10 July 2008

Sorry about the long gap in entries, but we were rather busy. We are now safely in harbour again after a lively sail, but we are in France, not in Spain. Why? It's a long story, so here goes.....

We stayed in Crosshaven, checking with Commanders Weather every day on the possibilities for the Biscay Crossing, which looked possible from Sunday afternoon or evening, so we got fresh food supplies aboard, and then on Friday our weather advice was not good again, as a severe weather system was expected in the middle of the week, and we wouldn't have arrived in La Corunna by then. So we considered Plan B, which we had put out of our minds for ages because we wanted to try sailing for a week non-stop as a sort of test of whether we liked ocean sailing or not. However, with the necessity of making a move before Cork Week started, and also to overcome the advanced case of harbour rot we both experienced, we decided to do the trip in two stages, Ireland - Brittany - Spain.

Sunday arrived, together with a detailed outline of the weather over the next four days, which we printed out for reference on voyage, when we wouldn't have the laptop available for anything but AIS and Navtex and possibly navigation purposes. Various people came by the boat that morning, as we got ourselves ready to go, in fairly windy and grey conditions. One guy came round, and asked by way of conversation whether we were waiting for the beef. We both looked at him, not understanding what he meant. The rest of the crew, he said, obviously meaning male crew. No we replied, we're the beef! Off he went, shaking his head, thinking probably 'two women, on their own......'

So freaked out were we by the prospect of actually going for it, that we had a real heart-to-heart at five to twelve, after I had had one final check with Commanders Weather by phone for any last minute updates, like maybe Hurricane Nellie heading our way? No, things had not changed, we could expect north-westerly winds of up to 30 knots at times, and a sea state of 6 - 8 feet swell. Great, we gulped! OK, yes, if we don't go for this now, we won't ever know if we can. So off we went. Wietse from Salve Marine gave us a huge wave goodbye as we left.

Off Weaver's Point we hoisted the main, with two reefs in it, and motored for around four or five hours, heading south past Old Head of Kinsale, then two gas platforms, then just the sea, the sea, the sea. We pulled out a bit of genoa, not much, turned off the engine, and settled down to a routine of watch-keeping. The boat was being thrown about a lot by the large waves following us, and neither of us felt at all hungry as dinner-time approached. In fact, the motion down below was so irregular and unpredictable, that I began to realise I was beginning to feel sick. Then I had to rush up to the cockpit and actually was sick. For me that was a first, on Little Else. I have been seasick before, once on the St Ola crossing to Orkney, and once on a Calmac between Islay and Kennacraig. Ju wasn't feeling too clever either, she said. We both tried to make ourselves eat something, but that boiled down in the end to bananas, grapes, Mars Bars and Muesli bars, as staying down below long enough to heat or cook anything just brought on another bout of nausea.

As the evening got darker we moved into longer watches, but decided that there was no point in taking off any of our waterproofs, fleeces or thermal undies, as by the time we had struggled back into them after a break off-watch, we would feel sick again. So we just slept in our clothes, when we could manage to sleep, that is. We had put the windvane on to steer the boat, so we did not have to hand steer during the passage, but at one point during the night Winnie lost the plot, I lost the pattern of adjusting her to the wind direction, and until dawn, I had to hand steer as I couldn't see well enough to readjust her. We fixed it when light returned.

Monday morning dawned around four or five, and we kept going in the busy sea, with big waves lifting us forward so that our average speed would shoot up to seven knots, then back to three as the wave passed and we dipped into the trough. Ju eventually gritted her teeth and prepared some bacon sandwiches, but in the process managed to spill the cutlery drawer on the floor. After collecting the stuff up and putting it away again, she was sick. On no account bend down, down below. Fatal! I ate my sandwich very slowly, hoping it would stay down. It actually did. The day went on somehow with watchkeeping and trying to sleep. There was really no way of doing anything else.

We passed by the Scillies, and heard various local coastguard messages, then we were into Monday night, as the conditions got no lighter, with average wind speeds around 20-25 knots. We discussed the option of running for Falmouth, but decided that we had managed OK so far, we would carry on. I was concerned that we should take care of the weakest parts of the boat first, ie ourselves. Little Else could handle this stuff, but we needed to keep hydrated and nourished, and somehow rested if our stamina was not going to let us down. We made ourselved drink orange squash, eat fruit and ginger nut biscuits, although we were neither hungry nor thirsty.

