tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53289811871655952172024-03-13T14:48:46.811+00:00Mike RotheryWelcome to Mike Rothery's Blog SiteMike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-60907000182691754542018-06-16T13:06:00.002+01:002018-06-16T13:06:57.742+01:00Bermuda to Sao Miguel (Part two of two – a whale of a time)<b>Log of the Island Spirit MMSI 235113215</b><br />
<br />
<b>Saturday 19th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0442: 37° 42.0”N 57° 00.1”W Hove to</b><br />
I’m stationary in mid Atlantic. Been here hove to since midnight, when I finally gave in to fatigue.<br />
It all went to hell in a handcart sometime late yesterday afternoon, an hour or two before sunset. Georgina had the helm in rough seas and 20 knots wind on a broad reach. I’d taken in the pole earlier and lashed it onto the pulpit, still clipped on the mast for possible future need.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hove to Mid Atlantic - pole lashed onto pulput</td></tr>
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I was in the cockpit gazing out to starboard, when this huge lump of water rose up out of a breaking wave, about 50 feet away. It was then I saw the great flukes of a diving whale, and thanked the gods it was no closer to me. But suddenly the boat gave an enormous judder, and the next thing I knew, I was fighting to stay in the cockpit as a powerful washover flooded in from starboard. Though totally disorientated I was in no doubt she was close to being beam-ended, and I hung on for grim death waiting for her to right herself. When she did it took several minutes for the cockpit to drain out. It was then I began to take stock of what just happened.<br />
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There clearly had been a second whale, probably making violent contact on the port side while diving. It was only gradually that the extent of damage became clear. Firstly, Georgina was down, so my immediate task was to take the wheel and get back downwind, with no opportunity to check the rest of the boat. It quickly became apparent that she wasn’t handling properly. The forestay seemed excessively slack and the genoa had taken on a strange shape. Then I saw the missing sliders and a small tear down the luff of the main; the luff had lost its tension and the lazy jack on the starboard side was flapping loose on the wind. Standing up on the stern for a better look, I banged my head on something in the bimini.<br />
It was my radar antenna, broken off its post and dangling there by its cable. It was then I noticed that the dinghy had filled with water and was only slowly draining through the open bung; the weight of water had caused the outer rear sling to pull itself free of the transom. I was about to lose the dinghy, so I wheeled over to take her upwind, and quickly sheeted in to heave to. Now I had time to see to the essentials and check for further problems.<br />
My biggest concern at this point was the state of the rigging, but first I got some extra lashings around the dinghy. I also needed to get that radar dome out of the bimini before it did any more damage. It was too rough and dangerous to manhandle the heavy beast inboard, so I chopped the cable and jettisoned it, watching sadly as it floated away. While up there I saw why the bimini frame had been vibrating so madly since the whale strike; three blades were missing from the wind turbine. Nothing to be done about that yet, a job for later. By now it was getting dark, and the boat was pointing west on the northerly wind, making 3 knots in the wrong direction. I managed to tack her over and point her east-ish, so at least what progress we made was the way I wanted to go.<br />
I’d shipped a lot of water down into the saloon, and spent the next two hours baling out with hand pump and bucket. Then, too exhausted to eat, I collapsed into my (sopping wet) bed, and slept through until now.<br />
<br />
So here we are, about to get going again. I’ve just noticed the saloon table top is grinning at me like Mutley; and I realise it has been crushed by the wood cladding around the post that supports the mast step. A shocking discovery; and explains why all the rigging has gone slack.<br />
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The mast and it’s supporting stanchion has dropped by about 5 cm. This is confirmed when I notice the unnatural shape of the coach roof. “Shit!” plus a string of less savoury expletives cascade from my mouth.<br />
Georgina is still out of action, receiving no data from the fluxgate compass. I can only assume water got into the control box and is corrupting the contacts inside.<br />
It is now calm, with little wind; have I wandered into the Azores High, or it has wandered into me? Either way, I need to make ground north, or I could be drifting here for days.<br />
<br />
<b>1130: 37° 50.3”N 56° 56.5”W Co 030 Sp 6</b><br />
Close hauled into an easterly breeze. Overcast and raining. I calculate there’s a low to the south of me, so I’m heading north to pick up more favourable (but probably rougher) conditions.<br />
<br />
<b>1345: 38° 00.1”N 56° 57.1”W Co 030 Sp 6</b><br />
Frustrated and worried. Have managed to balance the sails to let her sail herself with the wheel lashed. But the rig is giving me real concern now. The lee shrouds are slack as a witches tit, rattling around on the chain plates. The mast leans awkwardly to leeward, and the forestay flops around dangerously, making the genny shiver and quake.<br />
I’ve also spent the last hours trying to analyse what happened to allow the mast to drop like that. The most worrying explanation is that the keel has moved. I just can’t think of anything else, and that yawning gap in the saloon table is getting bigger. I would like to tighten down on the shrouds and backstay, but worry that this will increase downward forces on the keel. I keep re-reading the instructions on my EPIRB, and wondering if I should take it up into the cockpit with me. If the keel drops off, we’ll capsize immediately, and that’s game over. If the mast comes down, it’s survivable if help arrives with a few hours. Nothing on AIS, though.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1800: 38° 15.0”N 56° 55.8W Co 030 Sp 5</b><br />
Wind still easterly at 20 knots. I realise on our current heading we could reach Halifax, NS in about 10 days. But the weather up there is likely to be stormy and dangerous, so I quickly discard that idea.<br />
<br />
<b>2205: 38° 26.9”N 56° 44.0”W Co 040 Sp 4</b><br />
Blessed oblivion of sleep. Spirit holding on and steering herself.<br />
<br />
<b>Sunday 20th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0230: 38° 36.0”N 56° 28.5”W Co 045 Sp 3.8</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>0730: 38° 41.3”N 56° 10.0W Co 090 Sp 3</b><br />
Massive creaking noises from somewhere deep in the hull. Under the wrecked table. Afraid to touch anything to investigate. After all, why would I want to know if I’m about to die? Ignorance is bliss.<br />
<br />
<b>1110: 38° 44.6”N 55° 45.2”W Co 090 Sp 6.5</b><br />
Water pissing through the saloon hatch. It leaked a little before, but the distorted coach roof has made it much worse. Bedding and clothes soaking wet.<br />
<br />
<b>1320: 38° 45.0”N 55° 26.7”W Co 090 Sp 6.5</b><br />
AIS is playing up, constant error messages and beeping alarms.<br />
<br />
<b>1815: 38° 35.4”N 54° 49.5”W Co 150 Sp 6.5</b><br />
Self-steering no longer viable. I need to revert to hand-steering.<br />
<br />
<b>2100: 38° 35.7”N 54° 25.2”W Hove to.</b><br />
Had enough of the vibrations from the asymmetric wind turbine, so I’ve tethered it. Noticed a couple of bolts have shaken out of the gantry, and one of the sprayhood struts have snapped. Poor old girl’s falling apart.<br />
The good news is that the wind and current are in our favour – despite being hove to we’re making around 2 knots eastward.<br />
With having to heave to so often, I calculate it’ll take at least two weeks to reach Horta, the nearest port where I can get repairs done.<br />
For the first time since I commissioned Island Spirit back in Greece, I feel alone and scared.<br />
<br />
<b>Mon 21st May 2018</b><br />
<b>1415: 38° 50.2”N 53° 09.3”W Hove to.</b><br />
Hand steering all morning and needed a break for food.<br />
1240 miles to Horta – 11 more days if I can average 5 knots (in the right direction).<br />
<br />
<b>1915: 38° 50.1”N 52° 38.5”W Hove to</b><br />
Horrible afternoon, winds gusting 35 knots, monstrous sea. Knackered! Going to bed.<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday 22nd May 2018</b><br />
<b>0835: 38° 54.6”N 52° 20.3”W Hove to</b><br />
Woke up to a cold drizzle, wind now reduced to 10 knots. During last night’s gale the mainsheet shackle failed, sheet pulled all the way through the block and hanging in the water, boom flapping out to leeward. All fixed now, including temporary repair to vang line and re-securing of lazy jacks. Also, on going forward, discovered genny pole adrift from it’s lashing on the pulpit, and somehow had become unclipped from the mast. Lucky not to lose it; found it wedged between shrouds and coach roof. Must have made hell of a racket, but obviously lost the cacophony of the storm. Also, relashed the danforth anchor, which also looked in danger of breaking loose.<br />
About to get underway - planning a close reach, port tack.<br />
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<b>1105: 38° 53.6”N 52° 09.2”W Co 090 Sp 5.5</b><br />
Once again the old girl’s sailing herself with a bungy strap on the wheel, though not always reliable and needs watching.<br />
First sunshine in three days, and morale improving. Autopilot still out of action - although now receiving fluxgate data, the compass itself remains unstable.<br />
That north wind is cccccold; wearing salopette, seaboots, and Musto jacket.<br />
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<b>1408: 38° 55.1”N 51° 52.1”W Co 090 Sp 4.8</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2100: 38° 46.3”N 51° 06.5”W Hove to</b><br />
1050 miles to go. Only made 74 miles today; not good. Started rationing drinking water to 1 litre per day.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday 23rd May 2018</b><br />
<b>0620: 38° 34.8”N 51° 00.7”W Hove to</b><br />
Just an aside, Dear Reader, you’re probably wondering why my log entries so often find me hove to, rather than getting on with it. The truth is, the only time I get to update the log is WHEN I’m hove to. The rest of the time I’m on the wheel. So trust me, I want this horrible passage over with as quickly as possible, but I do need food and rest from time to time.<br />
Right now the wind is from 120°, so I can’t proceed east until it veers more southerly, hopefully in the next couple of hours.<br />
Made another alarming discovery last night; the engine bilge was full of water. Investigation found the stern gland badly leaking when engine running. Baled out 5 buckets of water, and managed vent the leaky gland by giving it a couple of firm squeezes. Air had got into the cooling jacket after the last haul out. I was sure I saw to it then, but obviously not diligently enough. Silly mistake I won’t make again.<br />
This morning I also repaired the mainsheet clutch-block that has been playing up since the aforementioned failure of the shackle. Replaced a broken split-pin with a nut and bolt, and that seems to have done the trick.<br />
While it’s relatively calm I’m going to put two cans of fuel into the tank – that should top it up to 80 litres once more.<br />
Fluxgate compass still duff – hunting drunkenly around the compass card.<br />
<br />
<b>0950: Tank topped up, good to go. Wind slowly coming round.</b><br />
Just had radio contact with MV Singelgrach and got a wind forecast: S-SW, 15kts until 27th. South is good for self-steering. SW is also good, but means I’m slaved to the helm. I also reported the problems I’d been having, and my worries about the mast and keel. She offered assistance, but there’s not much they can do except take me off – not an option while there’s a good chance of making Horta. I just wanted someone to know what happened in case I don’t. So many boats just disappear without explanation.<br />
<br />
<b>1100: 38° 38.9”N 51° 02.1”W</b> About to get going close hauled on a north-easterly heading, hoping wind continues to veer as forecast. Been a hard morning’s work (had to bale out more water from the bilge, as wel)l. So I’m banking on getting her balanced for self-steering.<br />
<br />
<b>1130:</b> Just as I was getting going a yacht appeared out of nowhere and passed close astern. S/Y Team Brunel, a research vessel off to the ice fields. Exchanged greetings.<br />
<br />
<b>1200:</b> Gosh, it’s getting pretty crowded. Tanker MV Frio passed a mile to starboard. Encouraging to see so much shipping about.<br />
Another lovely day; a few fluffy clouds, wispy cirrus higher up, plenty of sunshine. Wind SE at 15 knots. sailing close hauled with helm tied off – she’s holding it well; giving me time to write this, gaze out at the sparkling sea, and even nip below to make a cuppa. Feeling strangely elated after recent troubles.<br />
<br />
<b>1604: 38° 45.7”N 50° 29.4”W Co 100 Sp 5.5</b><br />
Smashing jarringly in to an increasingly lumpy sea. Container vessel Zeeland Washington sighted.<br />
<br />
<b>2022: 38° 42.1”N 50° 00.0”W Co 150 Sp 5.5</b><br />
1000 miles to Horta!<br />
Been steering all day with wheel lashed. Very good, but now wind has shifted south west; I have three choices: 1. Carry on as we are and accept making ground south, 2. Heave to facing east and let wind carry us north east at a knot or two, 3. Hand steer a broad reach overnight. Decisions…<br />
I’ll decide after dinner (tinned food now; Campbells “Sirloin Steak with Hearty Vegetables” with powdered mash.<br />
<br />
<b>2228: 38° 36.4”N 49° 48.7”W Hove to</b><br />
Remaining here overnight, making 3 kts to the north east – not bad, eh?<br />
<br />
<b>Thursday 24th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0726: 38° 43.6”N 49° 20.0”W Hove to</b><br />
All change! A hooley blew up in the night, still raging, 25 gusting 30. Apart from the 30° heel to port and occasional knockdown wave, it’s quite comfortable really. made 23 miles in the right direction overnight, so not so bad. With a tail wind I’ll be prisoner of the helm once I get going, so need to make sure I’m bodily prepared. Meanwhile, back to bed as daylight approaches.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1030: 38° 44.4”N 49° 09.8”W Hove to</b><br />
MV Nalinee Naree passed close by. Called for a forecast: Wind South west F6 to 7, seas high, 4 metres (as now) for next 24 hours at least. So do I risk sailing downwind in this, or wait, hove to, drifting slowly east but adding days to my passage?<br />
Made 94 miles in past 24 hours.<br />
I’m safe now as long as she continues to hold together. The wind itself is manageable to sail, but the swell is formidable, risking loss of control and broach. With my rig compromised as it is, that could be fatal. I’m tempted to try it anyway because action is preferable to sitting in the saloon, reading, sleeping, and eating my dwindling food supplies and drinking my precious water.<br />
I keep thinking about my children, and my grandchildren, two of whom I’ve never met. I’ve thought a lot about my girls since that whale strike, and I’m desperate to be with them once again, and not perish out here alone on a wild and unforgiving ocean.<br />
So common sense prevails. I’ll carry out an inventory of supplies and figure how best to eke them out for another couple of weeks. I could be hove to for days, but, as I keep reminding myself, I’m still making way in right direction, albeit at a crawl.<br />
