A Memorable Cruise, part 5

Cala de Fornells Entrance


By then, the wind was beginning to blow strongly. I decided to row with it for about a mile or so to a different beach where a path appeared to lead to my objective. I anticipated the row back would be quite an effort, especially as the strength of wind was gradually increasing. Lacking foresight, I had set off without liquid refreshment, and I was wearing inadequate footwear in the form of a pair of open sandals. The path was exceedingly rocky, which meant I had to take care not to twist an ankle or stub a toe. During the ascent I sweated profusely, but I was rewarded by seeing flowers, insects and birds, the likes of which I had not seen elsewhere. When I reached the dilapidated houses I was accosted by wild goats. Undeterred, I entered one of the buildings and found it had pink marble floors. The ruin must have been a splendid place in its time. The view from that vantage point enabled me to see large tracts of the Island. Through my mini-binoculars I observed four newly-built ‘Mickey Mouse’ hamlets with their pseudo classical architecture. I also saw a hotel, complete with its own crowded beach, which was so typical of packaged holidays.



As I had anticipated, the row back to ‘Secant’ was strenuous, but it gave me exercise, and I welcomed being cooled by spray from the crests of waves. Over the course of the afternoon the wind increased to the extent that the boat dragged her anchor once more. The business of resetting the anchor was becoming quite tiresome, especially as other yachts were holding firm. Why weren’t we? There was ample scope, and our rode was entirely of calibrated chain. The Bruce anchor wasn’t fully to blame; more so, it was the hull shape of ‘Secant’ which lacked depth at her bow. Finally, we managed to get her to hold. Although there must have been at least a Force 5, the water where we were anchored was comparatively smooth, because of the protection afforded by Isla Sargantanas.


'Secant', a view from the crow's nest



Gordon went for a swim in the direction of the Island. I wondered what I should do if the yacht were to drag her anchor in his absence, and sure enough, as soon as he reached the Island, ‘Secant’ quite rapidly slipped astern. I was able to start the engine and retrieve her anchor before motoring towards Isla Sargantanas, which, by then was at least half a mile away. Gordon had observed what was happening, and he decided to swim for the boat. I found him about a quarter-of-mile from the Island, and fortunately the boarding ladder was in its usual place; therefore he was able to climb aboard.


Fornells Moorings


Yet again we anchored, but we were not happy, because the wind continued to increase. Consequently, we motored the yacht to the Fornells moorings where we picked up a secure buoy for the night.

A Memorable Cruise, part 4

North Menorca


The Island of Menorca


Menorca was to be our next destination. We set off on a windless Sunday morning, but by mid-day, there was a Force 2 from the northeast. Then the wind gradually increased until we were making speeds of between five and six knots. At night the silver moon laid a molten path for us to follow. I was entranced by the beauty of glistening waves. A trail of phosphorescence flowed from ‘Secant 's’ stern. It seemed we were suspended in space on some kind of odyssey, heading for the Moon and beyond to the Milky Way. Now and again dappled clouds added mystery to the scene. I wasn't sure if I was pleased when Gordon offered to relieve me from my watch, as I was enjoying the stars and the wonder of that magical night.


I awoke on Monday morning to find a sparkling, sunny scene, with Menorca dead ahead. Gordon asked, “Will you take her now Bill, for an hour or so, while I get a little nap?” At that moment dolphins arrived, playfully breaking surface near the bows, diving and weaving to our delight. Having seen these creatures often before, I was no less fascinated with their antics. I am convinced they know when they are being watched, and show off even more! One was bigger than the others. I could clearly recognize him by a large scar on his back. Perhaps he had been attacked by a shark? After fifteen or so minutes they disappeared as suddenly as they had arrived.


Shortly after the dolphin show, I heard Gordon snoozing in his bunk. The Autohelm was working well. I took the opportunity to plot our position and estimated a time of arrival at Ciutadella. This little gem was just as the Pilot Book described it - a small, secure natural harbour with a quay adjacent to the ancient town.


The dissuasive effect of the sun's intensity did not prevent me from exploring Ciutadella to seek out examples of architecture. I noticed that many buildings were decorated with intricate stone carvings. For me, Ciutadella was something special, because of its variety. I loved the contrasts to be found there: secluded cul-de-sacs, busy arcades, open squares and pedestrian walkways that resembled cloisters. I happened to find a travel agent who booked me a flight home from Alicante, as Gordon intended that I should leave ship there.


That night we dined at the ‘el Horn' restaurant, which was featured in the Michelin Guide. ‘el Horn’ means ‘baking oven', and an ancient one was displayed there. I cannot remember what Gordon ate, but I enjoyed my chicken - quite the best I have tasted. We drank a fair measure of fine wine too.


On Tuesday, 9th June, ‘Secant’ was topped-up with diesel; then we motored along the north coast of Menorca to a superb seawater lagoon named Cala de Fornells. Around the perimeter there were golden sandy beaches between rocky outcrops, and in the centre there was a group of small islands; the largest had a lighthouse. As a backdrop, all around, save on the seaward side, there were wooded hills. The crystal clear water revealed both sand and weed. Much of the cala’s natural loveliness remained, but the old town had been blighted with the addition of a plethora of Mickey Mouse villas. It disturbed me to see such natural beauty being destroyed by the buildings to satisfy a ready market. These ugly villas were being bought by foreign investors who hired them out or used them as occasional retreats.

Illa Sargantanas, with the lighthouse


Gordon and I had cooling swims. Later in the afternoon the wind increased which caused the anchor to drag. We reset it, but when I was about to have a siesta, I could hear what I thought was a dinghy sailing nearby. Instead, I actually heard the sound of waves breaking on rocks nearby. The anchor was dragging again. I warned Gordon, who immediately started the engine and retrieved the anchor. Fortunately no damage was done, and we were able to motor off a rock that we lightly touched. That evening the sun provided us with a feast for our eyes. Other yachts anchored nearby to savour the sunset. When darkness came, I was reluctant to retire to my cabin because I was bewitched by the seductive moon. I found her beauty irresistible, both entrancing and magical. I was almost guilty of worshipping the created thing, while forgetting the Creator. What folly!


Cala de Fornells was such an idyllic place we decided to stay for another day. At about 0930 I rowed the Avon dinghy to a nearby beach with the intention of trekking to derelict houses I had seen on a bluff at the entrance of the lagoon. When I landed on the beach I instinctively felt that something was not right. I am not one who is tuned into feelings or intuitions. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. I prefer to be objective and logical, but that morning I could not discount a menacing ‘feel’ to the place. There was a deathly oppressive silence, save for the chirping of crickets and the constant humming of insects. I felt that a horrendous crime had been committed there, perhaps a pre-meditated ritual killing of an infant. I tried to put the irrational thought out of my mind, but I was reluctant to carry on my mission.


As I made my way into the dense thicket I chanced upon a tent that had been erected under a tree surrounded by bushes, as if the intention of the owner had been to hide it. The zipped door was locked with a padlock. I had a desire to see what was inside, but I overcame my curiosity. Proceeding further up the hillside I found myself trapped in a prickly thicket. It was so dense I could hardly see the sun, which I needed for direction. I realized I must retrace my track and try an alternative route, but that was easier said than done. There didn't seem to be a way out. Eventually I found myself back at the tent and continued along what appeared to be a track running parallel to the shoreline, although I could not see the latter. From there it climbed steeply, but petered out. I persevered through thorn bushes while taking care to avoid being scratched. Several hundred feet higher at the edge of the woodland I was confronted by a black goat and his mate. The creature held its head down, as if ready to charge. Not wanting to be attacked by this wild animal, I made a hasty retreat.


