Dandelion 30

 

There is something of a carnival atmosphere abroad, on the L'Aber Wrac'h visitors' pontoon. Flags crack smartly, in the sea breeze. Couples take their final Bank Holiday saunter in the sunshine. Children, of all ages, crab between the moored boats. French style, using a baited woven device, like an upturned chinese hat. Which is dunked and left awhile. Before any crustaceans, whose curiosity got the better of them, are retrieved.

Stargazer left Roscoff in a sea fog. Setting her cruising chute, as hoped, once clear of the Ile de Batz. Albeit in an unexpected manner, poled out, goose-winged. The breeze coming from due east. Putting us on a dead run. Through a world of shifting greys. 

Boats appear, briefly, before being swallowed up once more. The sun filters through the miasma, doing its best to burn it away. It punches bright blue holes, in the monochrome curtain. One such reveals a boiling white sea. Gannets plunge from height. The water churns from beneath. Signs of a shoal of fish, at the surface.

Seeking sanctuary from a hungry pod of dolphins. Whose members torpedo by. Skipping over the swell. Their high pitched chatter, of clicks and chirps, clearly audible in Stargazer's cockpit.

A group break off, to play 'dare' with Stargazer's bow. Criss crossing, always just ahead of it. Some from either side. Swerving each other as they pass. But food comes first. They peel away and speed toward the feeding frenzy.

The wind shifts south east. Unsettled by the sun breaking through, offshore. (Note the sail, now visible, about two miles distant. On the horizon, top right)

Before settling back north easterly, as Stargazer closes the reefs of Ile Vierge.

Its guardian lighthouse, today, a smudge amid the nebulous billows. Usually sighted ten miles out. Day or night. The rearing granite dragons' teeth which surround it, robbed of their rich colours. One dimensional cut-outs.

Stargazer runs in, on instruments. Visibility a matter of metres. Trusting in our waypoints, from previous visits, to 'cut the corner,' as the west bound tide begins to slacken beneath us. Bursting into the kodachrome world of the L'Aber Wrac'h estuary, before the current turns on us. Picking up the flood in the ria.

Stargazer follows the familiar channel inland. Bare granite, to seaward, is soon softened by golden beaches. Then crowned by green trees. Finally, a dusting of white cottages appears.

In port, space is tight. But I can see a berth, just large enough for Stargazer. Three Brits, from Roscoff (who motored), are already in. I hail, for help with our lines. Realising that the breeze will be blowing us off. Stargazer spins up into the wind. Glides alongside. Helping hands swiftly secure us. Tales of derring do, from our sail in the fog, are recounted.