Time for some reflection. Is it possible to be bored and scared witless at the same time? I keep fighting rising panic, but there’s nothing more I can do, and worry won’t solve anything. I’m mightily disappointed that the Great Adventure is going so badly down the pan. Because, Dear Reader, there’s an elephant in the room. Have you spotted it yet?<br />
When I get to Horta I’ll need to haul out and get a full survey done. Whatever the problems are, it’s not going to be cheap to make the boat seaworthy once more. It will cost thousands of euros and will take weeks.<br />
So I’m seriously looking at cutting my losses, hand her over to a broker to sell, and fly home to a more conventional, more sedentary life. With the state of my finances I have little choice.<br />
<br />
<b>1515: 38° 47.0”N 48° 54.3”W Hove to</b><br />
960 miles to go<br />
Huge morale booster this afternoon. Found a packet of chocky biscuits I’d forgotten about.<br />
<br />
<b>1900:</b> Still hove to; no sign of weather easing. Wind SW 25, 20 foot waves. Getting kind of used to all the noises: wind roaring in the sails, the howl of the rigging, thunderclap waves assaulting the exposed weather hull, water sloshing the saloon windows, gurgling and gushing beneath the hull, Creaking of the weather chainplates and clacking of the lee shrouds, and a host of anonymous cracks and rattles from all around. And all happening at a tempo that suggests racing along at ten knots, instead of held almost stationary flattened to the wavetops.<br />
Contemplating Chunky Soup with mash again tonight. Simple as that sounds, cooking anything is fraught with difficulty at this steep angle, with the cooker well past it’s gimble limits, and every so often a demolition ball wave knocks us down and judders the boat horribly.<br />
Another couple of hours till sunset, then I’ll eat and sleep. If I had any rum left, I’d get blathered.<br />
How do I feel, Dear Reader? Anxious, frustrated, sad, depressed even. Like an idiot for ever embarking on this mad enterprise. And bored.<br />
<br />
<b>Friday 25th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0940: 38° 44.0”N 47° 44.2”W Hove to</b><br />
900 miles to go<br />
Slept well. Current veered in the night, so we’ve made some ground to the south, but happily, more to the east. Wind eased for a while but now increasing once more. A mere 21 kts right now. Sky sullen grey with low cloud and rain, heavy at times. Sea remains big and formidable.<br />
Breakfast now, then decision time.<br />
<br />
<b>1117:</b> Looking at the sea and wind, risk of getting underway remains high, given my dodgy rig. Sitting tight for now, hoping for a change soon.<br />
<br />
<b>1200:</b> Hurrah. Wind shift. Right, here we go. Full foul-weather gear, 5 pre-rolled ciggies & lighter in plastic bag, apple in pocket, bottle of water, piss bucket. Hope to get some miles in today, hand-steering.<br />
<br />
<b>1805: 38° 40.4”N 47°02.0”W Co 090 Sp 6</b><br />
Just managed to tie off the wheel after a strenuous afternoon’s steering. Wind now north at 16 knots, so on a close reach – perfect. 30 miles in past five hours, not bad.<br />
Very cold now in this north wind.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2230: 38° 40.3”N 46° 24,5”W Co 100 Sp 7.5</b><br />
Flying!<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday 26th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0220: 38° 43.3”N 45° 48.0”W Co 110 Sp 7.5</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>0615: 38° 48.6”N 45° 19.7”W Co 110 Sp 5.5</b><br />
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<b>0920: 38° 49.3”N 45° 04.6”W Hove to</b><br />
Wind NE 5 knots – useless!<br />
Taking the opportunity of calm seas and wall to wall sunshine to clean the boat and fix a few breakages. Then I’ll motor east for a few hours until the wind veers back to SSE, then I can sail.<br />
<br />
<b>1155: 38° 53.0”N 44° 51.1”W Co 080 Sp 5.5</b><br />
Motorsailing. All chores completed.<br />
<br />
<b>1450: 38° 56.4”N 44° 28.6”W Co 080 Sp 6.5</b><br />
Engine off, sailing close reach. Beautiful day, calm sea, little cloud. Wind 10 kts SSE. Feeling positive.<br />
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<b>1830: 39° 00.1”N 44° 05.5”W Co 09-0 Sp 4.8</b><br />
Wind died in past 4 hours, now from south at 8 kts. Current helping to push us along. Sky milky; looks like a blow coming. Very tired; didn’t sleep much last night.<br />
Made 140 miles today. 735 miles to go.<br />
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<b>2000: </b>Motoring. Trying to keep mainsail filled to stop the loose mast wobbling.<br />
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<b>2130: 39° 02.6”N 43° 50.6”W Adrift</b><br />
Stopped engine. Now drifting becalmed on an oily sea, not a breath. And just when I was getting my mojo back. My wobbly mast is, well… wobbling. Really uncomfortable. Come back wind! I’ve got to sleep, wracked with fatigue. Then I’ll eat and think about what to do next.<br />
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<b>Sunday 27th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0550: 39° 1-.5”N 43° 54.5”W Becalmed</b><br />
Called MV Brotonne Bridge for forecast; Wind to pick up in next 6 hours, SSW 10-15, then SW 18 later. Very encouraging, hope it happens. 20 litres of drinking water remaining. Food also getting low; hope I don’t have to break into my emergency (2 year old) tins of spam – hate then stuff.<br />
I’ve drifted 4 miles west and 8 miles north – not good. Will need to get motoring after breakfast, despite the shaky mast.<br />
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<b>1810: 39° 07.5”N 42° 56.1”W Hove to.</b><br />
Just stopped to eat and rest after a long day at the helm. That weather forecast was spot on. Started sailing around 1030 in 10 knots, broad reach but wishing I could use the pole to run downwind. That of course is impossible without Georgina to hold course while I rig it. Dangerous to even try.<br />
Wind came up to 18 kts around 4 – wish I could have steered for longer, but hunger calls and I’m shattered.<br />
Because of drifting on a windless ocean overnight I only made 60 miles since yesterday. If I can manage 100 miles a day from here on I’ll make Horta by next Saturday. Um… we’ll see.<br />
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<b>2230: </b>Tanker MV Salamina - called for a forecast: “Low to the north tracking north east.”<br />
Okay, I can do DIY Wind. I would expect the wind to shift northwards behind the depression. So in preparation I’ve moved the preventer to the starboard side ready for a port tack downwind with the genny furled. Right now the wind is from 280 13 kts.<br />
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<b>Monday 28th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0003:</b> Having a cuppa, then we’re off.<br />
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<b>0330: 39° 15.6”N 42° 27.6”W Co 070 Sp 7.5</b><br />
Yeah, flying alright, but not on the ideal heading, that would be 110, but you can’t have everything. Still, it’s a respite because she’s steering herself once more. The strong and gusty norwester is giving us an exhilarating, if somewhat bumpy, ride, but if she loses it things’ll happen quickly. So it’s tea in the saloon, fully togged up and listening for trouble. Seems days since I slept.<br />
660 miles to go.<br />
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<b>0800: 39° 15.7”N 42° 29.9”W Hove to.</b><br />
Zonked out till morning. Needed it. Time to get going again.<br />
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<b>1435: 39° 13.4”N 41° 42.3”W Co Co 090 Sp 6</b><br />
Just spent a frustrating hour trying to get sails balanced for self-steering. It’s a close reach where she’s usually quite happy. But since the mast dropped the sails just don’t sit right – ‘course, the rips and missing sliders don’t help.<br />
On a happier note, just had a dolphin visitation, big pod that stayed 20 minutes or so. 38 miles so far today and hope to keep going overnight.<br />
620 miles to go.<br />
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<b>1752: 39° 15.9”N 41° 21.4”W Co 060 Sp 4.5</b><br />
Woke up after a deep and comfortable sleep below to find us still sailing quite happily… and to starboard, a huge grey container ship, MV Royal Klipper, a dutchman, very smart, very modern, very close!<br />
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<b>2210: 39° 21.4”N 40° 58.0”W Co 060 Sp 4.8</b><br />
Sailing close hauled. Going to bed – fingers crossed.<br />
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<b>Tuesday 29th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0230: 39° 30.2”N 40° 1”W Co 070 Sp 6</b><br />
Doddle, this. Cup of cocoa and back to bed. Cold now, brrrr.<br />
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<b>0735: 39° 31.6”N 40° 07.9”W Co 110 Sp 4</b><br />
The Wind Gods have looked kindly upon us – the winded shifted NNE, moving us gradually onto the heading we need as I slept. Of course, it will move east and then southeast, but then I’ll just tack and carry on. Just 540 miles to go.<br />
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<b>1342: 39° 22.7”N 39° 47.8W Co 110 Sp 3.6</b><br />
Motoring directly into wind since 1230, waiting for it to swing SE. Put another 20l diesel in the tank this morning. Still have 60l in reserve. Sky overcast, sea moderate with usual swell.<br />
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<b>1650: 39° 23.8”N 39° 33.6W Co 090 Sp 6</b><br />
Sailing again, engine off<br />
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<b>2210: 39° 31.9”N 39° 05.7”W Co 070 Sp 5.2</b><br />
Close hauled. Very lively.<br />
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<b>Wednesday 30th May 2018</b><br />
<b>0813: 39° 43.3”N 37° 59.2”W Hove to.</b><br />
Rough but useful night’s sailing. Called Dole Europa for forecast: S to SSW 18 to 25 kts over next few days.<br />
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<b>0925:</b> Underway again, easterly, quite fast. Huddled below as waves crash over the bow into the cockpit. She seems to be holding course well, but my, what a ride. Water pissing through the saloon hatch, everything wet. At least another day of this. Wind direction perfect, but a little less of it would be welcome.<br />
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<b>1314: 39° 42.2”N 37° 33.4”W Co 110 Sp 5</b><br />
Wind perfect now, less strain on the rig. 420 miles to go.<br />
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<b>1738: 39° 33.9”N 37° 05.0”W Co 160 Sp 6</b><br />
Wind no longer suitable for self-steering. Going to hand steer, heading due east, until I get tired.<br />
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<b>2133: 39° 27.4”N 36° 36.8”W Co 120 Sp 7</b><br />
Great sailing! She’s self steering again on a lively close reach. Couple of nasty squalls this afternoon. Saw another yacht heading west, but too busy on wheel to call her.<br />
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<b>Thursday 31st May 2018</b><br />
<b>0600: 39° 27.8”N 36° -6.7”W Hove to</b><br />
Hove to late last night, ate, and dropped into bed. Moved 15 more miles east during the night. Charging batteries now, breakfast, then another full day at the wheel. Squalls gone, clear sky, big moon.<br />
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<b>1200: 39° 22.9”N 35° 29.3”W Hove to</b><br />
Only 4 hours at the wheel, but so exhausting; had to stop for a rest. Waiting for wind and heavy sea to ease a little. Frustrating, since we were averaging 8 knots (peaking at 10.3). Be nice to sail downwind, but I’m already further north than I want to be – my destination lies 323 miles to the ESE.<br />
1430: Decision to heave to was the right one. 30+ knots wind and raging sea, waves like houses, lashing rain, boat heeled far over with water slopping over the leeward saloon windows. I tacked before heaving to, to leave us pointing east. So making 3 knots in the right direction. I could just sit here and let the storm push us the rest of the way (in about 6 more days). Plenty to read – wish I could say the same about food and water. No ships about, so no forecast.<br />
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<b>1545:</b> AIS alarm woke me up. MV Verad, 3 miles east and heading right for me. Called on VHF. Yes, he sees me – I’m not to worry. Yes, he has a weather forecast for me: Strengthening winds overnight and tomorrow morning, perhaps easing in the afternoon. Bugger! Took a picture as she passed close by (not very good due to conditions).<br />
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<b>1952: 39° 19.1”N 34° 54.2”W Hove to</b><br />
Wow! Moved 40 miles east since noon – that’s about 5 knots. Not bad, eh? Back to the book.<br />
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<b>Friday 1st June</b><br />
<b>0705: 39° 24.7”N 34° 00.3”W Hove to</b><br />
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<b>0900: </b>Wind easing, getting underway.<br />
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<b>1040: 39° 27.6”N 33° 46.5”W Co 120 Sp 7</b><br />
Wind from south at 19 knots. Sea heavy, Island Spirit doing okay, me, hopeful for journey’s end with 247 miles to go – I usually enjoy the passage more than the arrival. This time, not! Water tank nearly empty, 10 litres of drinking water left.<br />
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<b>1214: 39° 24.4”N 33° 27.6”W Co 120 Sp 6.5</b><br />
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<b>1953: 39° 15.9”N 32° 32.9”W Co 120 Sp 6.5</b><br />
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<b>Saturday 2nd June 2018</b><br />
<b>0326: 39° 14.9”N 31° 24.0”W Co 100 Sp 5.5</b><br />
Been up all night due to proximity of land and risk of fishing vessels. The sweeping loom of Flores lighthouse visible to the north. Making due east right now but will ease further south in the morning. The island of Faial (my destination) lies 135 miles ESE. In buoyant spirits.<br />
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<b>0825: 39° 11.9”N 30° 48.3”W Co 120 Sp 4.8</b><br />
109 miles to go. Managed to coax her closer up wind, but still; not enough south. Good enough for now, reckon I’ll get with 20 miles before I need to motor upwind. Porridge for breakfast, with honey and cinnamon. Yum yum!<br />
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<b>1020:</b> Wind eased back to 12 knots, still southerly. Sky pretty choatic with multiple cloud types at various levels, a few scant blue patches. Sea moderate with residual 2m swell. Many cape petrels skimming the waves, a few vessels around on AIS, none visual. Occasional babble of Portuguese on VHF.<br />
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<b>1620: 39° 06.9”N 30° 06.4”W Co 115 Sp 4.2</b><br />
80- miles to go – just want it over now.<br />
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<b>2055: 39° 03.7”N 29° 43.3”W Co 110 Sp 4.5</b><br />
Slow going. Still heading too high, but we’ll tackle that in the morning. 63 miles to go. With luck I’ll be in the marina tomorrow night.<br />
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<b>Sunday 3rd June 2018</b><br />
<b>0440: 38° 54.8”N 29° 00.6”W Co 130 Sp 5</b><br />
Wind shifted slightly, now SSW 17 kts. If it continues to veer I could sail all the way, but unlikely it will swing quickly enough. Intention now is to tack when I’m 10 miles north of the island and work my way anti-clockwise around the coast (Horta is on the southeast corner of Faial). An alternative, and much shorter route, is the Faial Canal, the narrow channel between Faial and Pico. A tempting shortcut, but with adverse winds funnelling through, short choppy waves, and rip tides around the headlands, it could put too much workload on my wobbly rig, I think not.<br />
