SPRING AWAKENING - The First Sail of the Season

The tiller comes alive in my hand as I sheet in the mainsail. I silence the engine and roll out the jib. Stargazer heels to the breeze and accelerates. Her bow wave chuckles its approval. A smooth straight wake stretches astern. Ahead lies the season to come. Here and now we are revelling in our moment of Spring Awakening. My senses are heightened. I’m mesmerised by the rush of wind through the rigging, by the lift of the bow over the swell, by the pull of the tiller, by the silver spangled sunlight dancing across the deep blue of the water and by the joy that fills my heart.

All dressed up and somewhere to go.....

Two hours ago Stargazer was dormant ashore on the hard. Her polished topsides gleamed and her newly antifouling shone in the sun. All dressed up and ready to go. The travel hoist approached her  like an ungainly mother spider, fussed over her, gathered her up into its rusty bosom and laid her gently in the water. I climbed aboard and fired up the engine, listened for the reassuring cough and spit of cooling water from the exhaust. Listened in vain; dove below to check that the cooling water seacock was open. The seacock was open but no cooling water was coming through.

The travel hoist crew and I warped Stargazer round to the fuel berth. A kettle full of water into the water strainer re-primed the cooling system. The engine gruffly rumbled its thanks for the drink before coughing and spitting like an old tobacco chewing cowpoke: “Water, what do you call that? It should have been whiskey, Chew, Spit. Give me a proper drink, chew, spit. A proper drink you hear me?” It went in its reassuringly familiar rhythm. I retreated to the peace of the foredeck and hoisted the jib on the furler. The saill hung still as I tensioned the halyard and rigged the sheets. Then a ghost of wind gently bellied the sail. The sea breeze was extending a finger into the bay and beckoning us out for our first sail of the season.

The slim form of the new Twin Sails Bridge

I slipped the lines. We motored down past the Lifeboat Headquarters on autopilot as I stowed the fenders. The slim form of Poole’s new Twin Sails Bridge lay before us, draped gracefully across the channel. A long heartfelt groaning sound goes up as its long leaves start to lift. The tips curved down clinging onto the solid decks either side. The new bridge looks as if it loves to soar lightly in the air. In its heart though it wants to lie down and cling to the solid ground. The honest to goodness old bridge lies beyond. It quietly goes about its work, raising its stubby flaps quietly and steadily to allow us out. “That’s the way to do it” the old bridge seems to say to its prima donna new sister. “I may look dumpy and old next to you but I do my work quietly and without complaint – call me Cinadarella!”

The sun filters down through the canopy of the trees off
Goathorn Point......

Then we’re out in the harbour, tiller alive, heeling to an Easterly “Jolie Brise” and short tacking down harbour.  Brownsea Island slips by to Starboard. Ahead there’s a Folkboat enjoying the breeze like Stargazer. Slowly we gain on her. We’re pointing higher and sailing faster. We cross tacks, smile and wave. Oh the joy of passing another boat! We’re past “Aunt Betty” buoy now. One board will see us down to the ferry.

........and Oystercatchers sun themselves on the sand spit

The ferry makes a mournful lowing sound. We’re sailing in bright sunshine. At the harbour mouth the ferry is holding back a grey billowing candyfloss of grey sea mist. We run off into South Deep. Follow the twisting channel past the withies with a close eye on the depth sounder. The withies are salt worn and grey from the cold hard winter. The sun is behind them. Are they red or are they green? It’s hard to know which side to pass. In the summer I’d know which was which. After a winter ashore I can’t remember. My memory has faded like the paint on the withies. We zig zag down the channel bouncing between the 3m contour on either side of the channel to find the best water. We round up in the pool off Goathorn and anchor.

Sunset over Furzey Island

Stargazer is close in to the sandy beach. Its spring tides and at low water it feels as if we could step ashore. Oystercatchers sun themselves on the sand spit alongside. Astern the afternoon sun filters down through the canopy of the trees creating an enchanted forest. Birdsong echoes between the tall gothic columns of the tree trunks. There is no movement in the still of the wood and yet there is a feeling of life. Stargazer lies to her anchor sheltered from the breeze in our own tranquil pool as the water drains away around us; Five miles and yet a million miles from our berth. As the sun sets over Furzey Island I savour the stillness and watch Venus and Jupiter blaze above the merest sliver of a crescent moon in the clear dark expanse of the sky. This is a special moment - Our Spring Awakening.

