Standing naked in a saltmarsh in the middle of October is not a moment of high self-esteem. The flash of panic had been a brief nightmare and my mind had cleared: “it’s actually quite mild for this time of year”. I cracked a smile at the absurdity of my situation and then checked it. Had it been a north easterly the temperature would have been far lower and hypothermia would be creeping through me. With hypothermia you struggle to think.

I had decisions to make as I wrung out my base layers and checked my barrel had not taken a core sample of crude marsh mud. Should I go on, or withdraw? The information was from an impeccable source. A highly experienced ‘fowler had taken me under his wing and told me that with a mid-morning tide in October wigeon flood into that piece of marsh but “you have to maroon yourself and wait the tide out, or go by boat.” I chose the second option.

My tactics were straight forward: walk out before dawn towing the kayak behind me up the creeks to where they T- junction, and take a left. Throw out my decoys and wait for my mentor’s advice to prove its worth as the tide rose and forced the fresh wigeon to move following the locals to the favoured sheltered bay. Then, having shot my bag limit, the dog and I would paddle home triumphant in the slack water of high tide. Easy.

Nothing good is ever easy. Looking back, the over-confidence I had in my information and my plan, combined with my inexperience almost guaranteed a mistake.

Where the channels were deep nearer the quay I could drop into my kayak and paddle and cover distance quickly. When the kayak bottomed out, I would have to climb out and rely on it drawing in only and inch or two of water. I reached the straight creek that slices the marsh in two and civil twilight showed me a shallow ripple - I would have to wade. The tide was moving now and I could see up to the T-junction where the fleet met the creek and splashed on.
My gun was over my shoulder and the 7ft pole I used as anchor, punt pole and,
crucially, wading staff was stowed in the boat.

Up to the T-junction and I failed to notice it.

The undulating bottom of the creek had varied in height all the way but in chest
waders that was hardly a problem. But now, on the corner of the turn the ripple
had disappeared and the moving water had a smooth surface. I stepped forward in
ignorance, off the submerged sand bar and down into the deeper water - straight
under. The gun dropped off my shoulder but somehow the sling wrapped around the
foot of my drogue-like waders as I thrashed heavily around in panic. I reached
out for the kayak as it slid passed me with the current but couldn’t get there.
Swimming in chest waders, in a tide is not to be recommended. I was relieved to
be smacked in the face as the paddle edge cut me across the cheek. I had tied
it to the painter as it was easier to guide a towing boat around shallow sand
that way - it was my salvation. I could feel the weight of the gun on my foot
and once I had reeled in my kayak I reached down to heave the gun over the side
before paddling to the bank.

Having rung myself out and re-dressed, I read my dog’s expression in light of my own emotions. “Don’t look at me like that dog. That was bloody stupid. I know.”

Dawn breaking gave me enough light to see the barrel was clear and the bolt jumped forward to load. The hen wigeon that had skimmed up the fleet was as surprised to see me as I was to see her. As she climbed, fast to bank and escape, my shot produced a jet wash from the gas ports of my semi-automatic as the salt water cleared from the piston. The first retrieve of many on a memorable morning for both right and wrong reasons.

Every so often providence encourages us to focus. It might be someone handing you down a loaded rifle from a high seat on a cold February morning (my last one). After a close call we feel sharper; until the memory of it fades over the decade. Then we can expect a reminder.