Just one small (mis)step…you know how it goes.

If there’d been any room in my mind for anything but shock, as I hurtled backwards, I might have thought that this was just typical of the last week or so. But after that sickening moment when you know you’re falling, and falling dangerously, all my brain came up with was ‘Great. I’ve fallen into the bloody lock.’

Ten days earlier...

The last week or so had been more than a little trying, since our (first) nice long sojourn on the Sandiacre Visitor Moorings had come to an end. We’d been able to delay departure for over a week, after topping up our water from a nearby business, courtesy of our travelling companion Peter’s initiative. As his other half was heading up for her first solo weekend aboard, we were also happy to hang around for company. But needs must; eventually we had to head on to the end of the Erewash, for more water, winding (turning) our boat, and making our return journey.

Things went wrong almost immediately. Not even a mile along, we navigated the first of 10 locks between us and Langley Mill, aka The Great Northern Basin¹, only to discover that the pound between the next two was closed due to low water. With the help of fellow boater Dave, who’d warned us of the closure, we reluctantly reversed till we could pull close enough in to to moor up. The first challenge of the upper Erewash – it’s reedy, weedy, and silt-heavy, with few stretches of sufficient depth close to the bank. Even in Long Eaton we’d got ourselves ‘on a little list’, with one side stuck on a ledge and causing us much discombobulation until we re-floated. Here, we just had to get as close as we could and wait til tomorrow brought amended water levels.

Alas. The morrow also brought bucketing rain, some of the most persistent we’ve seen since winter. After much prevarication, and the rain easing to light sprinkle, we decided to suck it up and just go. I opted to steer and husband took on the locks. Which soon proved to be the next irritation of the upper Erewash.

From Stanton Lock to Langley Mill basin, there are 10 double locks to navigate. Today, the vast majority were not in our favour, so laborious emptying and refilling were needed each ascent. To make matters worse, the vast majority were also fitted with ‘handcuff’ locks, to prevent vandalism and water-loss-causing stoppages. (The rain had, of course, immediately resumed with a vengeance once we got underway; we reflected sourly that it more than likely would compensate for any more shortages). Annoyingly, each lock’s positioning of these safety measures was different, some were broken, and some were immovable. As were the paddles and gates themselves – at least six of these locks were in shockingly poor condition, and moving the mechanisms required strenuous effort². Within half an hour we were both drenched to the skin, thoroughly out of sorts and cursing our decision to explore this particular waterway. Matters were not improved when Shelden slipped on a muddy bridge, coating himself thickly and acquiring some painful bruises. No serious injuries, fortunately.³

After a long, soggy, exhausting day we moored up just short of the basin, as it was nearly 8pm and we had no desire to handle another lock, water points and congested passageways in the dusk. As the next day was husband’s birthday, we gave ourself a day off, treating ourself to brunch in a delightful cafe we’d discovered in Stapleford.⁴ Then we tackled the return. This time we were smart, and broke the trip into shorter sections with less locks.

Even with shorter days, the locks were exhausting, we kept getting weed tangled round the prop (it’s a nasty business to get into weed hatch and peel it off, too), and at times the weed was so thick there was barely a navigable channel. Still, we made it back to Sandiacre earlier this week, with plans to leave the Erewash at last, and find a nice quiet mooring for husband to chill out while I headed to Glasgow for a conference.

Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans…

The fateful Friday just gone

After only three days at Sandiacre southbound, we pushed on, planning to cross the Trent and cruise onto the River Soar to Red Hill marina for a bit of a breather. At the very first lock of the day – the one where we had shooed away the swans on the ascent – I was lock-wrangling, with husband at the tiller. Down went the boat, I opened the gates and off went Flow. I intended to catch her at the next lock, after dropping paddles and closing lower gates. The starboard gate was obstreperous, however. Gritting my teeth, I crossed back and closed the port side, hoping it would stay closed and help the other settle to place (lock gates can be funny like that). Then I headed back to the disobedient gate.

If only I had crossed back by the bridge, instead of the top gates. If only I had taken my time and stepped down on the step plate and walked around the end of the beam. Instead, I hopped over merrily to the end of the gates and stepped down on my left foot, directly beside the top gate and (I thought) about a foot in from the edge of the lock.

And the next thing I knew I was falling backward, plummeting through the emptied lock and landing in the watery bottom of the chamber.

Sandiacre Lock is about 14-15 feet wide⁵, and has an 8.5 foot rise/fall from full to empty. When it’s empty, there’s at least another 5 feet pound for exiting boats to float on (and careless boaters to plunge into – I am 5′ 3”, and didn’t find the bottom). Miraculously, I didn’t hit my head on the protruding sill immediately below the gates, so I surfaced gasping but conscious, with my left knee a ball of pain – whether I had twisted it as I stepped, slipped on water or misjudged the distance I will never know. The stubborn starboard gate was still open but looked very far away. Although the day was warm, the water was chilly and the tall, slimy, brick walls loomed over my frightened splashing. Call for help, I thought. I have to yell, someone might hear me. And float on my back. I could try to float to the ladder. Locks do have ladders midway, as solo boaters need to get on and off when navigating; they are of course a vital safety feature too. I started gently sculling with hands and good leg, bawling for help every few seconds. My shouts rang in the lock; they sounded loud to me, but I knew Shelden was already boat-lengths down the canal and probably wouldn’t hear me over the engine. There had been another boater a little way above the lock, I remembered. Had there been some people fishing? I kept shouting, desperately trying to stay calm.

Just as I reached the ladder, a saviour arrived. A neighbouring family had heard my screams and come to my rescue. With Ellis’ encouragment I inched myself up the weed-coated ladder until he could reach me and haul me up to the lockside pavement. His wife Emma arrived with a towel; they fetched Shelden, got me a chair, a drink of water, while we waited for an ambulance. I will never forget their kindness – may God repay them a thousandfold.

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur: three wonderful paramedics (Tristan, Karen and Sam); nitrous oxide making my voice sound ridiculous; agonised movement onto a stretcher; ambulance to Nottingham A&E; sitting in Injuries with a blanket tucked round my still-soggy self. Another miracle – my phone, which had been in my pocket, somehow survived the dunking with only a brief moisture warning, and soldiered on without missing a beat. Eventually Shelden was able to safely moor Flow up and make his way back to meet me. An X-ray ruled out any breaks or fractures; most likely some meniscus or medial ligament damage.⁶ Later that afternoon, my crutches and I were back safely on Flow, very sore and sorry for myself, but constantly amazed at my very narrow escape (no pun intended at all).

The next day we made it safely to Red Hill Marina, where we will stay put for at least a couple weeks. I am still intending to head to my conference this coming week, crutches and all. Then, I’ll be taking things VERY carefully, slowly and patiently while I recover. Gratitude is my overwhelming feeling right now.

1. Not nearly as Impressive As It Sounds. It is the northern terminus of what was once a grand junction of canals linking Nottingham, Derby, Erewash and further. Now it’s a couple of boatyards, with basic water and Elsan facilities, and a quite awkward winding hole. ↩︎
2. Two days after we passed through on the return journey, a few of them were closed for repair. Poor Peter may have got caught up in the delay too, as we haven’t seen him since leaving Sandiacre. ↩︎
3. That was yet to come! ↩︎
4. Shout out to ‘The Little Kitchen‘ who do fantasic food and coffee at ridiculously reasonable prices. ↩︎
5. Double locks accommodate 2 narrowboats of 6′ 10” beam or a single widebeam. ↩︎
6. Still need to have some more check ups, but so far it is settling down well. ↩︎