LIVING THE DREAM - Sail South To The Sun

"I decided to put to sea and to live my dream. My dream to explore craggy wave swept shores, under sail....

"We are soaring free, on the breeze, bound South in our adventure:"

 

Stargazer swoops over a long swell. In the gathering twilight, the grey form of the Lizard crouches off our starboard quarter, hunkering down for the night. Our bow wave tumbles aft, to join the moonlit phosphorescence, dancing in our wake. Bright carpets of stars reach down from the velvet night sky, to surround us. I can feel the heave of the sea beneath us, hear its surge, but, in the dark, cannot see it. All I can see are stars above and sparkling phosphorescence below. We are soaring free, on the breeze, bound South in our adventure.

Since boyhood I’ve lapped up tales of sailing. The single handers: Moitessier, Knox Johnstone, Goss and MacArthur.  I read Childers’ “Riddle of the Sands,” Ramsome’s “We didn’t mean to go to sea,” Raban’s “Coasting” and O’Brian’s swashbuckling naval tales.

I’ve always loved to be afloat, in a home built canoe, or in a succession of dinghies. I marked the new millennium by launching my first cruising boat; spent my summers exploring the craggy shores of the West Country, The Channel Islands and North Brittany. The more I sailed, the more I yearned to make new landfalls. I began to view my corporate career as a port of call, in the voyage of life, rather than an end in itself. I decided to put to sea and to live my dream. My dream to explore craggy, wave swept shores, in freedom, under sail.

That is how Stargazer and I came to be beating South through night, bound for L’Aber Wrac’h with all summer and an ocean of possibilities ahead of us.

The Chenal du Four and the Raz de Sein are both names to conjure with. Names that I’d heard dropped in harbour side conversations, by wiry weather beaten sailors, in salt stained boats; or seen in the pages of pilot books. Places marked “beyond here lie dragons” in the sea chart of my sailing experience. They are the gateway to my sailing dreams.

 "The sun peers, with a bloodshot eye, through ominous black clouds, over Ile Vierge

 

Visibility is my chief concern as we slip out of L’Aber Wrac’h. The sun peers, with a bloodshot eye, through ominous black clouds, over Ile Vierge. Then it disappears into a swirl of grey. Small fishing boats appear suddenly and then blend back into the murk. Stargazer is loping over an undulating swell, making 3 knots against the tide. I’m hoping that the visibility will clear before we reach Le Four and the tide turns. Once that happens we’re committed to the Chenal du Four. Until then we have the option of anchoring in L’Aber Benoit.

There’s a darker, denser patch in the wall of grey off to port. A glint of white, as the Atlantic swell rears up into surf, at the foot of Le Four. The visibility is lifting. Stargazer’s speed over ground increases, the tide gathers us up and we bear off into the Chenal du Four. The coast is a slightly more solid blur, within a blended murk that combines sea and sky. The channel marks are visible about a mile off. Enough range to give the reassurance of visual backup to the GPS plot. The slender wands of channel buoys heel to the tide, as Stargazer sweeps past. Her bow wave chuckles approval, at the twelve knots of breeze bellying her sails.

The sun fights its way through the gloom to reveal a high cliff top to port. The brown forms of a stone built church and the ruins of an abbey cling precariously to it, dwarfed by a tall white lighthouse and lookout tower. Before them lie black fangs of rock. A scarlet beacon stands to attention astride the tallest; a tireless sentry, warning us away. We’ve arrived off Pointe de St Mathieu. We are through the Chenal du Four.

The visibility is clear and the sun bright for the Raz de Sein. A lightly rippled blue sea meets a cloudless blue sky. The bumblebee striped La Platte tower and the angular La Vielle light lie at their intersection. Poised a mile off them to north and south are two armies of yachts. They are massing either side of the Raz. Stargazer hurries to join the northern army. The wind has fallen light. Even with the cruising chute up we’re in danger of missing the command to “charge.” That command will be given by the tide, at slack water; the fifteen minute window of safe passage.