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<b>0830: 38° 44.6”N 28° 44.8”W Co 235 Sp 4</b><br />
Unbelievable! After 2 weeks broken, the fluxgate compass decides to come back on line. Georgina now at the helm, steering us for the rugged lava flows at the western tip of Faial. Motor-sailing right now, but who knows what we might get closer to shore.<br />
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<b>1200: 38° 33.0”N 28° 54.2”W Co 120 Sp 5</b><br />
So much easier tacking with Georgina at the helm. 14 miles to the marina – looking forward to my first shower in a month and a slap-up dinner in a nice restaurant.<br />
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<b>1630:</b> Docked at Reception Quay in Horta Marina. Berthed right ahead of me, Norsa, my Welsh friends from Antigiua. And there to meet me on the jetty is Norman himself, who gives me a big hug, causing me almost to well up. “Get yerself booked in, old chap,” he growls, “then come aboard for a beer or two.”<br />
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I did just that, Dear Reader, and got thoroughly smashed.<br />
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Follow Island Spirit’s diagnosis and repair programme in the next posting, as well as a flavour of this wonderful island.<br />
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Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-80775708302308128582018-06-13T17:07:00.000+01:002018-06-13T17:07:10.774+01:00Bermuda to Sao Miguel (Part one of two – a prelude to disaster) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Log of the Island Spirit MMSI 235113215 </b></div>
<b>Monday 14th May 2018 <br />All times GMT </b><br /><br /><b>1414 Departed St George’s Harbour <br /><br />1500 Position: 32° 24.6”N 64° 36.5”W Course 065°M Sp 4.2 kts </b><br />It’s a beautiful sunny morning with a (too) gentle breeze WNW. Running with wind over port quarter, reefed main (with preventer) and full genoa bellying out like a Wagnerian goddess in late pregnancy. Funny incident just after leaving the channel; a tropic bird thought to make advances to my wind-turbine, not sure whether hostile or amorous, but it hovered in front of it for a good few seconds before squawking in frustration and flying off.<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last of Bermuda</td></tr>
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So, Dear Reader, how was Bermuda? I hear you ask. <br /><br />Quite pleasant, for a brief stay. Apart from the stinging prices, the place is strangely short on character. Though the permanent residents seem quite quirky and outgoing, I was disappointed with the uninteresting neatness of the place, and the lack of engaging wildlife; few birds (except sparrows and ducks), hardly a seabird anywhere. Night time brings out a cacophony of whistling treefrogs, their rhythmic shrieking ringing out across the water from the shrubbery above town. Lord knows what they eat, for there’s a noticeable lack of insect life; No mozzies, which is good, no butterflies, which is bad. I found myself longing for the suspect smells of the Antilles; heaven forbid the faint whiff of an open sewer or an indolent down-and-out begging a dollar for food. No folks, Bermuda is squeaky clean; pristine villas amid well-kept lawns and resplendent flora, quaint, tidy shops lining unlittered streets, buildings smartly liveried in pastel shades, and the ubiquitous dazzling white roofs, frequently re-rendered and cleaned to ensure no drop of rain water is wasted. The churches – of which there are many – are particularly splendid; spectacular blinding white edifices standing imperiously amid perfectly landscaped graveyards crowded with glorious subtropical blooms. <div>
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My navigation plan is to head out on 065°M (050°T) for about 300 miles, to around 38°N, then take the Great Circle route to the Azores. The wind currently, is a bit moody; at times I’m barely making 3 knots. I expect it to back SW over the next few hours so I can wear round onto starboard tack, and hopefully maintain that for the rest of the passage. </div>
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<br />This morning’s weather forecast mentioned the first of the season’s disturbances possibly developing into a tropical cyclone off Cuba. Very early, and hopefully it will fizzle out. Or at least, not track north. <br /><br />I’ve improvised the two awning side panels to act as dodgers on the after guardrails in order to mitigate the worst washovers later on when it will get rough. Must get some proper ones made in UK, with Island Spirit painted on them. <br /><br /><b>1900: 32° 34.4”N 64° 24.2”W Co 070 Sp3.5 </b><br /><br />Sailing “goosewinged”, main slightly by the lee with a preventer. Lack of wind and slow rolling making genoa irritable. Going to suffer it a few more hours in hope of better wind. Not much choice, really, unless I head up north – reluctant to take the longer, windier route. Gambling my decision is the right one – only time will tell. Four hours till sunset, sky clear wall to wall. Lost sight of Bermuda. <br /><br />Thinking about my sailplan. Really it needs the pole out, but I’m loth to rig it with night coming on and no certainty about the wind. It should be backing and increasing, but no sign of that yet. If no change by sunset I’ll head north on a broad reach; at least that’ll give me overnight peace. Could have wished for a better start. <br /><br />An hour later: I’ve had enough of the turbulent genny, so now heading 040°, making 4.5 kts on a very pleasant broad reach. Now I can relax. I can always make up my eastward progress when the wind gets back into line. <br /><br /><b>2225: 32° 49.2”N 64° 16.8”W Co 050 Sp 3.8 <br /><br />Tuesday 15th May 2018 <br /><br />0342: 33° 03.0”N 64° 12.0”W Co 055 Sp 4 <br /><br />1025: 33° 32.1”N 63° 59.2”W Co 070 Sp 4 </b><br /><br />Thinking about rigging the pole. <br /><br />1250: Decided in the end, rather than faffing about with the pole on a rolling deck, to go “Clipper”. If the technicalities of sailing don’t interest you, Dear Reader, feel free to skip this next section. <br /><br />So, engine on, roll away the genoa, turn upwind and drop the mains’l. Up to the mast (harnessed of course) stow the mains’l. Fasten a roller block to the end of the boom, unreeve the starboard genny sheet and feed it through the block on the boom, then re-reeve it through the traveller, deck roller, and back to the winch. Position the boom out to starboard, almost touching the shroud, haul taut the preventer to keep it there. Haul out the genny until clew is a half metre from the block and secure it there. Job done. </div>
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<br /><br />Four knots; hardly seems worth the effort, I think, watching that great big sail fanned out to leeward as I eat my breakfast. Problem is, my genoa is just too big and heavy for these light and troublesome winds. When the boat rolls on the swell gravity takes charge and the sail collapses, filling again with a judder and jerks the boom upwards. I realise too late I should have slackened off the vang line; a bad nip at that angle has caused it to chafe and fail. Not enough rope remaining to repair it, and no spare of the right size. No big deal really. Annoyed with myself though. <br /><br />The wind remains stubbornly in the west, so continuing on 030°. To much north for too little east but can’t be helped. Will defer any further decisions till this afternoon. <br /><br />Just visited by a solitary booby, first bird since yesterday’s tropic bird. Just swooped low and close then continued northward as if beckoning me to follow. A sign, perhaps. <br /><br /><b>1505: 33° 47.6”N 63° 49.6”W Co 040 Sp 4.5 </b><br /><br />Wind picked up a bit, genny staying mostly filled. <br /><br /><b>1902: 34° 04.9”N 63° 44.1”W Co 030 Sp 5</b> (all these courses are Magnetic – for True, subtract 20°) <br /><br />Wind continues to pick up, but I’m still trundling northwards. <br /><br />2100: Hey! Feeling pretty chuffed with myself. Just finished rigging the pole on the port side ready to take the genoa sheet when I change tack, which eventually I must. The wind has picked up considerably, bellying out the genny tight as a drum and tugging us along at 6 knots. This has allowed me 20° to starboard, so at last I’m making ground to the east. <br /><br />Very pleasant afternoon; sunny with friendly seas. Although the Atlantic swell remains formidable, it’s become long and lazy, swaying us gently as we cream through an empty blue ocean. <br /><br />Made only 90 miles on day one, but hoping for 120 today. Still about 1900 miles to go, so early days yet. <br /><br /><b>2317: 34° 22.0”N 63° 30.4”W Co 072 Sp 5.5 </b><br /><br />Goosewinged, with genoa poled out. Yippie! <br /><br /><b>Wednesday 16th May 2018 <br /><br />0248: 34° 35.6”N 63° 13.4”W Co 080 Sp 6.5 </b><br /><br />We’re flying! <br /><br /><b>1000: 34° 55.8”N 62° 31.6”W Co 080 Sp 5.5 </b><br /><br />Woke up feeling tired after a pitchy night. Now in the Trade Winds proper, and that sweet strip of ocean between the risky calms of the Azores High and gale-ridden low pressure systems to the north. Trick is to stay in a sweet zone that constantly moves, swells and shrinks from day to day. Running goosewinged before 16 knots of wind, full genny on pole and two-reefed main. Despite slight asymmetry of rig, Georgina behaving like an angel, rudder gain at 2. <br /><br />Sea is moderate to rough, breaking waves and long, 10-foot rollers marching up from astern in battalions. Sky partly cloudy with scattered cumulus and bands of higher cirrus to the east through which the morning sun radiates a hazy warmth. Feeling decidedly cooler this morning; need to break out the salopette and seaboots soon. <br /><br />One small niggle: with the sails splayed out ahead like a giant butterfly, the solar panel is totally blocked from the forenoon sunshine. But post-meridian, we should get a good blast till sunset (clouds permitting). <br /><br />Having porridge for breakfast. <br /><br /><b>1415: 34° 58.4”N 62° 08.8”W Co 070 Sp 3.8 </b><br /><br />Wind dropped again. jinking north 10° to keep speed up. <br /><br />110 miles since yesterday, 200 miles from Bermuda, roughly 1750 miles to Azores. <br /><br />May need to change sailplan again and head further north. We’ll see. <br /><br /><b>2155: 35° 20.9”N 61° 44.3W Co 055 Sp 4.8 </b><br /><br />Feeling sleepy. <br /><br /><b>Thursday 17th May 2018 <br /><br />0452: 35° 46.4”N 61° 23.4”W Co 055 Sp 5.2 </b><br /><br />AIS Collision alarm woke me up. Sailing vessel ‘Johanna’ overtook to port. She’s doing 5.7 knots, so long vigil until she’s clear. She’s wearing a steaming light, so assume she motoring. Strange. <br /><br /><b>0942: 36° 05.5”N 61° 01.1”W Co 075 Sp 6.5</b> (Variation now 18°, so subtract that to get True) <br /><br />Made 120 miles today. Johanna called and exchanged pleasantries. They had a problem with their rig last night and decided to wait for daylight before fixing it. They’re now pulling ahead of me at around 7.5 knots, so I’ll lose sight of them sometime today. <br /><br />Another 300 miles or so and I’ll pick up the northern route Great Circle to Flores, the westernmost island of the Azores archipelago. Hoping the wind moves around with me, or else I’ll need a new sailplan. I note the Johanna has her pole out to starboard. Mine is out to port. <br /><br /><b>1800: 36° 36.5”N 60° 13.4”W Co 080 Sp 5 </b><br /><br />A fine afternoon’s sailing, warm, sunny, not too rough, log speed touching 8 knots at times. Wind eased off a little now. Johanna still in sight, hull down on the horizon; she’s half a knot faster. <br /><br /><b>2257: 36° 47.3”N 59°48.4”W Co 085 Sp 4.5 <br /><br />Friday 17th May 2018 <br /><br />0600: 37° 03.5”N 59° 06.9”W Co 075 Sp 6 <br /><br />1000: 37° 18.3”N 58° 40.9”W Co 075 Sp 7 </b><br /><br />Uncomfortable night. Awoke tired with backache. <br /><br />Everything is damp up top from heavy dew, even the two comfort seats which I stowed under the sprayhood last night. Need to start bringing them below at night. <br /><br />The sea this morning is dark steely blue with breaking waves in 18-20 knots wind, still up our chuff. Swell giving us wild and unpredictable lurches, hence the discomfort last night and probably caused the backache. Still, the increased wind is welcome. <br /><br />Again, the sun rises behind the main, so no solar panel till past noon. Sky fairly clear with wispy cirrus waiting to be consumed by the heat of the day. Though it’s getting gradually cooler; wore clothes today: shorts, T-shirt and lightweight fleece. Will try to keep feet naked until toes tingle – better grip when moving around. <br /><br />A bit of chaffing on genny sheet where it comes through the pole – not unexpected. So now I’ve hung a block on the end of the pole and run the sheet through that. A bit unconventional, but it works. <br /><br />No vessels in sight, or on AIS. A few perished flying fish on deck this morning, and beginning to see Cape Petrels, a sure sign of more temperate climes. <br /><br /><b>1400: 37° 33.0”N 58° 12.6”W Co 080 Sp 7.5 </b><br /><br />The sea has become angry and dangerous. Just spent an hour re-securing the dinghy after a big wave moved it, causing it the chafe against the gantry. Wedged in a couple of fenders to keep it clear of sharp corners. <br /><br />The big swells are giving Georgina a few problems, especially when we go surfing, up to ten knots on the crest then dropping back to five in the troughs. When this happens the genny collapses then snaps taut with an almighty crack that shudders through the bones of the boat – heard out of context you’d swear it was a thunderclap directly overhead. <br /><br />Still bright and sunny, making good progress, 140 miles today. I wanted wind, and I’ve got it, and now I could wish for a gentler passage. Be careful what you wish for, eh? <br /><br /><b>1921: 37° 45.8”N 57° 34.1”W Co 080 Sp 7 </b><br /><br />Hard day at the office; sea rough and horrible today. Wanted to make less ground to the north but my sailplan needed revision. First attempt I lost control of the genoa trying to furl it away. Poor Georgina lost it totally and went round in circles while I wrestled the main sheets. Eventually got the genny furled amid much horrendous flogging; came close to shredding it. <br /><br />Next up, had to change the pole to the starboard side. Unclipped from the mast to clear the short forestay, nearly had it clipped back on when she rolled heavily, and I dropped the bloody thing 6 foot to the deck in order to save myself. Luckily no damage, and eventually got it rigged and hauled out. Decided to move it forward to use less sail; to give more symmetry with the main. Now I’m not happy with the lateral angle of the pole; it should be horizontal, but the shortened sail pulls it too high. I need to slide it further up the mast to compensate, but that will have to wait until tomorrow. I’m knackered and hungry. <br /><br />Georgina struggling to keep her downwind with all this sea smacking our behind; twice now she’s backed the genoa. New sailplan not such a good idea. Need to think. <br /><br /><b>2034:</b> Okay, plan B. Furled away the genny, and now cruising comfortably on main only, making 5 to 6 knots. Left the pole out in case things improve tomorrow. Looking forward to a restful night. <br /><br /><b>Saturday 19th May 2018 <br /><br />0442: 37° 42.0”N 57° 00.1”W Hove to </b><br /><br />Find out in the next post why I’m stationary in mid Atlantic, and how a whale nearly did for me. A hair-raising tale to follow. </div>
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Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-19633291252514681872018-05-11T14:14:00.000+01:002018-05-11T14:23:09.080+01:00Island Spirit: Solo Atlantic Crossing<b>Log of the Island Spirit MMSI 235113215</b><br />
