Baptism

 

A delighted smile lights my face. Before I throw back my head, to roar with astonished laughter. As our speed climbs to fourteen knots. We streak across a deserted Solent, toward the Isle of Wight. Hard on the wind. A low, autumnal, sun glints off the marching undulations, of an opaline sea.

Astern, we trail a smoking white wake. Straight as an arrow, we scorch across the water. The tiller extension is alive, but fingertip-light, in my hand. The hulls run as if on rails. Heel minimal, despite the conditions. We skip lightly over the waves, with the effortless speed of a dolphin at play.

Conditions are ideal, for my Dragonfly trimaran baptism. A brisk south westerly breeze gusts, from sixteen to twenty six knots. Backing and veering, as it squirms and squeezes between the island and mainland shores. Ushering the morning's thunderstorm away; and providing suitably taxing sailing conditions, to test the mettle of Al Wood (UK Dragonfly agent)'s Dragonfly 28.

Our destination is Wootton Creek. Where a Dragonfly 32 (Sistership to 'Firefly,' see Dandelion 131) is moored. Richard, her owner, greets us on arrival. Regaling us with tales of a summer trip to Falmouth. Where the boat's shoal draft was taken full advantage of. In the creeks, and off the beaches, of the scenic west country ria. Granting access to its, less frequented, anchorages.

The cruise was a family affair. With Richard, his wife and their two (adult) sons aboard. Richard, a trimaran veteran, now on his second Dragonfly, praises the combination of passage-making pace and creek-crawling capability. "The flat sailing, no heeling; it's a real game-changer," he confides, as we cast off. 

The (twelve nautical mile) return to the Hamble, is completed in three quarters of an hour. Speed peaks at nineteen knots. The wind now on our quarter. Al is itching to hoist the kite. To lift our pace into the mid twenties. I dissuade him. Preferring, instead, to experiment with gybing under black sails (jib and single reefed main). Which proves to be singularly straightforward. Speed without drama. Richard's words ring true.

Credits

Dragonfly 28, and an afternoon of onboard coaching, provided by Al Wood, Multihull Solutions (UK Dragonfly agent). Who also brokered access to Richard's Dragonfly 32.

Your scribe aboard Al’s Dragonfly 28 (Photographs 1 &2) courtesy of Al Wood

Dragonfly 32 brochure shots (Photographs 3,5 & 6) courtesy of Quorning Boats ApS 

Dandelion 148

 

Stargazer carries the flood the full length of the Medway. Reaching Upnor village, at its equinoctial peak. With the river waters lapping at the front gates of the cottages. The slipway submerged.

On the opposite bank, the lock, of the former naval dry dock, remains resolutely closed. Lights red. Despite our vhf call, requesting admission to Stargazer's berth. The gates, part of the Gillingham flood defenses, cannot be opened until the tide height reduces. 'In about an hour.' Creating the time for a leisurely, cruise-end, pot of coffee.

The morning forecast check revealed that today was to be the last day of easterlies. Before a week of, sometimes strong, westerlies (head winds) set in. Plans for a Ramsgate reunion, with sailing friend Roger, are swiftly rescheduled. Stargazer puts to sea.

Inching her way up to the North Foreland. Close in beneath the cliffs. To dodge the worst of the foul tide. That we must sail over, in order to be in place to catch the fair tide, which will sweep us into the Thames Estuary and on up the Medway.

A watery sun pierces smokey air. As the day awakes. Stargazer is making two to three knots over the ground. Affording her skipper time to appreciate the shoreside view.

Out in Margate Roads, the anchored merchantmen begin to swing. The tide has begun to turn, in Stargazer's favour.

Our pace quickens. The Foreland falls quickly astern.

The breeze rises and falls with the passing of billowing black clouds. The day humid and warm. The tide our constant ally.

On, past the Swale Stargazer sails. Making six knots now. The tide urging her on. Running before the wind.

We round Garrison Point, coming up onto a reach. Back in our home river, once more. Greeted by the genteel Dragon fleet, out for a Sunday afternoon race. 

Dandelion 147

 

Stargazer and her skipper arrive in Ramsgate, in fine fettle. Scooting the fifteen miles, up from Dover, in a perfect twelve knots of summertime breeze. In one long fetch.

We leave Dover through the main ferry entrance. 'The Eastern.' We had expected to be held, whilst a suitable gap, in traffic, was found. But Port Control usher us straight through. Across the bows of a P&O arrival.

Which means that the tide has not yet turned in Stargazer's favour. When we emerge, to seaward. Into the full force of an equinoctial spring tide. One of the largest of the year. Fuelled by the pull of the Harvest Moon, which has filled the night sky.

Stargazer does well to make any progress atall. Although we tuck in close under the cliffs. In the hope of finding slacker water. Perhaps even an eddy.

At last, off St Margaret's at Cliffe, the tide turns. Stargazer picks up her pace. Her wind cleared of the influence of the South Foreland.

Off she bounds. Making six and seven knots over the ground. Her skipper already rigging lines and fenders, for our, now imminent, arrival.

Dandelion 146

 

The gale seems to be easing down. With the breeze due to go easterly (on the beam) tomorrow.

Stargazer's skipper's back is easing off. Responding well to the walking therapy.

Stargazer is itching to continue on her way home. Perhaps starting with a short test sail, for her skipper's sake.

Dandelion 145

 

It is strangely still, tucked in the shelter of a hanging valley (see glossary), high upon the Dover cliff top.

Below me, ghostly ferries emerge from a surface sea fog. Blown in by thirty knots of north east breeze. Trapped against the sheer white buttress. Flowing along its face, like bonfire smoke.

Away, across the fields, the South Foreland light peers above chalk rolling downland.

Reached by a rollercoaster bridleway.

Which snakes along the saw-tooth shore. Three hundred and fifty feet above the cobalt blue sea.

Glossary

A Hanging Valley: Either, Gouged by glacial erosion; Or, cut by river action, at a time when the sea level was higher. The former being the more likely cause, in the case of porous chalk. In both cases, the result is a valley which ‘hangs’ above sea level. 

Dandelion 144

What preternatural powers, of healing, the human body has! For which Stargazer's skipper has cause to be grateful.

On arrival in Dover, my back went 'out.' With a boat to berth. Doing so, by commandeering a finger, onto which Stargazer would be blown. Held secure by the wind whilst I tottered unsteadily ashore, with her lines. (N.B. The wind has since switched direction. As witnessed by our ensign, in the picture).

On previous occasions, copious application of Ibuprufen gel, followed by continual gentle movement, has proved the best cure. Walking, especially on a gradient, steps or uneven surface, being particularly beneficial. On paths like those of Dover's East Cliff  (which, confusingly, leads ultimately to the South Foreland).

By way of variety, the choice of the steep road, or the even steeper stairway, up to the Castle, is on offer. For physiotherapy with a view.

Just seventy two hours, after my medical hiatus, significant movement is restored, to my back. With care, and further exercise, Stargazer's skipper is likely to be in shape, to take her to sea. Once the gale abates. A marvel, of nature's veiled mysteries.

Dandelion 143

 A mile to the north east, of Stargazer's berth, in the Western Docks, lie Dover's Eastern Docks.The ferry port, for the 'short straits,' crossing to Calais. 

The two dock areas are separated by a shingle beach and shoreside promenade. Along which sheltered seating areas and ice cream stalls are set.

From the skyline, Dover castle casts a regal eye, over the ant-like seething and scurrying below.

As the ferries steam for harbour, over foam flecked seas. Listing from the force of a Channel gale. 

Glad to gain the lee of the South Foreland. Whose mighty chalk ramparts shelter the port, from the north wind.