The command is given. The two armies rush toward one another. They cross at La Platte. I help Stargazer along with the engine. We catch the van of the northern army, as it crosses the Raz. A tug at the tiller and twitch from the keel remind us that, below the calm surface, unseen tidal forces are at work; remind us to respect the Raz. We heed the warning and scamper in under the Pointe du Raz, out of the tide, engine off, chute just drawing. We’re in South Brittany now. We’ve turned the corner. We can relax in the sunshine and drink in the scenery.

I still have a psychological corner to turn on the cruise. I set out with a “two week holiday” mind set – bound by time and driven by a list of places to get to. Somewhere on the voyage that evolved into a cruising mind set - free from time constraints, one step of the journey shaping the next. My turning point was a sun drenched week under the city walls of La Rochelle; in the Vieux Port.

 "It was a theatrical entance, redolent of Alice’s plunge through her Looking Glass

 

We’d sounded up river through a thick sea mist. At the last moment, the fog lifted, like a stage curtain, to reveal the stone battlements of St Nicholas and La Chaine, towering either side of us. It was a theatrical entrance, redolent of Alice’s plunge through her Looking Glass. A prompt for me to embrace La Rochelle’s bohemian southern lifestyle; as much a contrast to my normality as Wonderland was to Alice’s.

The sun beats down on Stargazer. She lies moored, in front of the ornate stone arch of the mediaeval city gates. I walk in the cool shade of the Basque colonnades and sit under the trees on the quayside. I listen to the buskers, join the throngs applauding conjurers and acrobats; while away hot afternoons with laughter and song in the cool of the shade.

 "Swell and a fresh North West breeze flushed us out of our anchorage:"

 

The weather took charge of our cruise in Noirmoutier. Swell and a fresh North West breeze flushed us out of our anchorage, off the beach, under the Pointe de Sainte Pierre. As we beat out across the Loire estuary, lightening crackling overhead, rain cascading off the brim of my hat, waves breaking down the side decks; I had no plan for “what next.” By the time Stargazer was off the Plateau du Four, battling her way, double reefed, through 27 knots of wind and 3 metres of swell, I had a plan. We would tack for the entrance to the Golfe du Morbihan and follow in the footsteps of George ("Oyster River") Millar.

Seas break over Stargazer’s cabin top, as we pass the candy striped finger of Hoedic lighthouse. They sparkle, jewel like, in the sun, cascade aft and leap overboard to join Stargazer’s plumed wake. We sweep through the Port Navalo entrance under the watchful eye of the, green topped, lighthouse. Stargazer’s prancing motion steadies as she rides the tide up the Auray river to moor, in mirror calm water, under the trees at Le Rocher; George Millar's anchorage.

The wind is a gentle North Westerly when the urgent Morbihan tide ushers Stargazer out into Quiberon Bay. We ghost over a sun spangled sea; the orange orb of the cruising chute hangs suspended between the indigo sea and royal blue sky. We anchor first off  Houat and then Belle Ile; spend a lazy week moving from anchorage to anchorage, living the beach life.  I row ashore to land in sandy coves and walk flower cloaked cliff tops; until a South Westerly swell in the anchorage, and a falling barometer, tell me that it’s time to seek shelter for Stargazer.

We reach down to the Vilaine. Our welcome is a thunderstorm. All landmarks vanish. Around us the shallow water is churned cappuccino brown. The rain sizzles, like hell-fire, on its wind torn surface. I hold our course; wipe raindrops from the plotter; watch as the depth gauge counts inexorably down; watch as our speed climbs to eight knots; hope that the squall clears. I round up and drop the main in thirty knots of breeze, rain stinging my face, two point eight metres of water under the keel and zero visibility. We reach sedately up to the lock at Arzal, buoy hopping, under jib, as the skies clear to an innocent blue. I step out of my deck shoes and empty a cup-full of water overboard, from each.

"Our bow wave chimes musically, the wind sighs in our sails and grass hoppers chirp in the meadows:"

 

The sun peeps out. Cows peer at us over the bull rushes; hawks circle above the flat meadowland; the horizon is studded with church spires. Our bow wave chimes musically, the wind sighs in our sails and grass hoppers chirp in the meadows. This is like no sailing that I’ve ever experienced before. Under the soaring arches of bridges, through steep sided gorges, past the Cran lift bridge and across the rolling Vilaine countryside, to Rieux, we sail; twenty five sinuous miles from the sea.

