Living the Dream Cruise 2012 live update 3

Tue 1.5.12: Dittisham, Dartmouth. Glorious reach across Lyme Bay under Cruising Chute. Picked up the mooring by moonlight.


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Location:Mill Hill,Stoke Gabriel,United Kingdom

Living the Dream Cruise 2012 live update 2

Mon 30.4.12: Cobbs Quay, Poole. Still here! Gale now eased from 9 to 8. Windsurfers loving it. Could be our turn tomorrow. Alarm set for 03.30. Midday Inshore Forecast says should be down to southerly 5 by then.


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Living the Dream Cruise 2012 live update 1

Sat 28.4.12: Cobbs Quay - Poole. Gale imminent. Staying put.






Sun 29.4.12: Cobbs Quay - Poole. Gale arrived. Glad stayed put.


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Easter Mini Cruise to Worbarrow Bay

A rainbow of sunset colours

The cliff is a rainbow of sunset colours. A bold pink stripe dips right to left from its green grassy top to the deep gold of the shingle beach uncovered by the receding tide. The rainbow fades through ochre and russet to a ruddy brown. Highlights are picked out with white slashes of chalk at the same jaunty angle as the central stripe. 

Stargazer is lying at anchor on glassy smooth water that reflects the blue of the sky. We are perfectly sheltered from the chill Easter North East wind by the rainbow cliff towering above the forestay. We’re tucked inside the sheltering arm of Worbarrow Tout. The outcrop fends off a low persistent swell that is rolling in from the South despite the wind direction. The Tout’s strata are stood nearly on end, allowing wind and weather to worry away at the softer layers and leaving hard jutting grey giant’s fangs silhouetted against the spring sky. Between the giant’s fangs green grass sprouts – as if it has dined on spinach.

A tumble of white chalk and green grass

To port and to the west the bay stretches away. The protective vertical cliff and its sunset colours dips down under a tumble of white chalk and green grass. The chalk reclines back as if lounging on its elbows. Its feet plunge straight into the sea making do without a beach and its head is lost in the clouds,daydreaming, as it reaches high up into the sky.

Further west beyond the bay the grey, reversed cheese wedge, of Portland Bill perches on the horizon beckoning to us. The Bill will be our first waypoint as we head west towards Scilly and Biscay Brittany at the end of the month. For now though we’re taking advantage of a rare combination: northerly winds (making Worbarrow a sheltered anchorage), no firing on the Lulworth range (making Worbarrow “in bounds”) and four days of Easter Bank holiday. This is our shakedown mini-cruise.

The towering might of St Alban's Head

This morning the Poole ebb carried us down harbour putting a belly in our sails as the breeze, child-like, played hide and seek around first Brownsea Island, then Ballard Down and finally Anvil Point. One moment it was on our port quarter and we were broad reaching with a chuckling of bow wave beginning to build and the deck drains starting to gurgle their approval. The next moment it would dodge behind a promontry before leaping out playfully from an unexpected direction to surprise us and back the jib or make the mainsail flog. “Boo- Got You !” it seemed to call merrily before settling down on our quarter again. The tide was stalwart and sensible - a dependable companion as always. As we rolled, sails slatting, off Anvil Point it scooped us up and briskly escorteded us West past the towering might of St Albans Head.

By now Stargazer was making 8 knots over the ground with the full assistance of a steady force 4 and a galloping spring tide. Tramping along leaving a straight furrow of wake astern and nodding her approval as her bow shouldered through the long low swell. We bore off to avoid the wind shadow of St Alban’s and the race at its foot. The race now visible as churning a line of white where the ink blue of the sea met the royal blue of the sky. As we cleared the headland the tracery of a tallship’s rigging glinted back from the shelter of Chapman’s Pool  - The Pelican at anchor and snugly too I imagined.

In we ghosted...towards a blaze of white in the cliffs

We began to harden up and make towards a blaze of white in the cliff line. The wind eased and became playful again as we felt the lee of the land. In we ghosted playing the shifts and down rattled the  anchor chain. The busy sounds of a boat on passage were replaced with: birdsong; the suck and surge of swell rolling in further up the beach; the gentle groan of the anchor rode as Stargazer swings to accomodate the rhythm of wind and tide.

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.