<br />
<b>Jolly Harbour Marina, Antigua, West Indies<br /><br />Wednesday 25th April 2018</b><br />
<br />
Well, this is it, my biggest challenge yet.<br />
<br />
I arrived here in Antigua a week ago, following two weeks languishing in Fort du France (Martinique) and before that, a couple of days in Bequia. The last five days I’ve been feverishly preparing to cross: stocking up with dried and tinned food (plus 80 litres of bottled water), stowing the dinghy on the foredeck (deflated), servicing the engine, sorting out a couple of compass glitches (new lamp on the steering compass and a compass swing to resolve a fluxgate issue), servicing the autopilot, and fixing a million things that have broken over the past year. All that remains is to store up with fresh meat, fruit and veg, and pre-cook loads of stews, casseroles, and bolognaise sauces to stow in little portion-pots in the fridge, fill up with fuel and water, and keep an eye on the Atlantic weather. There are a couple of nasty-looking lows up there at present, which I hope will fizzle out over the next few days; I leave on Tuesday (1st May) with the option of north to Bermuda, or straight to the Azores. The latter is horrendously long for a single-hander but will shorten the overall passage time by possibly a week. The wind conditions in situ will determine which I choose. <br />
<br />
My biggest fear is the performance of the autopilot in heavy weather. Time and again during my island hopping it’s failed to cope, causing me endless hours of hand-steering, unrelieved discomfort, and exhausting sleep-deprivation. With the prospect of two or three weeks of near-gale winds in heavy seas, I’m obviously a little apprehensive. (I’m the only lone sailor I know that doesn’t have a wind-vane self-steering rig for ocean crossing, something I’ll be aiming to rectify in Europe. <br />
<br />
When I’ve saved a few pennies.)<br />
<br />
Still, I have a couple of plans in mind should I encounter the worst. First, I plan to use a trailing kedge anchor on a long rope and swivel to help prevent accidental broaching in heavy following seas, and if I become too exhausted or unable to leave the wheel to eat, I’ll simply heave to for a couple of hours. <br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday, May 1 2018</b><br />
<br />
<b>1300:</b> Slipped from marina dock then spent an hour drifting and circling near the fuel dock, waiting for a Swedish yacht to fill up and leave, and shrugging helplessly to the small group of friends gathered there to see me off. It transpired that the fuelling crew were late back from lunch.<br />
<br />
Finally got alongside and fuelled up, then almost tearful goodbyes from my new-found friends: Lewis, a fellow single-hander who works in the City of London financial district, a pleasant young man with his long-keel, 32 ft sloop in whom he plans to follow in my wake when his essential repairs are completed; Pete and Sue, an engagingly homely couple of live-aboards from Cheshire, Norman and Sara from South Wales who’ve already sailed their yacht, Norsa, around the world and seem ready to do it all again. Must also mention Ex-naval officer Adrian and wife, Sam, running a yacht delivery business while living aboard their own beautiful sloop, Neva, who helped me fix my steering compass and make a lovely cup of tea from their coveted store of PG Tips. Finally, Canadians Scott & Beverley, who kindly donated their leftover dry provisions before leaving their boat, Rose Lee, and flying home. Lovely people all, who became firm friends over the short, fortnight break in Jolly Harbour Marina. <br />
<br />
<b>1400:</b> Dropped anchor outside the harbour in order to play with my sails, and make final adjustments to Georgina, my sometimes-wayward autopilot. Got out my storm trysail (first time out of it’s bag) and hoisted it on the spinnaker halliard. The rig worked fine, once up, but proved awkward to handle on deck in a stiff breeze. Dread having to deploy it in heavy weather – just hope I get plenty of warning, should the weather-gods take unkindly to us.<br />
<br />
<b>1600:</b> Departed for Bermuda running before an Easterly Force 4-5, fully reefed main and three quarters of genoa giving us a bouncy 6.5 knots in a choppy sea. It’s a lovely sunny evening and right now I’m feeling pretty good.<br />
<br />
Sailing a broad reach with compass heading 005° (350°T, allowing for Variation) until we clear the island reefs, then I plan to come round to 020° to make Bermuda while keeping east of any bad weather from the US coast.<br />
<br />
<b>1830: 17° 15’N 61° 50’W, Course 020°M Speed 6.7kts.</b><br />
<br />
Sunset: Close reach under 18 kts of wind. Georgina behaving herself, although a little graunchy at times in a 2m beam swell and choppy cross-sea.<br />
<br />
<b>2000: 17° 27’N 61° 59’W Course 027°M Sp 7 kts.</b><br />
<br />
Close reach with 17 kts wind, rolling heavily from a long but weighty beam swell. A full (ish) yellow moon rising behind ominous-looking cumulous clouds. Possible squalls coming my way.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday, May 2 2018.<br /><br />0600: 18° 26.5’N 62° 11.4’W</b><br />
<br />
Feeling tired and dispirited due to my diligent half-hourly wake-ups to check for shipping. After clearing Barbuda, however, with nothing but open ocean for the next 950 miles, reverted to hourly intervals. By 4am I was thoroughly bushed, and, relying entirely on AIS to keep me warned of any impending collision, I slept fitfully through till 6. <br />
<br />
As presaged by those heavy clouds from the east, it was indeed a squally, squally night, but as the sun came up on a clear sky, my spirits were lifted by a flock of terns swooping and chirruping around us, diving gracefully into the rolling breakers to catch their morning feed.<br />
<br />
<b>1000: 18° 48.7’N 62° 11.4’W Co 020°M Sp 5</b><br />
<br />
Beam Reach, with slightly reduced wind. Choppy seas on a long, westerly swell. Partly cloudy.<br />
<br />
<b>1410: 19° 12.7N 62° 14.5’W Co 020°M Sp 7</b><br />
<br />
Mostly fine sailing so far. Weather warm and balmy with 15 kts of wind, but the heavy seas make an uncomfortable ride in the confusion of swells. Haven’t touched the wheel or the sails since yesterday afternoon. Well done, Georgina, though I wish you wouldn’t use so much wheel. <br />
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<b>1600:</b> Haven’t quite got my sea-legs, or into the ‘cruising groove’ yet, so spirits sagging occasionally and not eating well. Taking it a day at a time. Made 150 miles today.<br />
<br />
The sea is a boiling tableau of iron blue, hung with vast orange patches of floating sargasso, sometimes in long, ugly streaks, often huge islands of the stuff. I fancy catching a fish and look longingly at my rod. But fishing is definitely out of the question with all this floating weed to snag my gear.<br />
<br />
No seabirds now, but earlier came on deck to frantic squealing as a huge flock of dark grey, unidentified birds (sleek and tern-like) dived into the hidden bounty beneath the boat.<br />
<br />
An hour later, and the sky to the northeast is now streaked with mares tails; change is coming, and already I see a dark mass of towering cumulous gathering from windward. It’ll be several more hours before we feel its influence, and anyway, I’m as reefed as I can be and all secured below. Barometer remains steady at 1022mb, so any disturbances, however wet and violent, are likely to be brief.<br />
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<b>1947: 19° 46.0’N 62° 20.0’W Co 202°M Sp 6.5 kts.</b><br />
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<b>Thursday May 3 2018<br /><br />0001: 20° 12.9’N 62° 21.6’W Co 202° Sp 7.5</b><br />
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Georgina struggling to steer in heavy squalls. I don’t intervene, however; I need to know she can handle whatever the central Atlantic throws our way over the next month. She’s oversteering badly, and I’m worried she might tack and heave us to, or worse, broach and cause an uncontrolled jibe. Watching her carefully and thinking about that sea-anchor rig, among other options. Now it comes down to it, I’m hugely reluctant to deploy that heavy anchor, with all its attendant drag, not to mention the undue strain on the quarter-cleats.<br />
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<b>0600: 20° 50.8’N 62° 22.1’W Co 202 Sp 7</b><br />
<br />
There’s another yacht just a few miles ahead of me. I spotted her earlier on AIS, Avocet, American MMSI number. She’s a sloop, like me, but bigger, around 45ft, with a similar sailplan; two reefs and shortened genny. I’m slowly overhauling her as she crosses my bow right to left. I’ll pass clear to her starboard.<br />
<br />
At about two hundred yards abeam I think about calling her, but my VHF is off to save power, and she may not appreciate being forced to transmit for the same reason. So I leave the radio off. (Chagrined to learn later that she was calling me, eager to exchange greetings.)<br />
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<b>1030: 21° 21.5’N 62° 27.8’W Co 015 Sp 7</b><br />
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Avocet still in sight, but dropping slowly astern.<br />
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<b>1100: 21° 25.4’N 62° 28.3’W Co 015 Sp 6</b><br />
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Wind veers to the southeast, so now on a very broad reach. Gave out a little on both sheets. Luckily (or cleverly, smarmy git!) I was ready with a preventer on the main boom, and quickly knotted it on. The change wasn’t entirely unexpected.<br />
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<b>1425: 21° 46.8’N 62° 32.6’W Co 005 (ish) Sp 6</b><br />
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Avocet has disappeared into a squall, who’s influence is affecting us with 30 knot gusts in its northern acceleration zone. Georgina decided she’s had enough, and suddenly disengages her clutch, causing us to slew to windward and heave to. I Heave in the mainsheets and ware round back on course, but five minutes later, it happens again. I get out the 3mm Alan-key and tightened up the clutch, then set Georgina to wind-vane mode. Seems okay now but need to watch our course. She still oversteers quite alarmingly, not very encouraging for the long passage northeast after Bermuda.<br />
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<b>1800: 22° 10.7’N 62° 40.9’W Co 010 Sp 7</b><br />
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My first cooked meal: beef stew. Lovely. Feeling much more alive and optimistic tonight – in the groove at last. I could easily steer northeast now, and miss Bermuda; three weeks or more at sea no longer seems daunting. Still, I’ve never been to Bermuda, and my curiosity wins out in the end.<br />
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<b>2110: 22°33.9’N 62° 48.9’W Co 010 Sp 6.8</b><br />
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No shipping about, AIS alarm set for collision warning at 12 minutes, and so to bed.<br />
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<b>Friday May 4 2018<br /><br />0225: 23° 10.4’N 62° 58.8’W Co 010 Sp 8</b><br />
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Woken up by high winds, the boat’s motion is rough and jerky due to our excessive speed, slewing and lurching like a fairground ride. Gave a long withering scowl at the clouds scudding across a gibbous moon, and went back to bed.<br />
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<b>0910: 23° 56.4’N 63° 13.2’W Co 010 Sp 7.5</b><br />
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Got out the Autopilot handbook to see if I could ameliorate Georgina’s erratic steering. Rudder gain seems to be the key, so tried reducing it from its default 5, to 2. Ah! This works. Much better. Short, gentle wheel movements, and less lurching about. Should have thought of this before… like three years ago? Duh. Feel such a dickhead.<br />
<br />
540 miles to Bermuda.<br />
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<b>1247: 24° 22.0’N 63° 20.5’W Co 010 Sp 7</b><br />
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The main saloon hatch is leaking badly, splashing me rudely awake from my afternoon snooze. Need to see if I can fix it in Bermuda. Meanwhile I stuff a towel between the hatch and the sunblind.<br />
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1<b>700: 24° 52.9’N 63° 28.0’W Co 010 Sp 8</b><br />
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25 knot winds caused by a heavy squall creeping up from starboard. Upped rudder gain to 3 to give Georgina more scope to recover from a big gust.<br />
<br />
The westerly swell has increased significantly over the last two hours, now 8 to 10ft with an obdurate cross sea knocking the bow brutally to windward. Georgina has coped so far (with her captain’s new-found competence); whether she manages in higher winds/seas remains to be seen.<br />
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Tonight’s dinner is baked potato with bolognaise sauce and grated cheese. I’ve been dry since Antigua but would dearly relish a tot of rum before dinner. I won’t risk it though, not in these changeable conditions.<br />
<br />
Have been naked for four days, but that won’t last much longer; already the nights are feeling cooler.<br />
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All in All, feeling pretty good; spending most of the time just reading and sleeping in the saloon (too wet in the cockpit).<br />
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A big tanker crossed my wake yesterday, but apart from that, I’ve seen no vessels since leaving Avocet behind. The ocean seems vast and empty, which fills me with a great feeling of tranquillity, at peace with the world, and at once, somehow removed from it.<br />
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Looking at the Idaho potatoes swinging in the net under the bimini, a thought occurs to me. They are obviously GM (genetically modified), which is banned throughout Europe. Each potato is of the same shape and size, perfect for baking. There are no blemishes or knobbly bits, no indents to make peeling awkward. In short, they are perfect; they could have been machine manufactured. And they will last far longer than conventional, or ’organicaly’ produced tubers. The only problem is, they lack the solid, earthy flavour of our home-grown varieties, and this is disappointing. So please don’t let this genetic perfection taint our Albion shores, tempting supermarket retailers and customers to cheaper, more convenient products and drive our valiant potato farmers out of business.<br />
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<b>2000: 25° 15.0’N 63° 33.4’W Co 010 Sp 7.5</b><br />
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And so to bed.<br />
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<b>Saturday May 5 2018<br /><br />0555: 26° 20.0’N 63° 53.5’W Co 010 Sp 7</b><br />
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A good night’s sleep (yup, slept right through the night), waking up to a clear dawn, Georgina keeping us effortlessly on course. I want to marry her. I lavish her with endless praise and apologise frequently for my erstwhile lack of regard to her needs. RTFM, you old fool!<br />
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<b>1110: 26° 52.5’N 64° 03.6’W Co 101 Sp 6.5</b><br />
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Barometer risen to 1024mb in past four hours. We’re nearing the western edge of the Azores High.<br />
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<b>1300: 27° 02.7’N 64° 05.9’W Co 010 Sp 6</b><br />