My heart beat faster than usual, not only because of my confrontation, but because I was feeling the heat. I sought a path to bypass the animals and climbed over a stone wall that was almost hidden in the undergrowth. As I alighted on the other side I heard the unmistakable hiss of a snake. Camouflaged at the base of the wall, there was the snake. Needless to say, I did not wait around, and made a hasty retreat. My heart was beating at a phenomenal rate. I couldn’t find an alternative way through the dense undergrowth to continue my quest for the derelict buildings. Therefore I set off downhill once again, but with utmost vigilance to avoid any possible hazard. Despite my care, I became trapped by thorn thickets yet again. Eventually I broke free and found the dinghy.

A Memorable Cruise, part 3

The Costa Brava

Traditional Open Boat at Puerto Olympic


About mid-day, after our arrival at Puerto Olympic, Linda bade us farewell. Then she set off for the airport by taxi. We continued our cruise, but this time we headed for the Costa Brava. We arrived at the Catalonian resort of Blanes shortly before 1900. From the sea we observed hillsides covered with huge areas of polytunnels, presumably for the production of horticultural produce; perhaps tomatoes, cucumbers, aubergines, courgettes, and the like. As seen from the sea, the hills of Blanes were quite pretty. On the downside, we found the anchorage uncomfortable, because of the motion of the waves. Consequently, sleep was impossible for much of the night.


For eight hours the following day, Wednesday, and 3rd June, we found ourselves beating into a brisk wind. We moored at the modern marina of Palamos, which is next to the Old Town. In recent times the resort has had large hotels and apartments built along the sea front. The place looked rather colourless because the sky was overcast, but the following morning there was a transformation, as the sun made everything sparkle.


I told Gordon I wanted to buy a piece of Spanish pottery for my wife, and he suggested that we should travel together to Girona, which is the capital of that region. I was pleased that Gordon was with me, because he was able to communicate with the locals, which made finding our way around easier. Our journey by bus was through uninviting, rather dull countryside. There was mile after mile of scorched farmland interspersed with the usual facilities for tourists: guest houses, bed and breakfasts, restaurants, cafes and petrol stations.


La Tirana was different by being not at all dull, particularly the Old City beside the River Onyer, straddled by many footbridges. We searched diligently for a pottery recommended by the Tourist Information Centre, but we could not find it. The heat was energy sapping. However, our reward for climbing the hill to the cathedral, which has one of the largest medieval Gothic naves of any in Europe, was well worth the effort - despite the sweat that poured off us. The tower is a splendid example of Gothic and Romanesque styles that have been satisfactorily combined. Inside the cathedral I was particularly attracted to a formalized marble statue of Jesus, which portrayed the moment after he had been taken down from the cross. I could not resist photographing it, as an ‘aid-memoir'.

The steps leading to La Tirana Cathedral

Sculpture of Jesus


We also visited the Museu D’Art, where there were fine examples of sculpture, stained glass windows and oil paintings. We couldn’t fault the high standard of display and presentation which worked well in the ancient building that had been adapted for that purpose.


On our return journey we stopped at La Bisbal, which is famous for the manufacture of ceramics. I found what I was looking for, in the form of a beautiful very dark brown, almost black fruit dish. Gordon liked it, and so did my wife when I presented it to her at the end of my holiday. That same day we sailed for Cala Tamariu, which turned out to be a disaster, because we suffered a very uncomfortable night, owing to the unrelenting motion of the waves. I did not get a wink of sleep. Without a doubt Cala Tamariu was truly beautiful with its sandy beach and nearby cliffs, but the bay was spoiled by rows of mooring buoys. We were ripped-off by a young lad who came out to us in his inflatable, demanding 3,000 pesetas (£ 12) for the privilege of a sleepless night. We felt aggrieved, but we had the consolation of experiencing a wonderful sunset.

Cala Tamariu Beach


A pattern evolved that no matter where we chose to sail, the wind would be against us, and Friday, 5th June, was no exception. Our planned destination was a resort called Roses, but because of the direction and strength of wind, it took us seven hours under sail, arriving there at 1440. We had covered 34 miles over the ground at an average speed of five knots. Gordon knew how to get the best out of his boat. However, it took me quite a while to learn how to do it nearly as well as Gordon. ‘Secant’ was quite different to other boats I had sailed. Being a heavy displacement yacht she took a while to build up momentum and I discovered that her wheel needed only very fine adjustments. Anything beyond that, she would slow down or fall off course.


She was not at all well-behaved when anchored in strong winds. The reason for this was because her bow would not stay put when she was headed into the wind. She would sail up on her Bruce anchor and flip it out of the ground before dragging it along on its side. This happened time and again. Gordon later exchanged the Bruce for a Danforth which proved more reliable.

Location of Roses

Roses Marina Chart


Roses was a pleasant location for relaxing and doing things that were not feasible when on the move. Gordon continued his boat maintenance. Meanwhile I caught up with my dirty washing and I had a look at the town. I also visited a nearby headland to examine the ruins of an old fortress, which were remarkable for their state of abandon. I was surprised to find among the dereliction a huge variety of wild plants, shrubs, insects and birds – most of them I had never seen before. From that vantage point I was astonished to see sewage being pumped into the sea by the headland which was only a mile from the beach where tourists and locals swam.


Our first day at Roses was sunny, but by evening there was a watery-looking halo around the sun. This was a sign that it was likely to rain the next day, which proved to be right. The heavens let loose and afterwards there was one of those atmospheric effects that reminded me of William Turner’s watercolours he painted when he visited the Mediterranean.

Roses Marina


At 0630 on the dot, Gordon would take an early swim. The sound of him diving in was the signal for me to get out of bed, but on the morning of Sunday, 7th June, I was very reluctant to do so. I had not been able to sleep because of music at a fiesta that continued into the early hours of the morning. However, with the skipper swimming briskly to the beach I had to motivate myself to use the shower and make myself ready for the day.


For quite a while Gordon had been expressing his disenchantment with expensive marinas, ribbon-development and constant head-winds. He therefore decided to head for the Balearic Islands. This thrilled me, because I had looked for adventure and secretly I hoped we would sail to the islands of Corsica and Italy, but the Balearics were a good substitute.

A Memorable Cruise, part 2

Sagrada Familia


Linda's Cruise, the Costa Dorada

On Tuesday, 26th May, we were joined by Linda who had been invited by the skipper as an additional crew for a week. There was the possibility that she could be a future crew for Gordon. She wanted to accrue sea time and experience for the Royal Yachting Association's Competent Crew Certificate. Her short-term aim was to get hands-on experience of all practical aspects of seamanship involving an auxiliary yacht. Unmarried, and in her early thirties, she was a much travelled lady. Adventure-hiking was her main hobby and source of inspiration for journalism. She described a trek through a swampy jungle with native guides when she became a victim of leeches. Once she suffered from food poisoning. Her stories gave me the creeps.


Castelldefels Castle


We went for our first sail on Monday, but instead of heading east as Gordon had originally intended, we motored southwest to Castelldefels, on the Costa Dorada. Linda volunteered to do the steering. Normally the Autohelm 2000 would have been used to keep the yacht on her course. Linda also had a go at keeping the ship's written log and the appropriate chart work. That evening we savoured macaroni cheese that had been cooked by the skipper, and we enjoyed Penadas wine.