The dew lies on Stargazer’s deck until mid-morning. The sun takes longer each day to burn away the morning mist. I have lazed away a sun drenched fortnight on Ile Tudy...

.... Explored its picture postcard streets and beckoning alleyways;

...watched the egrets fish in the calm of the harbour;

.... swum from the silver beaches of Benodet Bay. Stargazer is now snugly anchored in the Rade de Brest, untroubled by the gale blowing itself out overhead. I monitor the five day forecast on Meteo France. The gale warnings grow more frequent, the gaps between them fewer and shorter. Autumn is upon us. It is time to sail for home.

A rainbow hangs over Studland Bay. I bring Stargazer under the lee of Red End bluff, and drop anchor. This is the final landfall on my six month, Living My Dream cruise.  I have the same tingle of excitement and anticipation now as when I set out. I’m eager to to pick up where I left off, with my Princes Trust mentoring work; to begin school voluntary work. Agog to discover where the winds and currents, of those experiences, will take me and what enrichment the voyage will bring.

Ice in Poole Harbour 4.2.12

Stargazer's Hazy Reflection in the Ice

The sea has lost the gleam in its eye; dulled by a chrysalis of ice. Stargazer lies puzzled and trapped, staring down at her hazy reflection; a reflection faint like a distant memory of the summer. The restive sea lies still with a startled expression locked on its immobile features - unable to move. The expression is the one it was wearing when cold north east winds marched in from the Steppes, stilled its dance, and imprisoned it in the chrysalis of ice. The wind and the sun are powerless to set the sea free. The sun is far away on the rim of the world, struggling to rise up higher in the sky, to draw nearer. The pale silver rays that it casts glance off the ice harmlessly and leave the sea imprisoned. With the sea locked behind the ice chrysalis the wind cannot help either. The ice deflects the wind unruffled.  The sun will have to approach closer, to climb higher and to regain its golden glow to free the sea from its chrysalis. Only that will restore the bright, sharp, twinkle to the sea’s eye, allow the wind to ruffle its surface, restore its freedom.

Ice Free Channel Patrolled by the Tide

Out in the harbour a forgotten ally joins the struggle, buys the sun time to climb higher, draw nearer. The restless tide met the north east winds when they marched in and has held them at bay. The tide has defended a channel and patrols it night and day, up and down, ebb and flood in a constant vigil. The channel is bordered by the still chrysalis of ice. Within the channel the sea, the sun and the wind cavort in constant motion like summer butterflies. The sunlight dancing over the sea’s surface as the wind playfully gambols across it. The battle is on to liberate the butterfly that is the summer sea from its winter chrysalis of ice.

Ice on the March into the Bay

 The beach joins the battle on the side of the entrapping north east winds. It forms a hard, unyielding, land bound alliance with the ice. Together they build out into the harbour, at first boldly, with a surf-like white line that contrasts boldly with the tawny brown of the pebble beach. As they extend out into the free-wheeling domain of the sea, towards the patrolling tide, the conspirators’ confidence wavers and the ice becomes first an opaque sea blue grey, then translucent and finally blends into the sea. The tide holds the advancing ice at bay. It taunts the ice, in its inflexible rigidity, with the fluidity, freedom and grace of the sea’s dance in the channel. Every day the sun climbs higher, grows stronger. Every day the channel grows wider.

The Exotic Landfalls of Missee Lee

Missee Lee Free as a Bird in Braye

Missee Lee gave me my first taste of cruising under sail; of what is to be as free as a bird. We first met in 1999. We day sailed returning to our berth every night to begin with. Gradually though we began to spread our wings. We crossed a mental and physical ocean together in 2002, the year we first crossed the Channel, and proudly flew our pristine French courtesy flag from the starboard spreader. Stargazer flies that same, now gently faded and slightly frayed flag, when in French waters to this day. By 2004 we “discovered” an exotic archipelago to the west of Cherbourg after riding the Alderney Race down to Guernsey. The thrill of that first landfall under sail at a new unvisited port cannot be repeated. It’s what drives me to cruise on, to sail round the next headland.