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The sky is virtually cloudless, wind down to around 14 knots, but the sea remains wickedly roistering, impetuous, even. It just took me twenty painstaking minutes to construct a simple cheese, ham & tomato sandwich, trying to balance and hold on while stopping the half-built sandwich from flying into the sink. I probably used up more energy in the process of making it, than my body received from it.<br />
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Last night I noticed my starboard navigation light was out. It irritates the hell out of me when something doesn’t work, especially when it’s too rough to go forward and fix it, if that’s even possible – no way to tell until I’ve investigated the problem. The consequence is that vessels approaching my starboard bow at night will not see me. Of course, any major vessel out here must have AIS, so will see me, and even most yachts carry it these days. So the risk is minimal for now. The problem will arise when I get close to Bermuda, which I calculate will be early Monday evening, with the much greater density of shipping. Not to mention entering St Georges harbour at night. I could manage to go up to the foredeck of course. In a real emergency. But a duff nav light in an empty ocean just doesn’t cut it.<br />
<b><br />1856: 27° 39.2’N 64° 16.4’W Co 010 Sp 6.5</b><br />
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With such a clear sky I was hoping to see the Green Flash at sunset, but alas, as the sun approached the western horizon, a band of distant cloud moved in and pissed on its parade. Had a pre-dinner tot tonight (It’s Saturday Night, after all), which went straight to my head. Enjoyed the chicken stew all the more for it, though.<br />
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<b>2325: 28° 06.4’N 63° 24.1W Co 013 Sp 6.5</b><br />
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Starry, starry night! Flipped back the bimini to just lie on my back and gaze up into the spangled heavens. Sea now slightly calmer.<br />
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<b>Sunday May 6 2018<br /><br />0336: 28° 30.7’N 64° 28.6’W Co 013 Sp 5.5</b><br />
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Lights of the cruise ship Anthem of the Seas clearly visible at 16 miles to starboard, obviously en route from Hamilton to St John’s, which she will probably reach by Tuesday morning and disgorge her hordes of Newlyweds, Overfeds, and Nearlydeads onto the beaches and shopping malls of Antigua. If that sounds cynical, then it’s supposed to be. I hate cruise ships for what they do to local environments, and how little they contribute to struggling island populations. Enclosed and cosseted holiday resorts are also off my Christmas Card list. End of rant. Back to bed.<br />
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<b>0640: 28° 48.0’N 64° 31.5’W Co 015 Sp 5.5</b><br />
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Pressure slowly rising, now 1026. High cirrus clouds with underlying fluffy cumulus to the east confirms the influence of the Azores High. Sea continues to slacken, the wind dropping. 220 miles to go, hope I don’t lose the wind in the last day of passage.<br />
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I usually like a cooked breakfast on Sunday mornings (Eggs, bacon, beans, and toast), but eying the cooker swinging wildly on its gimbals, I thought better of it, promising myself a postponed Full English in St Georges. Instead, I settled for porridge laced with ground cinnamon and nutmeg, then liberally drizzled with honey. Delightful!<br />
<br />
Feeling settled and at peace with the Universe. Atlantic Crossing? Bring it on. Coffee now, then back to my reading. Currently it’s: “We need to Talk About Kevin”, not really my kind of novel, but recommended by Lewis, and I’m finding it a surprisingly compelling read. Just wondering why Franklin never replies to her letters. Thinking he must have died, horribly, probably, at the hands of his sociopathic son. (That’s not a spoiler, I haven’t got halfway through the book yet. Just seems obvious.)<br />
<br />
While I’ve been writing, a thin layer of cirrus and alto cumulus has moved in to cover half the sky, continuing to encroach westward. So not much expected from the solar panel today. I’ve tied back the vane of the wind generator to stop it spinning around and stalling, so at least I’ve got a constant, if paltry, charge going into the batteries.<br />
<br />
Note on Power Management: Continuous use of autopilot takes a heavy toll on the batteries, plus the fridge, which is on all day7, but turned off at night (to make way for the nav lights). Instruments, chartplotters, VHF radio And AIS also use significant, if not excessive power. I run the engine for one hour mornings and evenings to keep the batteries charged, but on a good, sunny and windy day, I may sometimes manage with one hour a day.<br />
<br />
<b>1020: 29° 09.8’N 64° 34.5’W Co018 Sp 6</b><br />
<br />
200 miles to go. Going to try fishing. A traditional Sunday pastime.<br />
<br />
1<b>525: 29° 39.5’N 64° 36.4’W Co 025 Sp 5.5</b><br />
<br />
Fishing trawl out with a spoon lure. No enquiries yet, but maybe towards dusk???<br />
<br />
Wind shifted slightly to the south this afternoon, so changed course to 025°M. There’s a ship on AIS 20 miles ahead, heading for Florida. It’s CPA is 15 miles, so I doubt I’ll catch a glimpse of her. Otherwise, just a lazy Sunday afternoon.<br />
<br />
<b>1935: 30° 04.2’N 64° 35.8’W Co 025 Sp 5.2</b><br />
<br />
The Blue Ocean seemed barren today. No birds, no whale spouts, no dolphins or leaping mahi mahi, not even the odd flying fish. I know the two-mile column beneath festoons with trillions of creatures, but none grace me with their presence. Like intrepid fishermen since time began, I wind in my redundant lure and hope for better luck tomorrow.<br />
<br />
With my Kindle on charge, I’ve little to do but sit on the leeward quarter of the cockpit, contemplating the sugarscoop stern three feet below. It is almost constantly awash, because the boat sits too deep at the back end. It’s a problem I’ve tried to mitigate by moving half my spare fuel (60l) to the forepeak. That still leaves the three heavy batteries, which I can do nothing about, and another 60l of diesel which I will gradually transfer to the main tank as the voyage progresses. The one redeeming thought: less chance of pitchpoling should a storm come my way. <br />
<br />
Maybe.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday May 6 2018<br /><br />0043: 30° 33.9’N 64° 33.8’W Co 026 Sp 6.5</b><br />
<br />
Thank heavens the wind picked up; thought I was going to stall, becalmed, on the final day (which would have made it NOT the final day). <br />
<br />
<b>0844: 31° 20.4’N 64° 19.0’W Co 045 Sp 7</b><br />
<br />
Wind now gusting F7 from SSE. Increased swell making this sailplan uncomfortable and difficult. Need to think through my options. Best not to rush into a solution only to regret it later.<br />
<br />
<b>1010: 31° 33.0’N 64° 24.8’W Co 000 Sp 4.8</b><br />
<br />
So, that didn’t last long. The wind dropped back again but remains SSE. Here’s the problem.<br />
<br />
My ideal course for St Georges puts the wind directly astern. I don’t want to make ground to the east in case the wind shifts westerly, leaving me with a long beat back. So I’ve decided to roll away the genny and proceed on mainsail only: just wish I’d shaken out a reef yesterday when it was relatively calm. Still, making 5.5 knots now, and smack on course for an early evening ETA. My only slight niggle is that pesky nav light, that comes on intermittently, but is mostly out. Hopefully not too many harbour movements at night.<br />
<br />
<b>1400: 31° 52.1’N 64° 30.1’W Co 000 Sp 5.5</b><br />
<br />
30 miles to go, and I make my obligatory call to Bermuda Radio. No reply.<br />
<br />
<b>1840: 32° 11.8’N 64° 37.5’W Co 015 Sp 4.5</b><br />
<br />
11 miles to go, under engine and mainsail due to little wind. In contact with Bermuda Radio, who are monitoring my progress and will give me clearance to enter the channel after I’ve dropped the mainsail. All very procedural and ordered after the low-tech anarchy of the Antilles. Not sure which I prefer.<br />
<br />
<b>2200:</b> Berthed alongside St Georges Town Wharf after clearing customs at the customs dock. All fairly painless and straightforward really.<br />
<br />
Two Belgian guys from the yacht ahead of me took my berthing lines. I can manage alone, but was glad to stand on the (rolling) jetty and speak to someone apart from myself and Georgina (who rarely responds to my conversational gambits). They seemed incredulous that I was making the passage home alone; kept glancing down into the boat to see if I had a crew member hiding below. It surely isn’t that unusual these days?<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday May 7 2018</b><br />
<br />
It seems I can’t berth alongside, since all the berths are booked up by the ARC boats heading home to Europe. So I go out and drop anchor 100 metres offshore, and spend half the day getting my dinghy assembled and inflated. The upside of this is, no mooring fees, saving myself about $42 per day. It means I can stay here as long as I like. Mm, need to think about that.<br />
<br />
<b>Friday May 11 2018</b><br />
Still at anchor in St Georges. Planning to leave tomorrow, destination, Ponta Delgada, Sao Miguel, the easterly island of the Azores Archipelago. I'll be taking the 'middle route', 055<b>°</b>T to 38<b>°</b> then 070<b>°</b>T, total distance 1900NM, taking between 12 and 16 days, depending on the wind. This is the big one folks. I'll post again on the other side.Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-59888010690328790522017-12-12T14:54:00.001+00:002017-12-12T14:54:20.459+00:00Log of the Island Spirit (MMSI 235113215)– Carriacou to Martinique<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>End of a
long, hot summer.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hurricanes
Irma and Maria have all but wiped out some of the northerly islands but left us
largely unscathed; with only four precautionary moves into the mangrove lagoon
to avoid the easterly swells, we’ve been fortunate to have escaped the worst of
this season’s unusually high-category storms. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My final
week here turned gloriously convivial with the arrival of my old buddy, Jamie,
from Maine, and his friend, Sadie; memorable days and evenings at Off The Hook,
invariably ending with me climbing unsteadily into my dinghy to motor round the
bay in pitch darkness searching for my boat. The one exception was when I spent
a night up at Jamie’s hillside house, grateful for the cooler air, and for once
not to wake up in a pool of sweat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGSILn48hcAURJ8RHAPYqqcphr2gRRwi9EsSyOKDoPtcNfxlZWpTGaBgXHh0VrWiDsdzkGAUgowO_5nmRwHr38B5MkucROGx6s9ZVpmbN7sijLp9NJQvyB9VDsT99rnWQeF3-5HRXr9zf/s1600/J%2526C%2526Me.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="886" data-original-width="1181" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvGSILn48hcAURJ8RHAPYqqcphr2gRRwi9EsSyOKDoPtcNfxlZWpTGaBgXHh0VrWiDsdzkGAUgowO_5nmRwHr38B5MkucROGx6s9ZVpmbN7sijLp9NJQvyB9VDsT99rnWQeF3-5HRXr9zf/s320/J%2526C%2526Me.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Jamie & Curtis at Off de Hook</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifU9jT9RrSF3tsl9RA492kiax7l3p3-k4zwmQOC3OoFkRPmJIxTo8E79FGB-0hUlIq3Eci_WTNI9SJLL-zmnsxP47Yfo9php7I4_5_SSGahmWg9W1bGjcaxJ0QU8zjnUAaLGb3rO3FCOAc/s1600/Sadie%2526Mesm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="872" data-original-width="1162" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifU9jT9RrSF3tsl9RA492kiax7l3p3-k4zwmQOC3OoFkRPmJIxTo8E79FGB-0hUlIq3Eci_WTNI9SJLL-zmnsxP47Yfo9php7I4_5_SSGahmWg9W1bGjcaxJ0QU8zjnUAaLGb3rO3FCOAc/s640/Sadie%2526Mesm.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sadie & Me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Now, dear
Reader, after a languid nine months in Carriacou, the time has come to move on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Tuesday 28
November 2017<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>0800 –
Tyrell Bay</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hauled up
anchor and motored out into the offing, passing close to my friend, Hutch’s
boat to exchange shouted good-byes and hopes for fair winds. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A lovely
sunny morning with a brisk easterly breeze saw me around the west side of Union
Island. It then became quite blustery, with boisterous seas and winds gusting
20 knots; I was thankful to have shortened sail early on before it became
tricky. I’d intended to hit Admiralty Bay (Bequia) before nightfall, but with
the wind and current against me, it quickly became clear I wouldn’t make it. In
fact, owing to an awkward wind-direction, I had to sail well past my
destination, with the lights of Port Elizabeth twinkling teasingly on the
starboard beam and those of Kingstown (St Vincent) ahead, before I could tack
with any hope of making the bay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was well
after eight before I got into the lee of Bequia and started the engine for my
final run in to the anchorage. It was a moonless night and I spent the first
hour slipping between closely-moored boats, trying to find safe anchorage. Patchy
sea-grass made anchoring difficult in the dark; it took three attempts to find
firm holding ground, and by the time she held fast, I was splattered from head
to toe with silt and weed thrown up by the chain. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I took a
shower in the cockpit, dithering in the cool breeze as I hurried to dry off and
get below into the warm. (eighteen months in the tropics makes one kinda
thin-blooded, yanoo.). Afterwards, skipping supper, I flopped into my bunk,
sleeping soundly till the morning sun poured scorchingly through my cabin
window.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Wednesday 29
November 2017<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>0800 – Admiralty
Bay, Bequia</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbL5Xb8lz0CHYfhufIDuQpwFsnI6DuKn5dHtNP1KwjXL2FWykeuAWWuf-jFNnTToyPTXnCVPJuH7K7CeciinTxYOS4dA0Hqe-Dn_cIfsU3hmY3Tx6dXX7h6a-Q4uTZNEinY4IDxF_5bkP/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1181" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbL5Xb8lz0CHYfhufIDuQpwFsnI6DuKn5dHtNP1KwjXL2FWykeuAWWuf-jFNnTToyPTXnCVPJuH7K7CeciinTxYOS4dA0Hqe-Dn_cIfsU3hmY3Tx6dXX7h6a-Q4uTZNEinY4IDxF_5bkP/s640/1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admiralty Bay, Bequia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
A
hurriedly-cooked full-English, then lowered the dinghy and motored ashore to
clear into SVG (St Vincent & the Grenadines). Lunchtime found me at one of
my favourite bars, The Whaleboner, and I whiled away the afternoon chatting to
a nice couple; bare-boaters on vacation from Florida. They left as dusk began
to descend, and I myself wanted to get back aboard while I could still find my
boat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But as luck
would have it, paying my bill at the bar, I got chatting to a fellow
single-hander; a loquacious Englishman called Greg. Two hours later I clambered
into the dinghy and motored out into the pitch-dark bay. Fortunately, I’d
anchored fairly close to shore, so came home with little difficulty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Imagine,
dear Reader, sitting in the cockpit under the sparkling stars, drinking a
restful cup of tea and listening to the wind, when your ears are suddenly
accosted by a blast of Van Morrison from a nearby American-crewed catamaran.