That first day was typical of so many to come, being almost windless with unrelenting sunshine. Even the locals said it was hotter at that time of year than usual, but we heard that in England the weather had been dismal with much rain. I noticed that Gordon greatly appreciated the sun, and he would sunbathe for hours at a time wearing only his shorts and a yachting cap. Conversely, I usually tried to hide under the bridge deck while covering myself with a long-sleeved shirt, endeavouring to avoid the sun, but sometimes in the late afternoon I would allow the sun’s rays to shine on my fair skin, in the hope that I may capture a light tan to show my wife. I had to be careful, because I was susceptible to sun rash, which later affected me.


Our next port of call was Taragona, with its new marina and beautiful, monolithic, stone cathedral, situated on the highest part of the town in the old sector. This ancient city with it narrow streets, terraced houses, balconies, tiles and shutters, is an artist's paradise. That evening all three of us had a meal to remember at the La Tuela restaurant. We discussed many things, but the most significant in my opinion were the subjects of faith and trust in Jesus, and the nature of being a born-again as a Christian. Just as I expected, my testimony was met with skepticism, but I hoped and prayed that a work of grace would be done in the hearts of both of my companions.

Taragona Marina

Taragona


Early the next morning I used one of the marina’s showers to freshen myself, but it was first necessary to pass through a high-security gate. I forgot to press the disarming button, which caused a high-pitched siren that woke the whole yachting fraternity! Two guards immediately appeared from their hide-away to discover what all the noise was about.


Later that morning the sky became overcast and a cool wind blew from the land. By early evening we found an anchorage at St. Carles dela Rapeta, where we were boarded by Spanish customs. We think they visited us out of boredom, or perhaps because they wanted to put something in their logbook. At first, their attitude was threatening, especially as their leader was equipped with a revolver. They were dressed in denim uniforms resmebling those worn by the SAS, but within minutes, the atmosphere of apparent hostility changed to one of civility.


One of their crew occupied Gordon with a mountain of paperwork, while the others made a cursory inspection of the yacht. We could have hidden half-a-dozen immigrants in the engine room, or we could have stashed away tons of drugs in lockers. I personally think they were more interested in Linda than what may have been hidden in the ship’s stores. They may have been attracted to her fair hair and dimples, or they could have been beguiled by her charm, especially her smile.


The next day, Saturday 30th May, we made a start at retracing our track, but we diverged from it by putting into L'Ampolla, which is an almost land-locked bay bordered by sand dunes. It has a lovely sounding name, the meaning of which I know not, but it matches the tranquility and beauty of the place. Immediately after setting the anchor, Gordon and I enjoyed the first of many swims we were to have during the course of our holiday. The water was colder than we anticipated - considering the bay was shallow and enclosed, and lacking any appreciable tidal currents. Linda declared it was far too cold for her. She was content to watch male lunatics trying to put on a nonchalant show of manliness. In my case the whitening of my fingertips, as they reacted to my inherited Ranaud's Syndrome, didn’t help. This unpleasant condition causes loss of circulation, and it has to be kept under control by not prolonging exposure to the cold. Those who have not suffered from the condition do not appreciate the irritation and pain that can be felt, even when being subjected to mild exposure. The victim can suffer from a mild tingling to the sensation of severe pain after circulation has been restored.

The Costa Dorado


We set off for Vilanova on the morning of Sunday 31st. The wind was strong enough to rotate the propellers of huge wind generators sited on the ridge of a high hill overlooking the sea. The wind farm was not unique, because over the course of our holiday we observed others strategically placed on high land overlooking the sea. Such use of the wind makes sense, because onshore breezes occur during the day and the converse take place at night. This policy of utilizing non-polluting natural sources of energy is evident elsewhere, such as on the island of Tabarca where the majority of the island’s electricity is generated by solar cells.


Because we had the wind in our favour we made a smart passage to Vilanova, arriving there shortly after 1830.


Very early the next morning, the Guardia Civil paid us a visit in their noisy launch. They ordered us to take up our anchor and moor alongside the fuel pontoon. This prevented us from having an undisturbed sleep. Linda and I met further hassle when we were prevented from leaving the marina by a young guard who detained us for 15 minutes until he had permission for us to leave. We assumed the reason was because Gordon had not been able to pay the berthing fee because the marina office was closed. ‘Secant’ had to be moved from her temporary berth within an-hour-and-a-half, but this did not give Linda time to buy a present for her mother. The only plus point gained from our short walk to the shops was that we had exercised our limbs.


Our next stop was Puerto Olympic, a second, but attractive marina at Barcelona.
From there Linda could take a taxi to the airport. Our track lay across the passage used by big ships entering and leaving Barcelona's main harbour. As we approached the passage, we found that ‘Secant’ was on a collision course with a freighter, but in good time we made adjustments to avoid a catastrophe. Normally the conceding vessel would turn to starboard to pass astern of the one having right-of-way, but Linda steered ‘Secant’ to port; then steered the yacht to make a complete circle before passing astern of the freighter. It was not a textbook example of how a collision should be avoided between two powered vessels on converging courses.

A Memorable Cruise, part 1

'Secant'


Aboard the Yacht ‘Secant’ in the Mediterranean, 1998


Barcelona


On Tuesday, 19th May at three in the morning I was bleary-eyed because of lack of sleep. Periodically throughout the night I had been checking the clock. I couldn’t sleep because of being excited about a new adventure. I was to crew for a period of about six weeks aboard the 40 foot Alan Pape steel yacht, ‘Secant’. She was owned by Gordon Blythe, who I had met a few months earlier at the Cruising Association headquarters to discuss the possibility of a Mediterranean cruise. The day had arrived for us to meet again at Luton Airport for the flight to Barcelona, where we would join ship.



Not wanting to disturb my wife, I tip-toed to the bathroom to do the usual ablutions. An hour later, I was standing on the platform of Hockley station listening to the dawn chorus. It was quite chilly and a trifle damp from the morning dew. The rails were making that characteristic humming when a train is about to arrive. I was fully alert as my senses were heightened by the prospect of adventure. My luggage consisted of just a few items: a small rucksack in which there was a camera, a diary, a bible, my passport and an air ticket, plus a canvas bag containing shirts, pants, shorts, jeans, and a swimming costume. I was relaxed and happy.


During the next three hours I travelled on three trains and one bus before arriving at the airport. When I found the Debonair Flight Reception, Gordon was already there attending to his flight arrangements. We agreed to have coffee and croissants before moving to the departure lounge. That was the beginning of our ‘Memorable Cruise'. Much of my sailing has been single-handed, and on those occasions I have been able to do what I wanted without having to consider the wishes of companions, but when there are crewmates it is necessary for all to work as a team with mutual respect. If you do not know their likes and dislikes because of being new acquaintances, you may make a few assumptions.


Our plan was to sail together for up to six weeks, and although there had been no formal agreement to make it a pleasurable experience, I sensed that was our common resolve. In the event, the start of our holiday went well, as we sat drinking coffee. The first few words were important, and within minutes I knew it was going to work. Gordon was not the unsociable person he had made himself out to be at our preliminary meeting, and by the time we had finished our coffee, we discovered we had several things in common – we were both in our sixties and relatively fit for our age; both of us were married, but our wives were not keen on sailing. Our offspring had grown up and were independent, and they were not into sailing. Most significantly, Gordon and I loved yachting and we had been doing it for years.