At this point we were not far from the traffic separation zone around the tip of the Scillies, and large ships started appearing, which gave us something to watch out for. As the night went on, we noticed one large ship getting larger by the minute off the port bow, so I checked on the AIS but it did not show me its name, only that it was on a collision course. So I got the radio going, and called it up. It replied straight away that it was the Solway Fisher. I recognised the name from Cork harbour, as I had seen it there during the past few weeks. I asked them if they knew we were there, and was told that no, they didn't. So I put on our spreader lights, which illuminated the sails like a huge moth in the dark. The Solway Fisher said that he could see me now, and would take evasive action, and he did. We were well chuffed, so I doused the spreader lights, and we carried on. Then he called me up again, and said that he was now clear of us, but that we might like to know that another ship was headed our way, and gave us its name. I thanked him, and Ju reported seeing the lights of a ship off the starboard for bow this time. 'There's Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow....'

I called this ship up also, and got a less than helpful reply that no, he couldn't see us either on radar or visually, despite our spreader lights being on again, announced he would turn to starboard, and cut off the call. As several minutes later we hadn't noticed any change in his course, and his ship was lit up like a Christmas tree so we couldn't work out where his navigation lights were in the glow, I called him up again, spoke I think to the captain this time, a guy with a thick east European accent, and told him 'we will turn to port to avoid a collision' to which he replied 'understood, out'.

We were less than a mile from this b*$@~#d when we gybed to port, away from trouble, as we had finally worked out which way he was going. Ju waited with me until he was well clear, then we gybed again back on to our course, and Ju went off-watch while I helmed for a quiet period.

It's strange at night, on your own, in the cockpit. You are aware of the waves immediately round the boat, there is just enough light if you guard your night vision to see clouds, and the lights of ships are just visible when you are on the top of the waves. The strange thing is that the human brain starts to add up the shapes it can see and turns them into things that are not there, like a cresting wave can look like a yacht's hull, or a cabin cruiser, and the next time you look there's nothing there.

One of the surprises of Monday night for me was the phosphorescence. Little balls of bright green light landed on the side deck with an invading wave, then rolled about into the scuppers, and eventually went out like little lamps. I had never seen this before. Apparently it's a kind of plankton that shines light when it is excited, and driving a boat through it has that effect. Amazing!

Tuesday dawned brighter, and as the hours went by and we approached the separation zone off Ushant, the sun came out and we began to feel much better about our voyage. We ate some muesli and drank tea. Ships passed, all going south, and we managed to cross the first part of the zone OK. We were not going averagely as fast as we would need to do to get to Camaret-Sur-Mer in daylight, so after 4pm when I calculated that we needed to speed things up we put on the engine, rolled away the genoa, and motorsailed as fast as we could towards the Rade de Brest. It was ages before we finally sighted land, the first time since Ireland. On Little Else we have developed some of our own maritime traditions, one being the award of the cream cracker to the first person to spot something. Ju won it this time, spotting the Ile D'Ouessant off the port bow.

It became a race against time to get into port before dark, nothing being worse than trying to find your way into an unknown marina at night. We finally arrived around eleven or so, and tied up to a concrete quay with the help of a fellow sailor, whose boat was parked alongside. Then he told us we couldn't stay there, as that bit was reserved for large wooden boats. He advised us to go and walk round into the marina itself, find a suitable spot then take the boat in there, where we would be comfortable. After 58 hours of non-stop sailing this was all we needed, however we took his advice, spotted a berth, and gently took the boat into the berth around 11.30pm. What we didn't know, however, was that this marina is subject to horrendous tidal flow, and instead of snugly gliding into the finger pontoon, our nose went in and our stern slid sideways into the neighbouring boat. Someone was in the cockpit, thank goodness, and he hurried round to help Ju with lines and cleats, while I tried hard with Vera's help to get the boat to go where we wanted it to. We tied up somehow, all squint, went below, stripped off the heavy sailing gear, had the traditional Talisker and tea, and fell into bed. Boy did we sleep!!!!!! We had arrived in France, but we could wait until tomorrow to see it!