Personally, I quite enjoyed the music, in my tranquil and semi-inebriated
state, but not so the French cat moored close astern of the American
music-lovers. After an hour or so, they’d had enough, and a tirade of Gallic
protestations floated over the water. When this had no effect, they resorted to
sounding off a hand-held foghorn; one of those gas-powered ones, the forlorn
wail of which is the very epitome of despair and disapproval. The Americans,
however, failed to hear this vexatious outpouring above their booming speakers,
now churning out fifties rock & roll. Then, in a lull between tracks,
someone popped a head out to see what the noise was about. The music then switched
to an old Edith Piaf song accompanied by an accordion, reducing the French boat
to a fuming silence. Very soon, however, all was quiet once more. A little
later, I turned in below.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Thursday 30
November 2017<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>0600 –
Admiralty Bay</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hauled up
anchor at first light. Horrible sea again between Bequia and St Vincent, with
lashing rain and fierce squalls all the way across. But getting into the lee of
the Island two hours later, the wind dropped, the water flattened, and, as I
motored up against the prevailing current, I realised I wasn’t going to get
far; I certainly wouldn’t make St Lucia before nightfall. Eventually, after
much fruitless deliberation, I dropped into Cumberland Bay, where a kind, local
chap took my warping line ashore and tied it to a palm tree. I was now anchored
in 12m of steeply-shelving sand with my stern secured ashore; a beautiful, densely
forested arbour with a scattering of shanty buildings along a narrow strip of
shingle, all of which I could scarcely make out through the torrential sheets
of rain that started almost as soon as I was secured. It was mid-afternoon when
the downpour suddenly ceased, so, with tendrils of mist rising from the
tree-clad hills, and a watery sun making a faltering appearance through
thinning clouds, I lowered the dinghy and went ashore to forage for supper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierRFQItqiK8TgLiRK7RM6cafKgUnB7sE5UGkEcz1t0zYipMYag2mnf2WT6dXr_SehCu5mX9Re6QBZznQ8XybAC6-og5oYBwNqJ8JithHvyLaENttLByqcjJW00j16yh1kfhvp44xxKp9J/s1600/CumberlandBay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="1181" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEierRFQItqiK8TgLiRK7RM6cafKgUnB7sE5UGkEcz1t0zYipMYag2mnf2WT6dXr_SehCu5mX9Re6QBZznQ8XybAC6-og5oYBwNqJ8JithHvyLaENttLByqcjJW00j16yh1kfhvp44xxKp9J/s640/CumberlandBay.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cumberland Bay: Rasterman Jo, bottom left. Island Spirit, far centre shot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Of the six quirky,
ramshackle restaurants, I finally settled for Mojito’s on the north side of the
bay. I was the only customer, and they quickly produced a dinner-table complete
with cloth and a chair, and bade me seated. While waiting for my grilled tuna,
I sat and chatted with Joseph Rasterman and a few of his buddies; all a bit
oddly dressed and fierce-looking, but friendly, with ready banter and good
humour, helped along with beer. And, dear Reader, the famous Vincie Mountain
Tea, which, I have to report, is great for getting up one’s appetite.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFbLWiPRDN3rYLmQyByEOEAjtDUL5pIW8OLkvrA5sU0bkKXRewrBlRTkCfWGIPKZsGN1UzQoG_6TwuGuNJ67YcBWp7p-llTwJDzl6mwzOdGdEcQqXjVR8oft6enVDBjbknddOBScNCVkGX/s1600/CumberlandBay2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1181" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFbLWiPRDN3rYLmQyByEOEAjtDUL5pIW8OLkvrA5sU0bkKXRewrBlRTkCfWGIPKZsGN1UzQoG_6TwuGuNJ67YcBWp7p-llTwJDzl6mwzOdGdEcQqXjVR8oft6enVDBjbknddOBScNCVkGX/s640/CumberlandBay2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset approaches in Cumberland Bay</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Friday 1<sup>st</sup>
December 2017<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>0500 –
Cumberland Bay</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Woke up and
cooked a hasty beans-on-toast, hoping for an early departure at first light. As
I ate, I realised I had stupidly hoisted the dinghy last night, so would need
to lower it again to untie myself from shore. I needn’t have worried however,
for through the morning gloom appeared a guy in a kayak, who waited patiently
alongside until I was ready to slip. So promptly at six, with the dawn light
looming over the hills, I chugged out into the offing once more, motoring on a
calm, windless sea with a single-reefed main and the headsail furled away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Gradually
the wind began to pick up, and by eight I was skipping along nicely with a
shortened genny and engine off. I knew it was going to be a rough and bouncy
crossing once I cleared the north tip of St Vincent; it always is. The Doyle’s Cruising
Guide warns that the St Vincent Channel northbound is “not for the
faint-hearted”. Last time I’d done it was with brother-in-law Nigel, and on
that occasion, we’d made a little extra ground to the west before hitting open
water, and had ended up very tightly close-hauled, battering into waves on a
short, choppy sea. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This time,
therefore, I decided to hug the coast, and give myself a broader wind-angle. By
the time I realised this was a mistake, it was too late. Yes, I had a good beam
reach while nicely pointed to St Lucia, allowing for considerable leeway. The
problem was not the wind, dear Reader, but that awful Atlantic swell that was
now quartering the boat and making for a most uncomfortable ride. Worse still,
the autopilot couldn’t cope, and I found myself hand-steering most of six-hour
crossing. At least if I’d been close-hauled, I would have been able to balance
the sails and tie off the helm. On a beam-reach in these seas, that was no
longer an option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJE-KH6SniGp_2oou_b8DWltekW8gO8OXj7GuG5nWhs1PSY5ibbbqosHkpWAy8UE5tCAR14MzsK23CR8sH8-gkeGCbf2hcZX7Hghsgw-vnpGGPRdl1AYA2yI0Px_j4vkqPD0RUx8M-FixK/s1600/Pitons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="1181" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJE-KH6SniGp_2oou_b8DWltekW8gO8OXj7GuG5nWhs1PSY5ibbbqosHkpWAy8UE5tCAR14MzsK23CR8sH8-gkeGCbf2hcZX7Hghsgw-vnpGGPRdl1AYA2yI0Px_j4vkqPD0RUx8M-FixK/s640/Pitons.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pitons, Saint Lucia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At last I
came under the lee of the mighty Pitons, and a couple of boats raced out to
offer me moorings at nearby Soufriere. Not interested, I told them, I’m heading
for Rodney Bay. They gave me their habitual stare of disbelief that anyone
could think of passing by such a wonderful opportunity, before roaring off to
find their next victim.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaBGEPkJmRao8ekVMfnbWaU8l1E6IY9uAphpwCPnhGzEpdkqEW-E3E9vpp8KSFUiFMpD7_OqzUub8TwP5P9mO5ggPfhttPC8XHnezXarx3QiRlpaI2VIi-I-UqjUXzM67XlBTbdt-TRqJ/s1600/Boatboys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="1181" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKaBGEPkJmRao8ekVMfnbWaU8l1E6IY9uAphpwCPnhGzEpdkqEW-E3E9vpp8KSFUiFMpD7_OqzUub8TwP5P9mO5ggPfhttPC8XHnezXarx3QiRlpaI2VIi-I-UqjUXzM67XlBTbdt-TRqJ/s640/Boatboys.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't need no mooring, man.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The wind off
the east coast of St Lucia is quite unpredictable, ranging between zero and
twenty knots, so that, while making reasonable progress, one has continually to
adjust for trim and watch out for sudden gusts. Passing the port of Castries, I
strayed rather too close under the massive bow of the Cunard cruise ship Queen
Mary 2, at anchor and disgorging passengers into a flotilla of liberty boats. I
passed safely by, however, and marvelling at her anchor chain, (individual
links as big as beer-barrels) decided to give them a courtesy call on the radio
by way of apology.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The response
was immediate: “Island Spirit, this is Queen Mary 2, please be advised I am at
anchor and unable to manoeuvre.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Gosh, who
knew?<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpctO70v7H8VAJyjyB_2S3uJLHLlFdo1MhjxMObbATDHE8lVGNXXfRTEEe13f2hjqJDExcZzZG8RVZzOSmS8e0LNRHBhnqw_i7TThCLeiKDAavTn0767tMvRY91_2kMmuHtDWwZ-CgFkAE/s1600/QueenMary2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1181" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpctO70v7H8VAJyjyB_2S3uJLHLlFdo1MhjxMObbATDHE8lVGNXXfRTEEe13f2hjqJDExcZzZG8RVZzOSmS8e0LNRHBhnqw_i7TThCLeiKDAavTn0767tMvRY91_2kMmuHtDWwZ-CgFkAE/s640/QueenMary2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen Mary 2, off Castries, Saint Lucia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was
almost five by the time I tied up in Rodney Bay Marina, too late to avoid the
EC$100 overtime charge at Customs & Immigration. Ouch!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This marina
is the destination of the ARC transatlantic race, and just now is when they
begin to arrive. I am therefore under notice that I may have to move berth if
they need it for an ARC participant, who always get priority over us mere
cruising rabble.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Saturday
morning I took the bus to Castries and met up with my old friend, John Morris,
a passenger on the Cruise ship, Columbus, and only in the port for six hours.
We haven’t seen one another for more than a year, so caught up over drinks and
lunch. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeUg7ErdWXSXUd9rXsLLsaQNY9d1NiziDXDxhVe_F9FSUk5Bzt6k9YHiyv8sbQJ3no45p5ylGkpoGLhI7CHn1uGGjNrYJs_M8qFg3Bf-Y1sZkEpOnINata__CHahK3-9nHVnyh_wVQPjc/s1600/Me%2526JM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1181" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeUg7ErdWXSXUd9rXsLLsaQNY9d1NiziDXDxhVe_F9FSUk5Bzt6k9YHiyv8sbQJ3no45p5ylGkpoGLhI7CHn1uGGjNrYJs_M8qFg3Bf-Y1sZkEpOnINata__CHahK3-9nHVnyh_wVQPjc/s640/Me%2526JM.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch with John Morris in Castries</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Afterwards, he hopped on a boat to rejoin his ship while I tootled off
shopping for fresh fruit and veg – bought loads of stuff I didn’t really need –
not used so much abundance, I guess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Getting
onboard later, I was accosted by the Norwegian crew of an ARC arrival opposite
my pontoon, and got invited on their boat for a drink. I accepted, of course,
with the caveat that I was tired and couldn’t stay long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“That’s
okay,” their skipper said, “We are going into the village to eat, soon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
However,
sleeping in my cabin later, I was woken by a slurring Scandinavian on the
pontoon calling “Mike, are you awake?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“I am now,”
I called back. I checked the time. It was 3am.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, I was
hijacked onto their boat once again; a Viking breakfast of beer and strong rum.
Eventually I realised just how drunk these people now were, and after a polite interval,
managed to extricate myself from their senseless ramblings and crawl back to
bed. This morning they were all very apologetic, miserably hungover, but being
good Norsemen, went straight back on the booze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I went
ashore for a quiet full-English in one of the Marina’s many eating-shacks, and
was once more accosted by ARC finishers, celebrating their safe arrival. This
pair, a Spaniard and a Brit (a garrulous Manchunian), had been drinking all
night, and now were breakfasting on the bottle of complimentary 60% rum given
to each participating vessel. Despite their impaired condition, I found their
company pleasant and not at all invasive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I spent the
remainder of the weekend resting, getting my laundry done, and chatting with
strangers at the bar, as one does in these places.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Tuesday
morning I chugged out to the anchorage in the bay, and remained quietly onboard
overnight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Wednesday 6<sup>th</sup>
December 2017<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>0800 - Rodney
Bay</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Weighed
anchor and headed north for Martinique. Clearing the headland, I careened into
a fifteen to twenty-knot easterly, and the roller-coaster over-falls north of
St Lucia, with a single-reefed main and three-quarter genoa on a close reach.
