, and though the guns have long since been removed these imposing structures still stand over 50 feet tall and 180 feet wide, marking the route of vessels both small and large on their passage through England's maritime heartland; which was why when the fog suddenly closed in so thick we couldn't see the Horse Sand Fort even though the GPS told me that the well tested waypoint was less than 200 Metres dead ahead, I began to feel a little less confident in our decision to press on.
The black derelict shape of the fort finally appeared out of the mist about 100 Metres away, but thankfully the green channel marker on the main Portsmouth approach channel was also visible to the north west and we were on the safe side, away from the deep water that takes the huge cross channel ferries out of Portsmouth on the first step of their journey to France.
"It's just a bad patch, its still clearing.” I said optimistically “but I will be a lot happier when we have crossed the shipping channel and onto the spit sand"
"Where's the next mark?" asked Matt, staring fixedly into the white sun drenched cloud now obscuring our safe passage.
"It's there" I said, as the next dark shape appeared from just beyond our vision
"…and there's the cardinal marking the other side of the fairway." I pointed at the yellow and black buoy floating off our Port bow "we should cross here since we can see both sides of the channel"
By now the cockpit was littered with an array of aids to navigation. Charts and almanac, the handheld VHF was on deck and tuned to the Queens Harbour Master (QHM) that controls the traffic in and around Portsmouth, and we had heard the booming ships horns and radio calls from one inbound and one outbound cross channel ferry. We couldn't see much either way but as we approached our chosen mark the bows of the two ferries appeared through the gloom and crossed each other in front of us. The luminous orange high visibility stripe above the bridge of the closest vessel was barely discernible through the fog as the car carrying cross channel giant passed in front of us. As the ferries glided out of view we could still see the cardinal at the opposite side of the channel and were confident that visibility was good enough for us to be safe. As the blast of an approaching ships horn sounded in the distance, signalling another vessel was on its way inbound for Portsmouth, we had reached the green starboard mark on the edge of the channel and to allow us time for the ferry to pass we did a gentle 360 degree circle to keep the boat manoeuvrable whilst we waited. A yacht appeared out of the fog behind us clearly attempting to cross the ship channel at the same point as we intended to make our crossing. He shouted across to us to ask if we thought another ferry was on its way and we shouted our response. After what looked like a brief but heated debate with his crew, the Skipper appeared to grudgingly concede to his crew and began circling around with us. Suddenly the air was split open by the ferry's Horn, it was bone shakingly loud and nerve shatteringly close. The black bow bulb parted the water as the 33,000 tonne P&O ferry sliced effortlessly through the fog, its sheer sides rising up in a vertical wall of steel, the top of which was shrouded in mystery. Our thirty-foot plastic boat suddenly felt incredibly fragile as we watched the unstoppable leviathan pass through the curtain of fog that closed gracefully around the stern as it receded from our view.
As we crossed the 300 metres between the buoys on each side of the shipping channel we all stared intently into the brilliantly sunlit cloud. Even though we knew there was no traffic in the vicinity, it was still relieving to be across the other side and in safe water again. We headed on a compass bearing for the Spit Sand fort and crossed the paths of several smaller vessels that all had nervous looking crews staring out from all manner of available lookout positions.

The safety of Spit Sand

We found Spit Sand Fort and breathed a sigh of relief, we were safe here, and we had the added reassurance that we knew where here was. Rather than lying at anchor to wait for the fog to lift, we chose to maintain manoeuvrability and just motor slowly around the fort in circles waiting for the sky to clear enough for us to make the last mile long dash into Portsmouth Harbour. For three quarters of an hour we sheltered beneath the black, time stained walls of the fort, listening to the cacophony of foghorns, both large and small that seemed to come from every direction. Reports were coming in over the radio of near misses between various vessels, and the Isle of Wight ferries had begun to use the main channel for their journey, instead of taking their usual route cutting the corner and crossing the Swashway. As we cowered away from the chaos in our own little sanctuary we were soon joined by a small fishing vessel that I had just heard radio in to QHM for permission to cross the channel and then be warned to stay put until the Wightlink car ferry bound for Fishbourne had passed. We heard the horn of the ferry and then the deep rumble of engines grow and then gradually subside, but we could see nothing beyond the curtain of grey. The fishing vessel departed, and we were alone again.
I had heard a report on the radio that inside the harbour, less than a mile away from our current position, visibility was normal, but where was the edge of the fog bank? How close were we to the sunshine that was still bright overhead illuminating the water vapour that we were enveloped in?
The frustration was starting to show, after an hour of motoring around in circles things were not getting any better, the fog had been dangerously thick for over two hours by now and was showing no sign of improvement and we knew that less than a mile away we would be out of it, tied alongside a comfortable pontoon, sat in the sunshine drinking the ice cold lager that was currently cooling in our fridge.