On our arrival at Barcelona airport we were besieged by a group of enterprising children who used us as guinea pigs to practise and test their knowledge of English. Gordon did nearly all the talking. Being able to make himself understood in Spanish he did the speaking when it came to asking directions and when ordering meals at restaurants. He explained to the taxi driver that we wanted to go to the Marina. There, Gordon showed me around ‘Secant’ and we set about removing the winter's grime by hosing and scrubbing her superstructure.


That evening we walked to the Bombeta to sample the local fare. The Bombeta is a popular restaurant patronized by the locals of Barcelonetta, which is an old part of the city. It was recommended to us by a couple who were living aboard their motor yacht moored in the Marina. To the best of my recollection, their names were Michael and Audry. Michael was the brownest ‘white man I have ever seen. Much of his time was spent on the foredeck relaxing on his sunbed. His companion, whom he was to marry in September, was also a sun worshipper. They came from England via the English Channel, the French canals and the Mediterranean coast until they arrived at Barcelona, where they stopped. They liked it so much, they made it their adopted home. They were particularly attracted to the lifestyle and atmosphere of Barcelonetta.


Not wanting to prepare meals on board we ate at the Bombeta. On the fourth evening of our sojourn we were looking through the menu, and I asked Gordon the meaning of a word. He told me it was lamb. I therefore opted to have that particular dish. You can imagine my surprise when there was nothing on the plate except half a sheep's head! It had been sliced from front to back down the middle. I examined the animal's teeth, his crumpled eye, half of his tongue and what was left of his brain! There was also part of the throat with various bits and pieces.


Having mentioned to Gordon that I liked trying local dishes when cruising foreign, I had no option except to relish what was set before me. The animal’s brain was soft and sweet, and temperature-wise it was tepid. I quite liked the tongue, but l could not bring myself to eat the eye. It looked at me so dolefully through its crinkled cornea. His jaw muscles were a little over-cooked, and the throaty bits were stringy. His teeth were rather unhealthy looking, so I pretended they did not exist.


The Propeller


The day after our arrival, ‘Secant’ was lifted out of the water by hoist. We observed how well the Copperbot antifouling had protected the underwater area of her hull. There were only a few places that needed remedial treatment, but they had not been painted with antifouling in the first place. On the other hand, the propeller was so badly encrusted it had provided no thrust whatsoever. This meant that the yacht had to be towed from her pontoon to the boat hoist.


Sagrada Familia, Barcelona



We both worked hard over a period of a week to carry out the maintenance, but Gordon realized I was on holiday; therefore he encouraged me to look around Barcelona. I was fascinated with the Sagrada Familia - the Church of the Sacred Family, designed by Gaudi. I took photos of this edifice which stretched upwards, pointing its honey-combed spires into the sky for over a thousand meters. There was also Mountjuic Fort high upon a rocky mount, which dominated the harbour and city. From the Fort I could see fine views in all directions, and because of its high altitude it was the location for numerous communications aerials.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 6

Sailing at Last


I prepared a simple lunch that I could eat underway. Then Ian and Doug sailed by in their heavily reefed Wanderer, and I saw George retrieve his anchor and make sail. Liz was also sailing her Cormorant. I joined them, but ‘Micro’s’ rudder became snagged on a mooring line, so I quickly took down her sails and freed the boat by unshipping and replacing her rudder. Liz saw that something was wrong and asked if I needed assistance. When she knew that I had things under control she continued sailing towards the far end of the bay.


Liz and her Cormorant



Where she could go, I could follow. We took care to avoid going aground, because the water was still ebbing. We could see and hear a number of seals that were sunbathing on a sandbank which was beyond a stony ridge. I noted that Len Wingfield and his son Ed had sailed their boat into a protected cove by Guile Point, perhaps to beach her or anchor-off while eating lunch. Others followed, but I preferred sailing up and down the bay. Because there was smooth water, I was able to keep ‘Micro’ on a steady course by using her Huntingford Helm Impeder. This ingenious device held the tiller in a stationary position, which made it easier for me to eat lunch while on the go.


Prudent Return


After my meal I observed that tide had turned, and since my boat was not equipped with an engine, I decided to return to the harbour because the wind was beginning to fail and I didn’t want to row against the first of the flood tide. On arrival at the harbour I picked up a mooring and brewed a cup of tea. Not long afterwards the wind returned, but it was stronger and colder than before. I quickly improvised a wind brake, but it was ineffective. Therefore I set up the forward part of the boom tent, which did the job of keeping the wind a bay. Then I lost myself in the pages of MacGregor’s book. One by one the boats returned and anchored at the Ouse. This is an area adjacent to the beach. At low water it becomes a mass of sticky, dark brown mud, layered with spidery green weed. The weed insidiously wraps itself around anchor warps so securely that it is almost impossible to remove.


The Evening Meal


A combined evening meal had been booked for 1845 at the Ship Inn for a goodly number of us, but high water was around 2015, which meant our boats could not be beached until about an hour after the start of the meal. Tim Roberts used his rubber dinghy to ferry those who wanted to keep their boats at anchor. After setting up my boom tent I gladly accepted his offer.


The meal was a convivial affair. We ordered and paid for our own food and drink. I had a huge gammon steak, a portion of which I could not eat, but Len Wingfield gladly consumed what I couldn’t manage. We mostly chatted about our sailing experiences or exchanged information about computers and web sites. In view of the Queen's Golden Jubilee, the pub manager arranged a special quiz on the subject of the Royal Family. I was not madly enthusiastic about participating; therefore I retreated to 'Micro' with the help of Tim who willingly acted as my ferryman for the second time. After climbing aboard, I folded back the aft end of the tent so that I could row ‘Micro’ to the water's edge. There I beached her and she quickly settled as the tide ebbed. When the tent was back in place I made myself comfortable in my sleeping bag and promptly fell asleep.


Day four


The Return Home and Reflection


The Sunday morning forecast was rather gloomy, with the prediction of Force 6 winds. There would be showers and perhaps longer periods of rain. I therefore decided to make my way home. As I was leaving, newcomers were arriving, and a couple who had turned up earlier were preparing their boat for the water. Maybe they thought they would be able to have a sail before the weather deteriorated?


It took eight hours to complete the return trip to my home, and my wife was interested to hear of my adventures. I explained that I hadn’t done a lot of sailing, but I had had a good time. I told her of my encounter with the ‘angels’ and showed her the sea coal which I placed on my desk as a reminder of a very special and unique experience.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 5

Day three


The wait


Saturday morning’s Shipping Forecast predicted stronger winds than I wanted. High water was about 0800 hours; therefore I anchored beyond the moorings to wait until 1145 when the ebb would be manageable. I had plenty to occupy my time that sunny morning. Firstly I had to make myself presentable, not because I was going to be seen by anyone special, but for my own wellbeing. This meant having a shave and a body wash, plus brushing my teeth. Afterwards I had my usual daily Bible reading, followed by a quiet time which when cruising was not always possible. After those rituals I prepared the boat for sailing. I had to swap the working jib with the storm jib, and tie a couple of reefs into the mainsail. Then I hoisted my Micro Sailboat Club pennant, despite the fact that my conscience was not at ease because of the carbon emissions from my car on Day 1. At least, by flying the pennant, people may enquire about the Club, and I would be able to explain it was for sailors who were interested in eco-friendly boating.