Once again, sea conditions precluded use of the autopilot, so hand-steered most
of the five-hour crossing. It was quite a nice sail, however, despite a couple
of nasty squalls, and I made Port du Marin anchorage in good time to get
ashore, clear customs, and fetch up at a bar for a cold beer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Here I sit
now, passing the days reading and writing, shopping ashore, and popping across
to the Marina occasionally for an Internet “fix”. Whilst here, I’ll be changing
my four (almost expired) batteries, for two spanking-new 160 AH AGM’s, which
will need a little bit of carpentry down below to make them fit the space. The
cost of this upgrade is fearsome, but I have little choice in the matter, and
here is the cheapest place in the Caribbean to buy them. I’m also investing in
a new anchor-chain to replace the pile of rust presently in the chain-locker.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Whist here
I’ve learned the wonderful news that I have a new Granddaughter. That makes ten
grandchildren so far: five boys, and five girls. All very symmetrical. So,
Congratulations to daughter Stephanie, proud father, Anthony, and young Bailey
who now has the sister he always wanted.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Oh, and the
other reason I’m here in Martinique: my friends Pamela and Steve are coming
here at the end of this month to join me for a three-week cruise of the
Grenadines. So I’ve got lots of cleaning and repairing to do over Christmas. No
rest… eh?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That’s all
for now, dear Reader. Hope you’ve enjoyed my ramblings. More to follow soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-84031452772021129012017-07-25T17:49:00.000+01:002017-07-25T17:49:39.496+01:00Life on a Boat in Carriacou<div class="MsoNormal">
A particularly striking feature of the Caribbean summer,
apart from the sultry, sauna heat, and the mind-numbing detonation of the
occasional tropical deluge, is the Royal Poinciana, standing proud and redly flamboyant
out of the lavish greenery of the lofty hillsides. Right now, a dozen of these
startling trees flare out of a swathe of banana and palms that reach down to a
windswept, reef-mottled ocean with her pointed islands, poking up like so many
green methuselahs. In the foreground, as I stand on the narrow roadway overlooking
Belmont, a long abandoned tin shack, as lonely as those scattered islets, it’s
rusty red carapace an almost exact colour-match for the showy flames beyond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At midmorning, I stop to rest in the shade of a gnarly old avocado
tree; nearby, a herd of goats stare at me in astonishment, as if they had never
once set eyes on such a phenomenon as a pale human taking a drink of water and
a chocolate bar. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Sunday morning walk lasts around three hours, long enough
in this climate. I end it by taking a shortcut; a tortuous rocky trail over the
forested hillside - where a thousand variously-sized lizards scatter before me,
and a three-foot snake makes me wish for something rather more substantial than
sandals on my feet - back to Harvey Vale, where I meet up with friends for
lunch at the Slipway Restaurant. Grilled Tuna with salad, followed by a rather
decadent mango cheesecake, and coffee, plus the two Bloody-Mary’s I started
with, rather quickly combine with the fatigue of walking – so I take my leave
and clatter the dinghy out to my boat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a short nap in the cockpit, I flash up the Internet and
look at the latest Atlantic weather. A small disturbance over the Cape Verde’s
has a 30% chance of developing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By Tuesday morning (18 July) it’s clear that Tropical Storm
Don (when they give it a name, it’s time to take notice) is heading our way. By
midmorning, boats all around the bay are hauling up and heading into the
mangrove. I do likewise. The lagoon’s pretty full by the time I get in, but I
find a space next to a big steel schooner, drop my kedge some way out, and
motor gingerly into the foliage, not quite getting the bow stuck in before the
keel comes up softly against the muddy bottom. Thus kedged and roped into the
dense roots, lines to the boats either side, I consider I’m safe as can be
made.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By noon, it’s raining stair-rods; shouts of latecomers
struggling with lines and anchors as they squeeze in where they can. A Frenchman
catches my kedge-line with his rudder, pulling me out of line. I manage to
untangle him and haul back in. Later he comes by in his dinghy to apologise. No
problem, say I, have a drink. Foreign voices call back and forth across the
lagoon; French, German, Dutch, Spanish, <i>American</i>;
all seagoing life is crowded here in a miraculous spirit of mutual support. A
tiny dinghy slips by, rowed by a handsome yachtswoman, two enormous dogs standing
rain-raggled in the prow, keening eagerly at their boat ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve done all I can to secure Island Spirit against the
worst – fingers crossed now for Don’s dissipation, or diversion from his direct-hit
trajectory. Okay, it may come to nothing (like last time), but it’s <i>never</i> worth taking the risk of staying
out there, exposed to all-hell and too late to move.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By 2pm, all is quiet. A few dinghies glide around the
lagoon, recording with phones and cameras this unusual gathering for the
enlightenment of friends and families back home, and no doubt for posting on
social media (don’t we all?). Some wave to me, or call a polite “Hi Mike!”, or “Good
Afternoon!”, as they pass sedately by. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There no Internet here (for me, at least), and the cockpit’s
too wet and open (without my side awnings) to use the laptop. Down below, with
all the hatches locked down, is like a sauna. So, not much to do. Except… get
out the rum bottle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the rain, the lagoon is all wobbles of reflected grey on
olive oil. In the green margins of dense vegetation, a huddle of sailboats gathered
together for safety – the Dutchman in the posh schooner tells me the latest
forecast is for Don to pass 7 miles north of us by 8pm tonight. A laughing gull
(not laughing now) dives and scoops something from the water, leaving expanding
ripples as the only other moving thing. I pour another rum and light up…
something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At times like this, I get to thinking I might like a female
companion. For a while. Maybe a long while. Maybe. The right one, at least – a respecter
of solitude.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By dusk, it’s raining again; the wind has stalled, so the
rain falls vertically; the water growls darkly, olive. I feel I could stay here always;
tied to root and branch, nipped by insects, but otherwise calm and silent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next Morning. It’s all over. The wind came up around 8pm,
and was done by midnight. Thirty-knot gusts, maybe, no more. We hardly moved.
The tuna boats were first out this morning, gurgling their way out into the
fairway, and off to their fishing grounds. The sailboats on the eastern bank
are mostly aground, masts tilting crazily, hulls exposed; it’ll be much later
when they get off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me? I’m out of here just as soon as the Dutchman wakes up
and casts me off. By 11`am I’m back out in the bay, tidying up; stowing ropes,
fenders and anchors, rigging awnings, etc.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, am I happy here, with this, my chosen solitary life in
paradise? Well, I do miss my daughters, my diasporic family, and my friends;
some of the latter more than others, one above all (who never reads my blog). I
worry at the reception of my latest novel, published, but lacking feedback and
reviews – a sign perhaps that my story-telling prowess is perhaps not good
enough for popular success. Must try harder with my next.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love the seclusion that informs my writing, that inspires
it. I value the simplicity that is Island Life, the perpetual warmth, the
natural beauty, the freedom. The simple spontaneity; a turtle’s head rising out
of the water like a wrinkled old man struggling for air while doggy-paddling, a
rush of boobies and pelicans diving into a nearby school of fish, a prehistoric
looking frigate bird on the lookout for a gull to rob of its hard-won catch, Warrior
in his dilapidated rowboat calling each evening for my garbage and stopping for
a chat and a glass of rum, Popo, who stops by every few days to sell me a trio
of freshly caught snappers or jacks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, Yes, I like my life here.<o:p></o:p></div>
Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-86993668896564739412017-03-06T14:25:00.000+00:002017-03-06T14:25:02.675+00:00Log of the Island Spirit (MMSI 235113215)– Cruising the Windward Islands<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Crew: Mike
Rothery (Skipper); Nigel Sampson (Mate)</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Tuesday 7<sup>th</sup>
February 2017<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>At Anchor in
Prince Rupert’s Bay, Dominica</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4DO_3B4ifIDywutbu5rRjNSWw_B_H11NXV8OJRq3_qg2aDY4i8aHY-Wa6v_y4MszVHop96mbUCKS09gHGnf_IlYrBbCwY_9Fjpbi3QNItxqWZUPwSiS17w6dkEGXHYyWsBwqKiLzsi33/s1600/portsmouth+anchorage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE4DO_3B4ifIDywutbu5rRjNSWw_B_H11NXV8OJRq3_qg2aDY4i8aHY-Wa6v_y4MszVHop96mbUCKS09gHGnf_IlYrBbCwY_9Fjpbi3QNItxqWZUPwSiS17w6dkEGXHYyWsBwqKiLzsi33/s640/portsmouth+anchorage.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prince Rupert's Bay (Portsmouth) Anchorage, Dominica</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Silence. No,
Dear Reader, I refer not to the silence you’ve suffered waiting for my next
update, but the silence of the Rain Forest. Far from the anticipated hooting of
howler monkeys, the raucous ticking of a billion insects, or the screeching of
myriad birds, here in the Morne Diablotin National Park, only a sullen
tranquillity reigns.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_FDusl0FNlcu9zsj0vG09Od8ZjFt73LoLsXT9IvwBrflcIKoFgbm48xd709HRga7YnbTf2_l6S1tcCjQuNwtaaxuwF31TRPGt7GTy9yMQeesjt0IUah_IFVaeYXvSEsoNAupFC94n4Y6/s1600/8+RF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_FDusl0FNlcu9zsj0vG09Od8ZjFt73LoLsXT9IvwBrflcIKoFgbm48xd709HRga7YnbTf2_l6S1tcCjQuNwtaaxuwF31TRPGt7GTy9yMQeesjt0IUah_IFVaeYXvSEsoNAupFC94n4Y6/s640/8+RF.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere below, a river roars</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our guide,
Boodah, parked up at the deserted visitor centre and sent us hiking unescorted
into this strange and melancholy forest, following the Syndicate Nature Trail.
Despite the gloomy hush, the experience impressed us with the sheer wonder of
the giant hardwood trees and chaotically lush vegetation. The winding trail under
that vast canopy soon had us totally disorientated, but a sudden opening along
the way gave us a wonderful panoramic view of a steep, tree-filled valley where
a mighty river roared invisibly below.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJmv8AyHAsd_2ZC1cMwdXWcDLlhzvnokoahbtCmDr9bd41nAEfBUYGzfdycIPEY7BlItgPqYIqnplDQOvXZeZAf80VfNng_eENvP5glNUtZu-3LZF-c_e9PQmWLEk7CY_Mla1FxEYLfI1/s1600/EmeraldForest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQJmv8AyHAsd_2ZC1cMwdXWcDLlhzvnokoahbtCmDr9bd41nAEfBUYGzfdycIPEY7BlItgPqYIqnplDQOvXZeZAf80VfNng_eENvP5glNUtZu-3LZF-c_e9PQmWLEk7CY_Mla1FxEYLfI1/s640/EmeraldForest.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Emerald Forest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusgA_5JmQnJgfK59gzDcfT5fPJAj6WP0iEB77GyLPIf7d4A2yQR54_xq8321XgzkJ5Db4GDLLHVoAFqAXuy9mfvSjdu71F2oOXT64P0QsVCOClADogHZdtw0XUGkdcVIQw6il0cR7O9jn/s1600/11+RF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusgA_5JmQnJgfK59gzDcfT5fPJAj6WP0iEB77GyLPIf7d4A2yQR54_xq8321XgzkJ5Db4GDLLHVoAFqAXuy9mfvSjdu71F2oOXT64P0QsVCOClADogHZdtw0XUGkdcVIQw6il0cR7O9jn/s640/11+RF.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02KBsVg35-thX9kDSaP9gQ_V9UZrDHN2771g7VdszBoGOo6Y-tfQ7fhCEYwImGLxogF0V9Obc57QCLO-XiBBlDpP-TxBCvnAmCkqsGb9fBD1xGTK0XQP69G8QW1nyYhyphenhyphenm3LQke3gA1507/s1600/7+RF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj02KBsVg35-thX9kDSaP9gQ_V9UZrDHN2771g7VdszBoGOo6Y-tfQ7fhCEYwImGLxogF0V9Obc57QCLO-XiBBlDpP-TxBCvnAmCkqsGb9fBD1xGTK0XQP69G8QW1nyYhyphenhyphenm3LQke3gA1507/s640/7+RF.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now, That's a Hardwood</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Leaving this
enchanted spot, we drove back down the narrow road to where a dirt track led us
to Milton Falls, a picturesque waterfall, reached only on foot along a squelchy
trail. Along the way, we had to pay a man to pass his shack, though he did
mitigate this with a welcoming grin and a selection of fresh fruits for our
EC$5 toll (£1.50); so not quite Billy Goat Gruff and the ogre under the bridge.
From here the trail wound downhill, becoming increasing wet and rock-strewn,
until we reached a small but fast-flowing river.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“We got to
cross dis river four times.” Boodah told us. I looked around for a crossing
point, but saw only a narrow log lying across the rushing gorge. Without a
word, Boodah skipped blithely over this perilous crossing, then, with a wicked
grin, beckoned us to follow. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Dis de easy
one,” he assured us when we were safely across. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The next two
crossings consisted of mere stepping stones, most of which were submerged below
the surging waters, but surprisingly, we all managed to keep our feet
reasonably dry. The final hurdle was more fun; a thick lianas creeper hanging
some sixty feet from a bough, by which we had to swing, Tarzan-like, across.
This went mostly without mishap, though I managed to misjudge my landing and
dropped short into ankle-deep water.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKPrY22gwUMmV2Xr_DkRAlgysxP2DrRIuLNOmMq5kRkrmZIT4XexfHEr7_LuXtwS8CD_Fm8Hm_MVfdQPmjpfP1tbfPHFdS3JfpmBOc5XcBk2VTTdvPP9cDf-7LdgSJR40Yx-2P_QZNtaV/s1600/9+RF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOKPrY22gwUMmV2Xr_DkRAlgysxP2DrRIuLNOmMq5kRkrmZIT4XexfHEr7_LuXtwS8CD_Fm8Hm_MVfdQPmjpfP1tbfPHFdS3JfpmBOc5XcBk2VTTdvPP9cDf-7LdgSJR40Yx-2P_QZNtaV/s640/9+RF.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Geoffrey Boycott in Flight</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicovkY-tlOuYvhM7mXDUsrV1ZkAOyAeUFUgq559aC2aGYGxYOpQNA2Dfq-NtkPEIJfG08QoiLDBdCT1F8PggMXlyIyzZbjqk4QgJrEcxPJ5kfCedKzj6i0BdWKaNqSx5ssG4YPJY7Y1NYW/s1600/10+RF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicovkY-tlOuYvhM7mXDUsrV1ZkAOyAeUFUgq559aC2aGYGxYOpQNA2Dfq-NtkPEIJfG08QoiLDBdCT1F8PggMXlyIyzZbjqk4QgJrEcxPJ5kfCedKzj6i0BdWKaNqSx5ssG4YPJY7Y1NYW/s640/10+RF.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wow! can you feel it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZw7UelsjVsu1zTSHZuQDU5I51ECmCpLTGyos7TFF55QM5IIL1Tl2iPkEn9xgbwBTjeGFPYaMfGyhAcgiOjUSxfZ_N0_QtauCdgTeU3FVPM4oORCBo7z6BbgeXjT45l89pG8QU_DKo3Ru7/s1600/Tarzon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZw7UelsjVsu1zTSHZuQDU5I51ECmCpLTGyos7TFF55QM5IIL1Tl2iPkEn9xgbwBTjeGFPYaMfGyhAcgiOjUSxfZ_N0_QtauCdgTeU3FVPM4oORCBo7z6BbgeXjT45l89pG8QU_DKo3Ru7/s640/Tarzon.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, about to get my feet wet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our visit to
Dominica is for me, a kind of nostalgic fancy. I was last here in January 1980,
a few months after the infamous Hurricane David which all but devastated this
beautiful island and took many lives. I was then a Petty Officer on HMS
Birmingham, and we were sent here to aid the continuing disaster relief effort.
