Unexpected Encounters with Wildlife

One of the quiet joys of learning to sail on the River Thames is that you are never really alone. You may launch with a carefully rehearsed plan — wind direction checked, centreboard down, mainsheet flaked — but the river has a habit of adding its own unscripted cast.

Some days it’s subtle. A heron lifts off from the bank just as you bear away, legs trailing like something from a prehistoric sketchbook. Kingfishers flash past in a streak of improbable blue, gone before you’ve had time to say, “Did you see that?” (You did. You’re just not sure you believe it.)

Other days, the encounters are rather more direct.

Swans, for example, have an unshakeable belief that they own the river and that your carefully trimmed course is merely a suggestion. They will hold station directly ahead of the bow, daring you to blink first. You ease the sheet, adjust the tiller, and mutter polite apologies while the swan remains magnificently unimpressed. The unwritten rule seems to be: the larger the bird, the more right of way it assumes.

Canada geese operate differently. They prefer ambush tactics. One moment the bank is quiet; the next, a flotilla erupts into the water with loud complaints about your presence. They are noisy, indignant, and utterly convinced this is all your fault.

Then there are the moments that stop you mid-sentence. A seal surfacing briefly, as if checking the sailing standards upriver. A deer stepping delicately into the shallows at dawn. Even a cormorant, wings spread wide on a mooring post, drying itself like a piece of abstract art.

These encounters are reminders that the Thames is not just a training ground for tacks, gybes, and boat handling. It’s a living corridor, shared with creatures that have been here far longer than sailing clubs, safety boats, or carefully laminated briefing notes.

They also teach good seamanship. Slow down. Keep a proper lookout. Anticipate the unexpected. Wildlife doesn’t read the Racing Rules of Sailing, and it certainly hasn’t attended your pre-sail briefing.

And perhaps that’s the point. Among the drills, the corrections, and the quiet triumphs of getting it right, the river occasionally taps you on the shoulder and says: Look up. This is bigger than you.