La Hirondelle 11

 

It is the best of Channel Islands cruising. The sun glinting off the idiosyncratically shaped markers (in the French manner) atop saw toothed granite crags. Evoking Hans Christian Andersen castles, to the mind's eye. Mysterious shadows draped deep across the russet faced, green topped cliffs, of Herm in the distance.

Stargazer slips along under easy sail, in ten knots of breeze. A fair tide beneath her; still three knots or more of it, even this far south, of the Raz Blanchard (Alderney Race). For today's is the peak spring flow.

Inexorably the westerly current turns south. Sucking Stargazer down past La Boursee and into the Little Russel channel.

Stargazer sailed from Cherbourg, on Sunday morning. A light mist descending. And, it seemed at the time, my 'flu abating.

A trickle of Brits are making for the eastern entrance. Homebound, for the Solent ports, after a Bank Holiday mini cruise.

Stargazer is bound west. Through the ferry entrance. In search of the early inshore eddy. It is a beat, with the wind dead on the nose. Which boosts our apparent wind and has us gurgling along, sails well filled. Albeit unable to point closed than forty five degrees, to our desired course.

A small fleet of Belgian and Dutch boats are motoring hard offshore. By their ground speeds, still in foul tide. Close inshore, among the pot buoys, Stargazer and a French boat tack west. Our ground tracks ever more flattered as the west going eddy builds beneath us.

We all reach Cap de la Hague, the head of the race, at high water Dover. Seven and eight knots of adverse tide, flowing before the turn, ensure that there can be no rewards for early arrivals. Stargazer and the French boat take the inside line. Skirting the over falls. Today's sea state benign.

Round that fraught, tide torn, time critical corner, the mood lightens. Welcoming sunshine smiles upon Stargazer, as she sweeps down the Raz. Making eleven knots over the ground. The fast ferry, to Guernsey streaking by at forty.

Stargazer is in no rush though. It will be nineteen hundred hours, before there is depth enough on the inner cill. We arrive as it opens.

 I turn in at once. Suddenly extremely weary. The hacking cough back and worse. For the following forty eight hours, sounds of celebration permeate my fevered consciousness. From the flag draped quaysides, which surround us. Military Brass Bands, pulsating Dance Music, Drum and pipe marching bands. Until, this afternoon I emerge hungry and in need of a pot of coffee. More my normal self, that is to say!