Missee Lee Reflecting on the Three Day Rythm in St Peter Port

 There seems to be a three day rhythm built into my cruising psyche. The first day is discovery day: the port is wondrous, unique and enticing. It’s a day of tidying the boat after the rigours of her passage and then, when all is trim, a day of exploration ashore that spills over into day two. By day three local advice is being sought, charts and forecasts gathered, plans laid for a new landfall. As day four dawns we’ll be slipping out to sea, revelling in the sense of freedom that casting off the shore lines brings.

The Minarets of St Peter Port, Guernsey

It was that way when Missee Lee and I “discovered” the Channel Islands: Discovery Day in Guernsey saw me spellbound at the exotic minarets on the skyline. I scaled the steep narrow streets to be nearer them, arrived back aboard hot and footsore. Day two I re-provisioned and relaxed in the cockpit; allowed the water bourn bustle of Victoria Marina and the busy shore side traffic on the Esplanade compensate for my inactivity. By day three my tide tables and charts were out planning a passage plan for Alderney.

Yacht & Gull head West through Tropical Swinge

It may be rose tinted hindsight but I remember a  calm, roll free night tucked in under the forbidding masonry of Braye Harbour’s breakwater. I’ve frequently be grateful for its protection on later visits. It’s never again been roll free even though its always been more pleasant than what’s lain beyond! Day one had added spice: the dinghy had to be disinterred from the cockpit locker and we rowed ashore: arrived with a sense of occasion. Ashore I walked the island. A relentlessly insistent, restless wind, tugged at my shirt and hair as I walked. Despite the small size of the island, or maybe because of it, I sensed the wildness and freedom of the sea here on land. I found an island of contrasts. I paid my respects to the straight backed Quenard lighthouse standing tirelessly to attention above the bay. I marvelled at the violence and energy as the maelstrom of the Alderney Race raked the brown rock of the island with white claws: raked it until the very veins and sinews of the island stood out in ridges and furrows as they met the sea. I walked east and watched over a foreground of tropical silver sand and azure sea as a yacht and a gull tasted freedom together heading west. It’s time for Missee Lee and I to move on.

The Passage Home to Rediscovery

We crossed the Channel back to Studland in a gentle force three under cruising chute. We savoured the trip determined not to spoil it by motoring even as night fell and the wind eased further. By then we’d cleared the shipping lanes. The night was clear. The moon rose astern of us casting long shadows. I looked up, sought out the familiar shape of the Plough in the glinting canopy above us, traced it down and located Polaris to guide us north. The tide was making as the familiar wink of Anvil Point Lighthouse relieved Polaris of his duty and guides us in the last ten miles towards Poole. We slip into Studland and anchor in the Yards behind Old Harry’s shadowy bulk just after midnight – 18 hours out from Alderney. I slept late and rose at midday to rediscover the beauty of Studland’s clear blue water, gleaming white cliffs, verdant green hills and tranquil soundscape of muted birdsong and lapping water. I rowed ashore to sit on the beach. Maybe new landfalls aren’t the only source of cruising pleasure after all. There is a thrill to be had in rediscovery.

The Sea Dragon of Morlaix

Red Feathered Sunrise

It’s the 5^th of June 2009.  I’m at the helm of Goblin – Stargazer’s predecessor. Goblin was built to race and is showing it now! We’ve got 18 knots of north easterly breeze and we’re making 6 knots, under our largest genoa and full mainsail. We left Perros Guirec at dawn with the fishing fleet under a red feathered sunrise. It’s been a reach all the way: Goblin surging along over the low swell and every so often playing her mischievous trick of dipping her bow fully under to scoop water aft along both side decks and into the cockpit.  We’vemade such good time that we’ve rounded the low grey bulk of the Pointe de Primel and arrived in the Baie de Morlaix two hours early for our tide. We heave to off Roscoff and I enjoy a second breakfast.

Sea Dragon Surfacing

We’re bound for Morlaix up the shallow winding river at the head of the estuary. It looked an intriguing pilotage challenge sat in the comfort of the marina at Perros. As Goblin lies to in the deep water off the ferry port I contemplate the horizon inshore. A sea dragon is sunning itself, stretched out across the bay from Ile Callot in the west to Terenez in the east. The dragon is a deep grey black. It is lying just submerged so that only the spikes along its scaly tail and back break the surface. The sea foams white against the black of the spikes and dashes them with spray so that they glisten in the sun. The largest spikes have tips of green which may be weed draped across them as the sea dragon rose from the depths.