Suffolk Beach Punt


Meanwhile Paul and Ian anchored their smart Suffolk Beach Punt nearby. She was festooned with flags in honour of the Queen's Jubilee. Her crew joined me in conversation while they cooked their breakfast. The smell of scrambled eggs and fried bacon was irresistible, but I wasn’t invited to join ‘Peregin’s’ crew to share it. There was much hustle and bustle on the jetty, because a trawler that had undergone a refit was being launched. Trippers arrived by boat to explore the Island. Black-headed gulls wheeled overhead, while others dived into the water in search of small fry.


George's Cruz in the distance


Later, as I was reading a passage from John Macgregor's, “A Thousand Miles in the Rob Roy Canoe”, George Saffrey arrived in his Cruz and anchored a short distance from ‘Pergrin’. He was followed by Liz Baker aboard her able gaff-rigged Cormorant.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 4

DCA Boats


Lunch, a Welcome Nap and Action


A picnic lunch was in order. I found a niche in the lee behind a ridge of sand, and I tucked into salad sandwiches. The wind whistled through long dune grasses, and near my feet a line of black ants made their way through what for them must have been a gigantic forest. It was as though each creature was being guided by an in-built compass, but I suspect they were keeping a course relative to the direction of the sun. Contentedly, I lay on my back, and closed my eyes in slumber.


Waking all of a sudden, I realized it was time to be on my way. It took willpower to articulate my limbs, since they were somewhat stiff and my toes felt red-hot, because of the unaccustomed demands that had been placed upon them. How old was I? Surely I ought to have had more spring in my step? There was another four miles to go before arriving back at 'Micro'. At least, the wind would be in my favour, and I would no longer need to shield my eyes from the stinging airborne sand.


I could hear a diesel train to the southwest, but I could not see it. A clutch of vehicles were speeding over the causeway before proceeding along the road where I was walking. As they passed me I had to take evasive action by trudging through mud beside the narrow, pockmarked road. Another car approached, and I recognized a familiar dinghy behind it - that of George Saffrey. I waved him down. It was good to meet him again. There would be a DCA rally after all! He offered me a lift, but I resisted the strong temptation, as I was determined to complete my trek on foot around the Island.


His car became a dot in the far distance, and I observed there was an elderly couple marching behind me. Soon they drew alongside, and after we exchanged a few words, they strode ahead. I was amazed at their energy and the speed at which they marched under the baking sun. In passing they told me they were walkers seeking temporary accommodation on Holy Island. I felt relieved that I did not have to compete with them, and that I could amble along at my own pace, while enjoying every moment. Over the mudflats, black-headed gulls twisted and turned in the air while they screeched and squawked at one another. At the edge of the dunes, colourful butterflies fluttered in the wind. Caravans where nestled together at a small car park, and the laughter of children gave me delight.


Not quite so easy


Those few remaining miles seemed to take but moments, and before I realized it, I was on the outskirts of the village, but by continuing along the road I would not have achieved my objective of walking around the entire perimeter of the Island. Therefore I took the more difficult route by picking my way over a rock-strewn beach and by clambering on earthworks that were, in fact, a huge rabbit warren, full of burrows designed to trip intruders like me. The last few hundred yards were impassable because of jagged rocks and an eroding cliff. I conceded that I could not fully complete what I had set out to do, and I found a footpath that led to the village.


Priory Ruins



Delights of the Village


While exploring the hamlet I discovered St Mary's church. Although it had an historic connection with the ancient Abbey it was not in itself architecturally pleasing to me. The Abbey ruins, or more correctly, the 11th century Priory ruins, were fascinating with their Norman arches, multiple pillars, and solid red sandstone walls. This fine example of Norman English architecture was built by Benedictine monks from Whitby. I continued to the old Coastguard Station that was no longer operative, but from its commanding position I was able to see the entire expanse of the bay, including Guile Point to the south, with its distinctive obelisks. A beautiful red yacht lay at anchor in the pool immediately below the cliff.


My return


From there I finally made my way back to 'Micro' where other DCA members had gathered. I introduced myself to Tim Roberts who had a Leisure 23, and Chris and Doug who had a Wanderer dinghy. The duo had booked shore-based accommodation, with the intention of day sailing. Liz Baker and Len Wingfield arrived in their boats after visiting the Farne Islands and spending an anxious night there because of the strong wind. Other DCA members arrived with their camper vans. That evening a number of them went to the Ship Inn for a meal, but I preferred my own curry and rice. Later I joined the party before being ferried to my boat which was anchored off the beach.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 3

'Micro' beached and the Anchorage beyond


A Very Personal Experience


To make the going easier, I clambered down a natural cleft from the sand dunes, between clumps of grasses, to a flat beach that was almost featureless, apart from a wavy pattern formed by receding water. The scene was similar to one of those Salvador Dali paintings of contrasting colours, patterns and textures, describing and enriching an endless landscape. I was enthralled by an immense stretch of ochre sand, bounded to my right by a turquoise, wave-capped sea, and to my left, by towering, weirdly shaped dunes, splotched with the abstract shapes of viridian grasses. I thrust myself directly into the wind, while shading my eyes from the stinging blast of airborne sand that pummelled my face. It was a truly surreal experience.


Suddenly from nowhere, there appeared two ageless figures of indeterminate gender, clothed in amber garments that blended into the maelstrom of golden light. As we converged, they held hands. I could hear the sighing of the dune grasses when they bowed to the whirling wind. I greeted the couple, but they did not reply, and I grudged their intrusion upon my solitude. It was a graceless act on my part, but at that moment I experienced something extraordinary - a feeling that God wanted to communicate in a special way. He wanted me to know of His eternity, His greatness, His holiness, His separateness and of His nearness. He wanted me to know of His love, His compassion, His care and concern. Somehow the two intruders were integral with this moment.


Were they believers, and if so, why did I grudge their presence? Why hadn’t they stopped and let me share my precious thoughts with them? Could they have been angels in disguise, or were they two of God's earthly children with an assurance of God-given eternity? As quickly as they had appeared, so they disappeared. The maelstrom ceased and I could only hear the wind-blown surf and the sighing of the grasses.


Lying on the beach ahead, there was a mysterious shape. As I approached it, my mind tried to make sense of what I saw. The sun-bleached object resembled the head of very fat man, but in truth it turned out to be the stump of tree! Sea and sand, friends together, had combined to form this work of art. More tree trunks and branches had been cast up on the dunes. In my imagination they were transformed into prehistoric animals and primeval fish with pointed snouts and bulbous eyes.


The wind eased and I paused to deeply inhale the fresh invigorating air, and glancing downward I saw a pair of glistening white cuttlefish shells that I could not resist. I closely inspected their exquisite design. Each shell was layered with a transverse comb-like sepia pattern. Only a Master Designer could have created such perfection. I coveted these treasures and placed them in my knapsack, but further along the beach I was taken by the appearance of a black, delta-shaped object, about the size of my hand, that contrasted with the golden sand. It turned out to be a piece of sea coal that had been polished by the ever-moving sand. I succumbed to the allure of the shiny coal and exchanged it for the priceless shells.


I reached the western extremity of the Island before lunch, and from there, atop a mighty sand dune, I was able to observe the causeway and noted a narrow channel under a low bridge. I concluded it may have been all right for me to make a clockwise circumnavigation of the Island aboard ‘Micro’. There would have been sufficient water under the causeway bridge on a rising tide to row under it, before sailing across the expanse of shallow water on the northern side to the open sea. Then, having sailed to the entrance of the tiny harbour I would have had to overcome the ebb before reaching the security of the anchorage.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 2

Day Two


Plan for the day


It had been a fitful night as heavy rain lashed the tent, but not a drop entered the living area. Intermittently between sleeping I woke and heard the sound of waves breaking on a nearby jetty. A bright sunrise heralded the start of Friday morning, but I couldn’t see another DCA boat. Had I got it right? Was the Rally due to start? How best could I spend the day?