Heading for harbour

We decided that staying where we were, we could waste a whole afternoon being safe, when we could quite probably be safe somewhere that did not involve circling a fort a mile away from the nearest secure marina berth, and in any case the real danger of the large ships using the deep water channel, had now passed as we were on the west side of the channel to enter Portsmouth. All we had to do was program the GPS for the buoys marking the approach and waypoint hop, just like we had been doing for the last ten hours.
Matt and Fi had sailed out of Portsmouth many times, most recently only a few weekends earlier on a charter boat from Port Solent. Matt had spent his formative years sailing on his fathers Westerley Griffin moored at Haslar, and I had entered Portsmouth harbour many times over the last few years in both the daytime and at night, so as far as local knowledge goes we were confident that we knew more than enough to attempt the journey. I already had a tried and tested waypoint for the Ballast Buoy programmed into the GPS, but that was well inside the harbour mouth and although I was confident of its accuracy, I did not want to use it from such a long distance away in case it guided us across the channel or into the harbour wall. The chart showed three red lateral channel marks, though they were not named or given numbers on either of the large scale charts I was using. The almanac showed Portsmouth number 3 bar and Portsmouth number 4 in the Solent area waypoints section, though no description of the buoys characteristics was given. I could work out the distance to the nearest buoy from the chart, and after programming them in I tested the distance. It was 0.5 NM at a bearing of 358 degrees to the first waypoint, which looked about right and the second mark required a slight alteration of course to 336 degrees for the 0.4 miles to the next buoy.
Everything felt right so we left the safety of our refuge behind us, once again in search of an invisible virtual goal programmed into our little black box.
The first red buoy appeared just where it should have, and we switched to the next waypoint. We changed course to our new bearing, sounding our foghorn and staring into the white murk.
Right on time the buoy began to take shape through the haze, but to our horror it was not the red can we were expecting, but the conical green of a starboard hand channel mark, and with my stomach twisting in knots I knew that I had programmed the wrong buoy into the GPS.
Now instead of being safe outside the channel to the west, we had the east channel marker in view, putting us right slap bang in the centre of a very busy shipping lane in visibility of less than one hundred Metres.
Suddenly my heart was in my throat, I had led us into extreme danger by a stupid mistake and with the echoing fog horns ringing in my ears and my guts in my mouth we turned the wheel hard to Port and full ahead we steamed back for the safety of the Swashway.
In fog you lose your sense of direction quite easily and I am still unsure as to where we were when the twin yellow hulls of ‘Fast Cat Shanklin’ appeared dead ahead of us.
The Bridge deck of the ferry was sleek and stylish with blackened windows. The two hulls were wide apart and between them, beneath the catamarans gently sagging belly, I could see the water churning to a foam as the massive stern drives slewed the five hundred tonnes of vessel around. It was a heart stopping moment where your brain calculates the collision vectors of the two craft faster than any computer ever could, but in my mind there was no way out. No matter which way we turned we would collide with the sharp unfriendly bows of ‘Fast Cat Shanklin’. In a reflex defence we slewed the wheel and feebly altered course to starboard. I can only guess at what kind of reaction our appearance must have had to the master of the ferry, or how hard he had to push his engines to alter course, but as our bows began to pay off to the right, the great yellow monster swung slowly the opposite way, and collision was avoided. We slipped shame faced down the ferry’s side and crossed her stern, I tried not to sound panicked but I am sure my words trembled when I said "Course 270, due west. Sod the computer lets just get out of here"
There was silence in the cockpit as we disappeared back into the fog leaving the nightmare behind us.
It is amazing how slow six knots feels when you just want to go home, and the next four minutes that Enigma trudged across the Haslar Bank seemed to take forever as we stood staring into the mist, each alone with our thoughts.
Out of the mist a convoy of yachts appeared going in the opposite direction.
"Are you going to Portsmouth?" Fi shouted.
"Why" came the cheery reply "have you missed it?"
The fact that her reply was a slightly embarrassed "yes" probably said more for the mood of the crew aboard Enigma at that moment than anything else.
We turned our vessel around to follow the procession and then suddenly our hearts collectively stopped… Again.
Dead ahead was a huge shape looming out of the fog, we were already turning but the size of this thing was filling our horizon. We could see the colours of scrapes above the waterline, there was nowhere to go, it was massive.
"What the hell is it?" Matt said loudly.
“Its a wall.” He replied a few seconds later, answering his own question.
We were still unsure, but then as the familiar texture began to materialise in front of our eyes he confirmed.
“It’s the harbour wall"
Sure enough as we got close enough to make out the beige stonework and lines in the masonry there it was, the ancient walls of Fort Blockhouse, the outer wall of Portsmouth Harbour. We turned and followed the yachts for less than 500 metres, following the wall toward the harbour mouth and then we turned sharp to Port and out of the fog, trailing eerie wisps of vapour with us as we finally broke free of our horizonless prison and into the glorious freedom of the blazing bank holiday sunshine.