 It’s not a sea dragon sunning itself that I’m looking at though – it’s a moonscape of rocks lying between us and the inner estuary.I recheck my pilotage notes and bring the chart up on deck to reconcile the dragon spikes that I’m seeing with landmarks on the chart. I recheck the rise of tide. Enough there I think to try the passage inside the Ile Ricard. I drain my coffee cup and furl the genoa.

Chateau du Taureau

 We run in towards the sleeping dragon under mainsail with the tide under us. I stand conning Goblin with the tiller between my knees. One eye is on the chart gripped in my hand the other on the dragon spikes that are quickly resolving themselves into hard black jutting granite topped with navigation marks.  We’re making 7 knots over the ground. I line Goblin’s bows up to shoot the channel east of Ile Ricard. Where’s the exit? Are we straight? I can’t see La Morlouine – where is it? We’re making almost 9 knots. The rocks flash by close on both sides. Too close! Too fast! La Morlouine flashes past to starboard. How I do not know. Maybe we’ll use the Chenal Ouest if we’re running in under sail again!

Drinking in the tranquility anchored off Penn al Lann

The pace eases as the tide slackens and we’re into the estuary proper. There’s time to take in the square sandcastle yellow battlements of the Chateau de Taureau as Goblin silently passes beneath them rippling their reflection in the water. We round up just below the chateau and anchor off Penn al Lann.  I sit on the foredeck drinking in the view out to sea. The grey sea dragon is gone.  All around us are inviting emerald green topped islands with white sandy beaches rising from a sun spangled sea of the deepest tropical blue.   I sit a while and let the peace and serenity of the anchorage soak into me with the sunshine. Listen to the making tide swirling past Goblin’s bow chuckling at the fright it gave us on the way in. Listen to the songbirds hidden in the trees up on the point singing in a joyous massed chorus.

Pastel Houses

In its own languid time the chuckling tide fills the flat estuary astern of us. We weigh anchor and feel our way gently into the river. The chart marks it as green, marks it as land. The tide is still chuckling with mischief and swirls us past tightly packed white boats on moorings; past pastel blue, yellow and pink waterside houses; past low sand coloured stone bridges and past steep green hedgerow topped banks. It’s urging us on impatiently up to Morlaix. “Don’t dilly dally you’ve had your rest off Penn al Lann now it’s time to play again”it chuckles. The red and green navigation marks snake impossibly across the river and then give out altogether replaced by transit marks.

Goblin moored before the Giant Centipede of Morlaix

 We ride the tide up allowing it and the transits to guide us to deep water. The engine is on tick over. My eyes are darting from chart to transit to depth gauge. I give the engine a burst when we stray out of the narrow channel.  There is one last convoluted slalom of buoys and then we’re in front of the lock gates. I make fast alongside the low stone quay to wait for them to open. Pink flowers and white daisies wave gently in the breeze above Goblin’s deck; wave a welcome to Morlaix. Beyond an over-sized sandy grey centipede with long thick legs supporting a slim graceful body spans the valley. I moor Goblin at its feet.

Out of the Doldrums



Engine in bits &
saloon table covered in parts

I’m in the winter doldrums: The sails ashore, the engine in bits and the saloon table covered in wiring diagrams and battery management black boxes that need fitting. There’s plenty to do aboard- but no prospect of sailing. The certainty of no sailing is somehow far worse than a possibility of sailing which, in the end, doesn’t materialise. The weather’s too stormy this weekend for sailing I tell myself. I scroll through the Navtex messages that glow a thin wan electronic yellow on the chestnut of the bulkhead. Thin and wan like my mood. “Thames, Dover, Wight. W 6 to Gale 8 Perhaps Severe Gale 9.”  Definitely no sailing even if the boat wasn’t in bits. The doldrums feeling is still with me though.

Tempting Pilot Book Titles

 Maybe I’ve got sailing withdrawal symptoms? I brew a coffee, sit down and let my eyes roam around the saloon: the blue of the cushions, the white of the deck head. I try to turn the scene into white cliffs rising out of a blue sea. The chestnut of the bulkheads doesn’t fit into that mental picture though and nor do the bright colours of the pilot books lining the bookshelf.  My mind sharpens a little; I read the pilot book titles in a daydream soft focus: Isles of Scilly, Atlantic France, Anchorages of Brittany and The West Country. My eyes settle on The UK and Ireland Circumnavigator’s Guide and focus sharply of their own accord.