An examination of the tidal data revealed that low water would be about 1320 - ideal for discovering the whereabouts of sand banks, rocks and other hazards. Between two hours before low water and two hours after low water I would be able to see the dangers; therefore I decided to walk around the perimeter of the Island to reconnoitre a route for a circumnavigation aboard ‘Micro’.


My Home



Starting the Trek



The forecast was for a windy, but sunny day, and so it turned out to be. I packed a lunch in my knapsack, and at 0915 I set off for the trek. On the horizon I could see the dark shape of the Farne Islands. The Longstone lighthouse and Inner Farne lighthouse marked the northern and southern extremities of the Islands respectively. Well, at least, I had seen them, albeit at a distance. Ahead of me, at the end of a path and silhouetted before the blazing sun, there was the ancient castle upon its mound. A National Trust sign indicated it was closed to the public that day.


Bypassing the mount I followed a meandering footpath that hugged the beach. Far out at sea I could discern the grey shape of a freighter lumbering to the north-east. Emmanuel Head was about a mile to the north, where I could see its white pyramidal day mark. To reach this concrete structure I had to pass through a large flock of grazing sheep with their lambs, one of which had sadly died and had been abandoned by its mother.


The strong west wind malevolently tried to snatch away my Nike cap with the intention of taking it out sea, but I adjusted the peak, in Norman Wisdom style, so that it lay over my right ear, thus streamlining the cap to frustrate the wind's desire. The fiendish foe was more successful in causing havoc with some tiny mauve butterflies by mercilessly sweeping them beyond the cliff's edge. That was not the case with several longhaired, black and orange caterpillars that clung to short grasses by my feet. Nor were thousands of light brown snails the least interested in the wind's evil design; instead, they were intent on lovemaking in the sun, oblivious to the fact that a giant might crush them by misjudging his step.


Tending the boat


More to see


I rested at the day mark on a seat conveniently placed there in memory of some dear soul who departed this life after 63 years. A swig of cool Sprite revived me, along with a crunchy Toffee Crisp bar. With renewed energy I set off to explore the northern border of the Island. It was mainly composed of enormous craggy sand dunes. In between them were small valleys lined with various coloured flowers. This really was a Garden of Paradise. Song thrushes, blackbirds, wrens, jackdaws, skylarks and many unidentified sea birds populated the area. Open grass, shortened by munching rabbits, small bushes and undergrowth made an ideal habitat for the birds.
To seaward, rocks jutting into the waves gave protection to boulder-strewn bays, where there were wonderful pools containing myriad crustaceans and weeds. I could hear the sound of a man singing, but could I have been mistaken? Indeed I was, because, on close inspection of the water near a peninsular of rocks, there were many seals bobbing their heads in and out of the waves. They were the origin of these human-like, sonorous voices.


A bit further along the dunes I discovered a vehicle resembling a motorbike with four wheels. It had a shepherd's crook which was housed in a purpose-built cylinder. At first I could not find the owner; then I saw him way out on the rocks, searching for winkles. Cherishing my privacy, I quietly continued my walk. Clouds passed overhead at what seemed a colossal rate, like those speeded-up sequences sometimes seen on TV nature programmes. Way to the north and west, I could clearly see the coast by Berwick-upon-Tweed.

'Micro' at Holy Island, part 1

Map of Holy Island


Day one


Holy Island, otherwise known as Lindisfarne, is steeped in history. The Abbey ruins and the 16th century castle built on the summit of a volcanic mount is testimony to some of it. This latter monument has a commanding position overlooking the Island, and beyond to the Farne Islands - even along the coast northwards to Berwick-upon-Tweed. In the 7th century, Benedictine monks established a Priory on the southern side of the Island. The location was perfect for their monastic lifestyle. There they found peace and solitude on this outcrop which is cut off by the tide twice daily. In these respects, little has changed, except when summer tourists intrigued by the Island's history and beauty invade to pillage and take away their trophies, just as the Danes in their longboats in 793 AD. As of old, today’s visitors must be mindful of the times of high and low water to ensure they are not stranded on the Island. I, on the other hand, could stay for as long as I wished. With 'Micro' as my temporary home, the Island was mine to explore, and my curiosity led to an extraordinary personal experience which I shall later describe.


When I was a young man I had wanted to visit Holy Island, along with canoeing friends. Our aim was to set up a base camp for exploring the Farne Islands. This small basalt archipelago lies six miles to the southeast of Holy Island, and over centuries they have survived the relentless onslaught of North Sea storms. For reasons I fail to remember, we did not make it, but years later I sold my Kingfisher 26 junk-rigged yacht to a gentleman who lived near Peterhead, and part of the deal was to deliver the yacht from Southend-on-Sea to the Scottish fishing port. While on passage I thought I might see them, but they were enveloped in fog.



Abbey Ruins



Journey to Holy Island


When I heard that the Dinghy Cruising Association would be holding a rally at Holy Island I decided I would take 'Micro' there - that's if she wasn’t sold beforehand, for she had been advertised for sale. The long-range weather forecast looked reasonable; therefore I set off on Thursday the 30th May 2002, with ‘Micro’ in tow behind my ancient Ford Sierra. We dodged dense and dangerous traffic, and after the milometer recorded that we had travelled a distance of 327 miles we duly arrived at our destination. I tried not to think about the carbon emissions from my car, but I couldn’t entirely feel happy about it.


Heavy showers during our journey resulted in water entering the cockpit, and unknown to me it managed to seep into a compartment under the foredeck where I stored my clothing and sleeping gear. Fortunately, very little penetrated the plastic holdall which contained my sleeping bag and spare clothing. It was a simple matter to spread the wet articles on the car seats for them to dry overnight.


Having arrived at the Island’s causeway shortly before 1600, we had ample time to cross it before the incoming tide would cut us off. High water was at 1900, which was perfect for launching the boat at the fishermen's slipway, but when I came to do it, there was a fairly heavy swell. The only way I could launch ‘Micro’ without jeopardizing the car was to control the descent of the boat and trailer by the use of a piece of rope turned around the tow bar. Had I tried my usual practice of backing the car down the slipway until the rear wheel was at the water’s edge, I feel certain the exhaust pipe would have been flooded.


Afloat



We made it


As 'Micro' entered her element, several American tourists carrying plastic bags and holding cameras were waiting for the ferry to take them to their cruise ship which was anchored offshore. One of them was intrigued with the launching procedure. He offered to hold ‘Micro’s’ painter until her trailer had been parked. When I returned to the slipway he remarked how bitterly cold the wind was, and qualified his observation by drawling that only a Brit would be wearing shorts! I explained that I didn’t mind getting my shorts wet , providing I could keep the rest of my gear dry.


By nightfall 'Micro' was high and dry on a sandy beach and I was snugly ensconced in my sleeping bag as heavy rain and wind attacked the cockpit tent. It was difficult to take in that I had travelled over three hundred miles in one day, and if I had sailed the same distance it would have taken me many, many days.

Photos of 'Caleb', part 2

Here are a few more photos of 'Caleb'.