Conclusion

I wrote the body of that narrative immediately after the incident to make sure the facts were not forgotten, but later as the process of re writing and correcting the successive drafts begins it is easy to say with the benefit of hindsight and from the comfort of the armchair that even the journey around the Island was risky, and that my optimism that the fog would lift was potentially dangerous, but further careful studying of the almanac and large-scale charts gives a better understanding of what actually happened.
Those last few GPS waypoints were entered untested and unchecked into the GPS as we were at the time underway, motoring around the Spit Bank Fort. I was unsure which buoys I had the coordinates for, so I should have plotted the waypoints on the chart, and also plotted our intended course manually, then cross checked the GPS bearings against the manually plotted bearings as we went, which is exactly how I had navigated earlier in the day for all the longer legs of the journey. However when studying the chart in the comfort of my living room several months later I took the bearing for the green buoy from the first red buoy (No2 Bar) as 336 degrees, whilst the bearing to the correct red buoy is 322 degrees, a difference of only 15 degrees. The distance to either buoy is 0.4 miles, so even if I had cross checked the GPS with the chart, with an error of only 15 degrees I may have ignored the discrepancy and trusted the computer rather than my pencil.
Of course the real error lay in not knowing the buoy numbering and therefore selecting the wrong coordinate from the Almanac. After the event I discovered on a different page of the book the waypoints listed under Portsmouth approaches give a clear description of each buoy and its light characteristics. The list I used on the day is only a few pages further on, and had no such information. The chart I had aboard that day was a typical small craft issue large scale chart of Portsmouth Harbour, it does not name the buoys on the approach, and similarly they are not named in the chartlet in the Almanac. However on a similar scale chart but from a different publisher the buoys are named, quite clearly showing the numbering system used in the approach channel.
Ultimately lack of proper preparation was the cause of the incident.
In conversation with a fellow Skipper it was suggested that I should have every possible waypoint in the area programmed into the GPS. The reason I chose not too is simply that with an older unit like the one that Enigma was carrying that day, only six characters can be used to describe each waypoint. It is difficult to select your waypoint quickly from a long list when you have to remember what abbreviation you used when you programmed the unit several seasons ago, so I had opted to have fewer waypoints, most of which I can remember by heart.
These days with the new GPS plotter Enigma has aboard, the names of waypoints can be several characters long, each waypoint is stored along with a separate page of information which can hold a detailed description, and added to that the plotter screen would have showed us drifting into the shipping lane as soon as we had passed the first buoy, but none of this new technology makes being out on a boat in the fog safe by any means, and blind reliance on it can be just as dangerous as not having it at all.

If you enjoyed this story, find this, and others in The weekender available here