Charts, pilot Books: Limitless
 Potential

Suddenly I’m on my feet, charged with a purpose. The diagrams and components have disappeared from the saloon table, swept back into the odd bits locker. My listless mood has disappeared with them. The table is spread with open pilot books, charts, scribbled notes and a glowing i-phone with the Tide Table app working overtime. Before me, in my mind’s eye and on the saloon table, lies a limitless potential to make new landfalls, to open myself to new experiences and to yarn about it all with old friends and new friends yet to be met. This year I really do have limitless potential too. I’m free for the whole summer for the first time in my adult life.

Lost in a dream of cruising possibilities...

Soon I’m lost in the Circumnavigator’s Guide. A circumnavigation sounds purposeful, has a goal, an outcome. The wild Celtic anchorages of West Coast Scotland sound like my ideal cruising ground. I love the cragginess of Cornwall and North Brittany. There are the midges though. Reading the Blogs great play seems to be made of sunny days and fair breezes too – as if this is a rare and noteworthy combination. Another thing: those Blogs tend to be very quiet on the delights of the East Coast, North Sea run back - half the trip. Well maybe the answer is to stick the West coast then? Head North via Scilly and the Welsh Coast and back via the Irish coast. We’re still heading North away from the sun and the West coast is a lee shore for the prevailing wind though. Do I want a purpose other than to enjoy the cruise for the experiences it brings? And isn’t the art of cruising to keep your options open, make the best use of whatever the weather serves up? The answer to that last question is a Yes for me. Yes: it’s the whole point.  So a Circumnavigation is too constraining, too driven, too much like working life.

Dittisham,on the Dart, our first intended port of call
 & an old favourite

I must visit Scilly though - I’ve always wanted to. I’ve never had the time before to wait for suitable weather. On a two or three week break my whole precious holiday could have been eaten up waiting patiently in Helford, Falmouth or Penzance for the weather to visit Scilly and never getting there. I’ve met skippers alongside in Fowey and Falmouth for whom it’s an annual pilgrimage; waiting for the miracle of the perfect weather falling on their holiday dates. That’s the first anchor point of the cruise settled then: We’re going to Scilly. Let’s check the westbound tides from Poole: I’ll want a High Water Dover around 06.00 for a nice tidal lift out of Poole, past The Bill and into Dartmouth by nightfall. It looks as if the choices are: middle of April, end of April or middle of May. That’s our second cruise anchor point settled: our departure date. Let the weather decide the best pick of the three.

Craggy & Celtic

Where after Scilly? We’re looking for somewhere Craggy, Celtic, yet to cruised by me and with good prospects of fair weather: sun and breeze? I love the North Brittany Ports. I’ve explored from St Malo to L’Aber Wrac’h aboard Stargazer and her flightier predecessor Goblin. The weather’s always better than in the UK down there. Where’s like that? I know: Biscay, South Brittany! It’s about 100 nautical miles from Scilly to L’Aber Wrac’h. So that’s 18-20 hours for Stargazer depending on the breeze and how well I work out the course across the tides to keep distance sailed to a minimum. That’s just about doable for a well-rested single hander. I’ve got the time to rest up and pick my weather too.

That’s the third anchor point of the cruise settled: cross either from Scilly or Falmouth to L’Aber Wrac’h then head round the corner. Sail down through the Chenal du Four, dally in Morgat or Douarnenez maybe, on through the Raz de Sein and into a whole new cruising ground: Iles de Glenans, Belle Ile, Golfe de Morbihan, the turreted harbour of La Rochelle, Bordeaux and seemingly a thousand ports and anchorages in between. That’s it!

To
Summer Cruising: Fair Winds!

The Cruise plan is settled: Head west in early May (give or take a fortnight) and stooge in Helford or explore the Fal until there’s a weather window for Scilly. Explore Scilly: walk, swim, snorkel and row – drink it all in. Then we head South to L’Aber Wrac’h or, if weather and provisioning dictate, head east for Falmouth or Penzance and then South to L’Aber Wrac’h. Depending on weather we then either scoot through the Chenal and Raz in one go or visit Camaret or Morgat between short hops. After that we meander down to La Rochelle or Bordeaux  via the Golfe de Morbihan before returning and visiting the ports and anchorages we missed on the way South. Return to Poole via the Chanel Islands somewhere around the end of August beginning of September. That will do me!