On the beach at Teignmouth
Reefed at Roadford
Roadford Reservoir
Exe Estuary
Dawlish

Arrival at Exeter Canal

Photos of ‘Caleb’, part 1

At Turf, Exeter Canal
Roadford Reservoir
Exeter Canal
Roadford Reservoir At Creeksea

For the next two or three days I shall be uploading photos of ‘Caleb’ my 50/50 decked sailing and paddling canoe designed by Paul Fisher.


Link


See my previous ‘Caleb’ Blog here:

http://bills-log.blogspot.com/2009/12/caleb-5050-canoe.html

Kingfisher 26, Junk Rig

I seldom own a boat for more than two seasons and one of the bigger ones was ‘Trio’, a Kingfisher 26 Mk 2, rigged with a junk mainsail. She was designed by R.A.G. Nierop who was the managing director of Westfield Engineering where the yachts were manufactured. I owned her from early in 1994 to the end of the season in 1995. I remember meeting Nierop at a London Boat Show when he was promoting his Kingfisher 22. I said I very much admired the construction and design of the yacht, but thought I would never be able to afford one. He encouraged me by saying that my financial circumstances may improve in later life.

Many years later I found 'Trio' in a state of neglect at a boatyard by the River Deben. There was very little wrong with her except she had accumulated moss on her decks. By using a power hose I was able to make her almost like new.

At Christchurch - a friend in the cockpit


She was a very easy boat to sail. If any effort was required, it was when raising the sail, but this could be done with a winch which was fitted to the cabin top within easy reach of the crew when standing in the cockpit. The sheet was very long, because it had to pass through several blocks, but the tail end could be tidied by dropping it into a built-in a pouch without coiling, so that the sheet could run freely without snagging. ‘Trio’ was tacked by moving her tiller; there was no adjusting of sheets or expenditure of energy when winding winches to secure jib sheets, because she had none! She never failed to come about.


Standing headroom and a dinette made her a very comfortable family boat. Up forward there was a cabin with two berths, and in the saloon there were also two berths. The galley was on the port side at the foot of the companion way and her navigation station with a table was to starboard. She had a separate enclosed heads with a basin on the port side. However, the thing that concerned me was the number of holes in her hull. There were seawater intakes for the sink, heads, engine, cockpit drains and the engine exhaust tube. Each one of them had stopcocks that required maintenance. I can’t remember the make of her diesel engine which was housed under the bridge deck, but it never failed to start and it could push the boat along at about 4.5 knots. Fifteen gallons of diesel were stored in each of the bilge keels and water was stowed in plastic cans in the port cockpit locker with a supply pipe to the sink. All of her fittings were made from top grade marine materials, such as bronze and stainless steel.

At Brighton, 23 June 1994


I did several cruises with her - including a trip to Falmouth and a delivery passage with her new owner to his home port of Peterhead.


Notes


Dimensions

L.O.A. 26’
L.W.L 21’
Beam 7’ 6”
Draft 3’ 3”



Links


Kingfisher Yacht Owners’ Association


http://www.kyoa.org.uk/

Cruise to Alderney, part 5

The Return Passage


Thursday 8th July


Leaving a harbour is always easier than finding and entering it for the first time. A good almanac will provide all the information needed for doing both activities safely. Reeds Nautical Almanac, known as 'The Yachtsman's Bible', will have up-to-date details of regulations, signals, buoys, lights, tidal ranges and timings of high and low water. Most importantly, it will describe hazards to navigation such as the underwater extension of the breakwater at Braye. Maintenance of this submerged 500 metre hazard was abandoned in 1872. Thereafter the extension gradually collapsed, leaving a mound of stones and rubble. At low water this obstruction lurks 3 or 4 metres below the surface, so that when the ebb gathers momentum, you can guarantee there will be surface turbulence above what remains of the extension, making it a place to be avoided, especially in bad weather.


When departing for Exmouth at ten in the morning, I made sure "Phillida" was well-clear of the hazard. As I steered a true course of 330 degrees, the wind pushed us along at about two knots, and although visibility was limited to no more than a mile, I was not apprehensive as I had been at the start of the cruise. A mile or so from the entrance, ‘Phillida' bobbed through a bundle of breaking waves associated with a race, which was setting to the northeast. Ten minutes after entering the turbulence we found ourselves in smooth water again. Visibility improved as the sun burnt through the haze. A large ship carrying a cargo of timber passed ahead about a mile away while heading up Channel.


My boat looked pristine. Her sheets had been washed by the sea and bleached by the sun. Her decks were scrubbed, and all was shipshape. Her white sails captured the willing breeze and her captain rejoiced as she skipped over sparkling sapphire waters. Casquettes Rocks, marked by their prominent lighthouse were astern, and with the current setting us clear, those granite daggers could cause us no harm. Another freighter, much larger than her predecessor, cleared our bows as she lumbered north-eastwards, following the wakes of those that had gone before. It was soon mid-morning and things couldn't have been better. The wind oscillated between Force 2 and 3, enabling a boat speed of 3 to 4 knots. Yet another freighter headed up Channel.


Preparing and eating a Marmite sandwich while steering by hand was a tricky business requiring forethought and dexterity. To succeed at making the sandwich without getting the tacky brown-stuff on the tiller and without dropping the knife in the bilge required tactile agility. 'Phillida' was sloshing along at her maximum speed. An undulating swell from the southwest caused me to wonder if the weather would hold, and by mid-day there was not a hint of wind. Without warning the sea became lumpy, and this strange phenomenon caused me to exit the area rapidly by calling upon my willing slave 'Sherpa'. He cheerfully and nobly obliged by habitually first coughing up clouds of blue smoke before exhaling colourless gas. For a short while we merrily continued under power until an obliging, perhaps jealous wind filled our sails.


Apart from a never-ending convoy of ships, I had no complaints – at least they were company of a sort. Conditions were perfect. The early afternoon forecast confirmed that the easterly 3 to 4 wind would continue. I hove-to and bailed out water that had seeped into the bilge. When the boat was moving again I fortified myself with chunks of bread dunked in cold tomato soup, and for a sweet, I consumed a small bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk Chocolate, along with a handful of McVities digestive biscuits. While I was feasting I failed to keep an alert lookout, and my lack of vigilance almost resulted in 'Phillida' colliding with a semi-submerged tree trunk, but fortune was on my side as ‘Phillida’ narrowly missed the hazard. Could this have been the very object she struck on the outward passage?


For some reason a repetitive rasping sound from the centreboard case caused me some concern, but as we trundled along, there didn’t appear to be anything amiss. I assumed the sound was caused by friction between the metal centreboard and its case due to the boat's motion. Shortly after dismissing my fear, a floating wooden crate came into view, the sort used for shipping bottles of wine, but sadly there was nothing in it except weed and crustaceans. There was no chance of making a quick profit through the generosity of Neptune.



Homeward Bound



As the sun moved ever nearer to the horizon the wind almost petered out, which meant the combination of wave action and negligible pressure on the sail caused the centreboard to bang against its case. I solved the problem by jamming a short length of rope between the board and the case. About 2200 I hove-to and heated up a tasty paella, which I heartily consumed. It was to provide energy for my night vigil under a breathtaking, starry sky. While eating my meal I kept a wary eye on two ships, one eastbound and the other heading west. The evening forecast predicted an easterly Force 3, becoming northerly 4. I didn't mind a northerly, because ‘Phillida’ performed well on the wind and on that point I could make her self-steer.