Two days later the engine is rebuilt and the black boxes are fitted. I’m out of the winter doldrums, spring is in the air, and Stargazer and I have got a tide to catch!

The Spell of Ille de Brehat

Jumble of Granite and Sea

A breeze ruffles my hair as I breakfast in Stargazer’s cockpit. We’re surrounded by craggy castles of rock standing in moats of rippled sea. Stargazer swings to her anchor adjusting herself to lie more comfortably; to balance the tug of the tide as it gurgles past against the playful shoves of the arriving sea breeze. We’re lying amidst a jumble of granite and sea off the south west tip of the Ile de Brehat. The mingled sounds of birdsong and the joyful Breton shrieks of children playing on an old boathouse slipway on the main island carry across the water 

Brehat Sunset

This morning I awoke to a mysterious, enchanted, soft fizzing, popping song from beneath Stargazer’s hull. Air bubbles escaping from the kelp beds close below our keel, the song of shrimps? Our arrival last night had an almost magical quality. After the long beat down from Guernsey a grey smudge on the horizon gradually resolved itself into: tumbles of golden brown granite; forests of navigation beacons, booms, towers and cardinal marks; inviting beaches, alluring pools, enticing anchorages. The setting sun highlights the natural pinks, reds and browns of the rock before sinking in an orange ball behind the black silhouette of a black tree crowned crag. By then Stargazer has gently felt her way in among the sheltering rocks and found herself a sheltered pool to lie in overnight whilst the tide drains silently away around her.

The breeze builds from playful shoves to a full sea breeze fed by the warming rays of the sun. The tide is making too. Stargazer is tugging restively at her anchor, straining at the leash, eager to be on her way. I finish my breakfast and make sail. We won’t go far today though. A spell has fallen over me. I must stay a while; explore more of Brehat’s delights. We head east to start a gentle anti clockwise circumnavigation of the island. La Chambre anchorage, on the south coast, slips past to starboard: Tall angular towers of rose pink granite, green trees, blue sky and sea. The turreted pink granite houses are oddly at one with the scenery; man made reflections of the natural forms surrounding them. The tide is up, cloaking Brehat’s hard craggy body with the soft shimmer and sparkle of the sea. We thread our way through a maze of markers, booms and buoys warily watching depth gauge, chart plotter and the swirl of the tide.

Breton Lugger outside La Corderie

We’ve timed it right. The tide draws us hungrily down back the west coast of Brehat towards the Trieux  river and on to Lezardrieux if we choose. Today though Brehat’s spell is still on me, beckoning us in to La Corderie on the north west tip of the island. Or as far in as a full draft boat can get at spring tide. We reach in under sail. Circle, tacking and gybing round on our chosen spot just west of the Men ar Fav beacon. It’s the classic spot and we have it ourselves! We circle imitating our swing on the long scope of anchor chain that we’ll need to cope with the height of tonight’s tide. I want to be sure that Stargazer will lie in the soft embrace of the sea tonight and not grind on the hard rocky bones of Brehat! The depth gauge says it’s too tight for comfort. It’s actually not that sheltered here either in this breeze. We harden up and I steer, disappointed, back out into the main channel. My spirits revive at the sight of a traditional Breton lugger foaming her way past Stargazer. Waves, greetings and smiles fly across the water.

"My" Desert Island

We feel our way back in among the sheltering granite in the long comet tail of shattered rock, golden sand and sparkling blue sea streaming downriver west and south of Brehat. We won’t have the bulk of the island to shelter behind tonight. But once we’re in our pool, and the big tide sucks its cloaking waters back out to sea, the sand and the crags will be our shelter.  I watch the anchor plunge down from our bow, through water as clear as the air above it, and bite on a sandy bottom. The tide drains away and Stargazer and I are left in our lagoon, cocooned by sand and rock. I row ashore. Sit on “my” desert island beach; watch Stargazer curtsey at her anchor to acknowledge the final buffeting crescendo of the sea breeze before it, like us, settles down for the night.