Slowly but surely, the wind backed to the northeast, which was ideal for the boat to steer herself. Now and again I needed to adjust the sheets to maintain a neutral balance, but by doing so I could rest for half-an-hour or so between making adjustments. I heated a can of oxtail soup and decanted it into a Thermos flask; then I heard a ship, but saw no lights. Moments later I was surprised to see the long dark outline of a naval vessel possibly engaged in night manoeuvres. Before turning off the Primus I made myself a coffee to keep me awake. Vigilance was needed because we would shortly be entering a submarine exercise area. Caffeine boosted, and having cleaned my teeth, I felt pretty alert. An enormous orange moon slowly rose from the sea as if by magic. She wove a spell of interlaced golden light reflected from oily waves into my receptive mind. Her squiggly pathway over the sea to the cosmos was for the delight of an evening dreamer. So much for vigilance!


Suddenly shaken from my trance by the early night chill I scanned the horizon for dangers. There were none; instead all I could find was my friendly dancing moon who quadrupled herself by sliding to and fro on bendy waves like magic mirrors at a fairground. There was a profound silence as if no other being existed - just me and the golden moon. Have you ever heard such a silence? Venus was shining brightly and a host of sparkling stars were coloured as the rainbow, except those embalmed in the Milky Way. Ahead lay the Pole Star and I recalled the lines of John Masefield’s 'Sea-Fever', "I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by."


Enough of poetry! It was a dead calm. We weren't getting anywhere. 'Sherpa' was called into action. What a contrast there was - from perfect silence to ear shattering cacophony - but what a good speed we made over a glassy sea. Ahead there was a yacht on a reciprocal course showing her red and white navigation lights. I drew attention to our presence by shining my torch on ‘Phillida’s’ mainsail. All was well; we passed port to port.



Friday 9th July


An hour after midnight the wind returned, but, from the north. It allowed me to turn the engine off and sail a course of 310 degrees towards Teignmouth. The wind backed a little, and as it did, I saw what appeared to be lights fairly high up. Were they an illusion, or were they real? Closer investigation confirmed they were the road lights of Teignmouth, and further to the north the little resort of Dawlish lay hidden shrouded in mist. A change of tack found us reaching along the coast at a fair old lick. I periodically sounded with the lead while trying to keep to the two fathom line. My aim was to clear the Pole Sands off Dawlish Warren.


Soon after sunrise, all was revealed. The sands were deserted and I was privileged to witness a weird seascape of golden hues, which in some places contrasted with the dark turquoise water, reminiscent of Turner's masterpiece, 'The Fighting Temeraire'. The tide was flooding, and at 0600 we were beating up the fairway toward Exmouth Dock. When only a cable from the narrow entrance I downed the sails and quickly started the engine to avoid being swept over Shelly Bank. Within a short while, 'Phillida' was snugly berthed at the quay, while sausages, bacon, and eggs sizzled in the frying pan. I sponged up the surplus fat with two slices of fried bread and downed the lot. This was truly a feast consumed with much gusto - no other meal ever tasted so good!


It was a beautiful sunny morning, and as I relaxed, my eye focussed on a few tiny crabs rummaging in bunches of bulbous weed which clung to the dockside, but it was time for action. Wasn't I supposed to visit Customs for pratique, since I had been to a 'foreign' land, and, shouldn't I look presentable at the end of my voyage? Having fortified the inner man, I gathered together my shaving gear, flannel and towel, for refreshing the outer man. A gent's toilet was sure to be nearby, and on the way I could look for the Customs Office and one of those beautiful red phone boxes so that I could let my wife know she was not a widow, and our daughters were not fatherless.



The Certificate



I knocked on the Custom Office door. For a moment nothing happened; then the door slowly opened. A short, rather thin, heavily bearded man reluctantly invited me into his office. After prevaricating by maintaining I did not need proof of a clean bill of health he reluctantly produced a 'Certificate of "Pratique"'. It was my very first, which I treasure to this day.

Cruise to Alderney, part 4

Tuesday, 6th July.


The Island


I was so tired I could have slept anywhere, almost under any conditions. As it was, the wind increased overnight, and by early morning there was a good Force 4 blowing straight into the harbour. Something must have warned me things were not quite right. I lifted the side of the tent and had a look around. I was astonished to discover that ‘Phillida’s’ anchor had broken out, and that she was drifting towards a group of rocks. It was high water, and because the anchor warp had not been long enough to accommodate the rise of tide, the anchor had pulled clear from the seabed. I rapidly released most of the fastenings that keep the tent in place and pushed it forward along the boom to give me space for starting the engine. As we drifted closer to the rocks, the water became shallower, and the anchor dragged along the bottom. I hoped it would hold, but unknown to me it had collected a knot of weed. This had the effect of reducing boat speed until we came within an arm's length of a mooring buoy. I grabbed it, and made its line fast to the bow cleat.



Braye Harbour



Braye Harbour is open to the northeast. Therefore I was glad to have the security of a good mooring. Although it was July, the wind was bitterly cold, which persuaded me kept the tent up to act as a windbreak. I tried conserving my body heat by wearing a couple of sweaters, a bobble hat and my waterproof anorak. Needless to say, being on the boat while she snatched against the mooring, rolled and pitched for twenty-four hours was a most uncomfortable experience. I expended quite a bit of energy trying to keep myself from being flung off my pneumatic mattress. The motion was diabolical. I listened to the radio to cut out the sound of the wind and waves and to cheer myself up, but the weather forecast confirmed I would have to endure the agony until the following morning. It was far too rough for me to get ashore by using my folding dinghy.



Chart of Braye Harbour



Wednesday 7th July


After a fitful night I was relieved to find the wind had dropped, and that the sun was shining. I took the tent down and made breakfast. The smell of fried eggs and bacon caused me to salivate at the prospect of eating them, along with porridge, toast and marmalade. Shortly after clearing away the dishes and utensils I was visited by the owner of the mooring who gave me permission to use it for the duration of my stay. He told me where I could find freshwater, and he gave me directions to the post office and to Lloyds bank.


I really looked forward to exploring the Island, and in preparation for being ashore for most of the day I made a packed lunch. It turned out to be a scorcher. Although I wore shorts and a tee shirt, the sweat poured off me as I slowly climbed the narrow road leading to the hamlet of St Annes. There I withdraw cash from the bank and noted where the phone box was.


Cliff View

Tourgis


I spent the rest of the day tramping the island. I couldn’t fail to be moved by the fortresses that had been built during the war. They were built by slave labourers who had been shipped to the island by the German occupying forces. Many of these unfortunate prisoners suffered greatly while working on the fortifications, and a number of them died. At the end of the war German and British soldiers worked together to clear and prepare the island for re-habitation. Miles of barbed wire were taken down and thousands of mines were neutralised and recovered. I was able to walk freely around a significant portion of the island, and while doing so I was enthralled with the enchanting scenery, particularly views from the cliff walks.


Map of Alderney



Clonque



On returning to ‘Phillida’ late that afternoon, I cooked a meal. After I had eaten it, I rowed ashore to phone my wife - there were no mobile phones in 1971. When I heard her voice I became a bit emotional, because I had missed her so much. I hadn’t realised how important it was to share my thoughts and experiences with her. I was doubly shocked when she told me I was required to attend an interview the following Wednesday for a teaching post in Edinburgh. That meant I had to make the return passage soon - while the weather was good. Needless to say, I was excited at the possibility of a new career.


My priority was a good night's sleep so that I would be refreshed and ready for the return trip to Exmouth.