Thirty-seven years on, that vile storm is still vivid in local memory. I
remember well the shock and despair even six months after that tragedy, and was
therefore pleased to see the welcoming and gregarious spirit returned once more
to this extraordinary island.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, I guess,
Dear Reader, you’d like to know what’s happened between the last update, from
our arrival in Grenada on 17<sup>th</sup> December, till now?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In Prickly
Bay (southern Grenada) Nigel found a previously unknown taste for rum; a lethal
discovery, given our fatigued condition after sixteen days at sea. Having eaten
a goodly meal - and here my memory of events become somewhat hazy – someone
managed to take a picture of the two of us fast asleep with our heads on the
table next to our empty plates. A little later, returning from the bar I was dismayed
to discover Nigel lying curled up on the ground, having fallen sideways off his
seat and banging his head on the ceramic tiles. Luckily, he sustained no
lasting damage, and a nice young lady helped me get him back onboard.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We stayed a
full week in Prickly Bay, getting our boat back into fighting fitness after the
tribulations of the crossing. Yes, we finally managed to get that pesky genoa
back up. We went shopping to stock up our diminished supplies, and had quite a few
stomping evenings out, with much alcohol consumed. We also hauled the dinghy
out of its stowage in the lazarette, inflated and engine shipped, and took it
for a test run across the bay. From here on it would be a vital asset, as we
would now be mostly anchored or moored out, there being an almost total absence
of marinas in the Windward Islands.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It was here,
at Prickly Bay’s marina bar, that we met our new friends, Jo and Andrew, a
lovely Canadian couple with their catamaran, Sierra Hotel. Our paths were to
cross several times in the following weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We left
Prickly Bay early afternoon on Friday 23<sup>rd</sup> December, a lovely sail
up the east coast of Grenada. It is said that one shouldn’t sail on a Friday,
and sure enough, as we approached the northern tip of the island under full
sail, a sudden fierce northeaster brought us a nasty squall that plunged the
lee rail deep under water and had us scrambling to ease sheets and furl away
some of the genoa. The remainder of the afternoon saw us battling into wind and
swell; an uncomfortable passage making a paltry four knots under engine and as
much sail as we dared. Thus, we arrived at Carriacou after dark, feeling our
way gingerly past the reefs into Paradise Bay, dropping anchor in 3 metres in
almost total darkness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We found
ourselves next to our friends on Sierra Hotel, and called them to come ashore
and meet the locals. There ensued a boozy evening with Curtis and the guys from
Off the Hook, and I was delighted to see my old friends Ingmar and Charlie
again after my four-year absence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Christmas Day
in Carriacou kicked off with Irish Coffees, Andrew’s wicked version of Bloody
Mary, fresh fruit salad, and a magnificent fried breakfast aboard Sierra Hotel,
after which we all adjourned to Island Spirit for lunch. While the latter was
mostly liquid, I had prepared an enormous bowl of Russian Salad with cheese and
crackers, and this was gradually demolished throughout the afternoon. We
eventually climbed unsteadily into our dinghies and hit the Off the Hook once
more - and I regret to report that nobody remembers returning to our respective
vessels that night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We spent the
next few days relaxing on the soft, white sands of paradise bay, whiling away
the evenings chatting sociably with other yachtsmen and holidaymakers, and
getting sensibly sozzled. 29<sup>th</sup> December was my birthday, and while I
rarely mark yet another year’s passing, Curtis’ girlfriend cooked a special
goat curry, gratis on the house; sufficient in quantity to share with a few of
our friends. That was also the day Pamela and Steve arrived from England. I
have known them from my Warwickshire days and they came to the island on my
recommendation, staying in Curtis’ modest holiday chalet on the beach for two
weeks break from their swimming-school business.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Early in the
new year we motored around the corner to Tyrrel Bay, a somewhat crowded but
well-sheltered anchorage where we watered ship and got some maintenance done on
the dinghy outboard. But by now we were both getting restless. Time to move on,
we agreed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw83WCUZ6NEHn6HvtfhdtMkZ7TFB0QJ7gIV-P2Wc8X7OH6jw9Pfe4UE09dWQIYlU1WLmPuImGtSPu-07FEeU6CLqTdAFRxx8InR6QSpBy9_17-Se4hpqfwHMBjY8yKKeXOZtDl6MpaDun9/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw83WCUZ6NEHn6HvtfhdtMkZ7TFB0QJ7gIV-P2Wc8X7OH6jw9Pfe4UE09dWQIYlU1WLmPuImGtSPu-07FEeU6CLqTdAFRxx8InR6QSpBy9_17-Se4hpqfwHMBjY8yKKeXOZtDl6MpaDun9/s640/1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pam & Steve England - Great Day Out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCf6U8P8ecre5qN1MZaskwTXhzm0_0FE83clxaNCYAieEc6rFNrW6KeWWelZ6w_xlVtV9ZwfaoNkx-j-sbu64r54ghVw1Gb6HI12QeZ5BAXdeipGD2FaU9jSCF5LlB_xkhrXZK0sigqXxt/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCf6U8P8ecre5qN1MZaskwTXhzm0_0FE83clxaNCYAieEc6rFNrW6KeWWelZ6w_xlVtV9ZwfaoNkx-j-sbu64r54ghVw1Gb6HI12QeZ5BAXdeipGD2FaU9jSCF5LlB_xkhrXZK0sigqXxt/s640/2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On 9<sup>th</sup>
January we took Steve and Pam out to White Island for an enjoyable day’s
snorkelling and lunch onboard, and the following day, booked out of Grenada,
upped anchor and sailed north.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj88rkyPqhx2eZwf99RN0_tW0UjXEok66jXgrFKHyEuFzUnGR3K3duTcQKiuaagYGh0lvUZtq3Q6PLMrhfOVzxybNvGzE1R_6WqWKQppjBT26M0pBm2OCWm1Amy2a5xYUNpTYtEtGYviuEy/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj88rkyPqhx2eZwf99RN0_tW0UjXEok66jXgrFKHyEuFzUnGR3K3duTcQKiuaagYGh0lvUZtq3Q6PLMrhfOVzxybNvGzE1R_6WqWKQppjBT26M0pBm2OCWm1Amy2a5xYUNpTYtEtGYviuEy/s640/3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading North at Last!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The
four-hour passage to Union Island passed unremarkably, although the sailing was
good and blew away the Christmas cobwebs. Unfortunately, while anchoring in
Clifton Bay my ancient anchor windlass decided to give up the ghost. We were in
12 metres at the time, with the hook firmly on the sandy seabed. So, reluctant to
let out any more chain that would have to be recovered by hand, we hauled it
back up and took a mooring buoy instead. A local engineer later took a look –
and, in typical fashion, shook his head sadly and sucked his teeth; the old
girl was a dead duck. After much discussion, I decided to muddle through
without the windlass until we reached Martinique, where we could get expert
opinion and a possible solution.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One
highlight worth mentioning, was Happy Island, a quirky little bar out on the
reef, that can only be reached by dinghy. To this day, we can’t remember which
one of us drove the dinghy back that evening, but thankfully we woke up next
morning safely back onboard. Two days later, on 12<sup>th</sup> January, we
sailed to Tobago Cays, a mere two-hours passage with the aid of a kindly
breeze.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Gliding into
this beautiful marine park with its startlingly bright blue water, we managed
to find a sandy anchorage in four metres, making less work to haul up again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5hqSNQVuNYUfkYvocmM_Q2_HYdVdzJ27BFAFwXZWE5qHCsek5K8FPeJCUWy7K0n987xHOaniLfvD0Fzba4TZ6yLf6Dh6Z5_HhSLpRI_Ybf8jr7LFV-uRGdilbnkLDs0zkxecHchmtn2r/s1600/4B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5hqSNQVuNYUfkYvocmM_Q2_HYdVdzJ27BFAFwXZWE5qHCsek5K8FPeJCUWy7K0n987xHOaniLfvD0Fzba4TZ6yLf6Dh6Z5_HhSLpRI_Ybf8jr7LFV-uRGdilbnkLDs0zkxecHchmtn2r/s640/4B.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Here we met up once more with our friends on Sierra Hotel, and passed the next
two days snorkelling and swimming among the turtles, and of course, visiting
each other’s vessels for sundowners. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tobago Cays
is completely devoid of human habitation, being manned in the daytime by
seaborne park wardens and “boat boys” offering a variety of goods and services,
such as taking your garbage, delivering fresh bread in the mornings, and beer
and rum in the afternoon. Oh, and the ubiquitous “mountain tea” of St Vincent,
of course. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There is one
special phenomenon I should note about this amazing place; at night, when the
moon is up and the water calm, one can look down and see the bottom as
distinctly as if there were no water there at all. You can trace all the anchor
chains arraigned along the seabed, with fish and turtles just gliding as if
through air. The effect is quite breath-taking. (No, dear reader, it wasn’t the
“mountain tea”)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IsQ2FSWYObJxbIPrY8VqHuHWD7-GNookRCG8SdUw7s3OIJiKgiTJFm-ONINPZ9YKrW3KpDaaHZ-d1YvzzLR-o4afyDK_Nv0aj0WPndDtB0iuJ89P1665BNf1SR4Gmeb3n8rRy8Xm0vQF/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IsQ2FSWYObJxbIPrY8VqHuHWD7-GNookRCG8SdUw7s3OIJiKgiTJFm-ONINPZ9YKrW3KpDaaHZ-d1YvzzLR-o4afyDK_Nv0aj0WPndDtB0iuJ89P1665BNf1SR4Gmeb3n8rRy8Xm0vQF/s640/5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yacht flying the White Ensign in Tobago Cays</td></tr>
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On the
morning of Saturday, 14<sup>th</sup> January we said farewell to Sierra Hotel
(who were heading south), weighed anchor, and made the short crossing to
Canouan, a small, sparsely inhabited island to the north of the Cays. We
anchored in Friendship Bay just past noon and took the dinghy ashore to look
for provisions. Apart from a dilapidated fish dock where we parked the dinghy,
this southern side of the island had little to offer, so we walked up a
monstrously steep road, then down the equally steep other side, to a small
village. Here we found a modest grocery store, and fresh fruit and veg sold by
the roadside. And a pleasant little beach bar…</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The
following day, Sunday, we sailed for Bequia<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2D4KwiSpbGc_ZfdXAHD6k6Ar_gBSIQEIsvqlvhsh49862VmBJYyRl5VvbILuccXvjFQFzZ7kiIhsT_I-j_qb4b9eqK1Nq_MRlwVy8es-BHxrF5mwgvS2WYWCVCJxJS-IjkQgHF1hT17IG/s1600/6+beq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2D4KwiSpbGc_ZfdXAHD6k6Ar_gBSIQEIsvqlvhsh49862VmBJYyRl5VvbILuccXvjFQFzZ7kiIhsT_I-j_qb4b9eqK1Nq_MRlwVy8es-BHxrF5mwgvS2WYWCVCJxJS-IjkQgHF1hT17IG/s640/6+beq.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Admiralty Bay, Bequia</td></tr>
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We took a
mooring buoy in Admiralty Bay, close to the several dinghy docks at Port
Elizabeth, and went ashore to reconnoitre. Being Sunday however, the little
town was quiet and that first excursion, brief; after a few drinks in one of
the harbour-side bars, we returned onboard for supper. We were in need of rest,
and still had Monday and Tuesday to enjoy the place.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Port
Elizabeth is a pleasing little ferry port with markets and good provisioning,
and a host of waterside bar/restaurants, many with their own dinghy docks. A
quirky little walkway along the waterfront connects all these establishments -
a barefoot stroll; slopping waves can ambush the unwary. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgEC74rxGjbVtkTtqG1ER2j18ecBFfBEhXq97M_5-RhLsmtA_py96aN40pm0UsE1cRyewMK5R_n3D1Ap2R4UJufkgvqcLm9NURzWsI3AQ0YQkNKBYyTSwExOhtlhPTLH4Vdbuq7xmdIvR/s1600/6B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYgEC74rxGjbVtkTtqG1ER2j18ecBFfBEhXq97M_5-RhLsmtA_py96aN40pm0UsE1cRyewMK5R_n3D1Ap2R4UJufkgvqcLm9NURzWsI3AQ0YQkNKBYyTSwExOhtlhPTLH4Vdbuq7xmdIvR/s640/6B.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Port Elizabeth</td></tr>
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Nigel spent
most of that first day on his phone to his business manager dealing with some
contract or other that needed his input, while I took off shopping for
provisions. In the splendid fruit and veg market, I bought papayas,
christophines and bananas, then some domestic essentials from the supermarket.
Eventually we met up again and adjourned to one of those cute little bars; The
Whaleboner, where we had lunch - not all of it liquid, and chatted to an
English couple on holiday.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Wednesday
morning, after two agreeable but unremarkable days in Bequia, we slipped our
mooring and headed north for Rodney Bay, St Lucia. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That was the
plan, anyway; to sail directly there with an overnight passage. However,
motor-sailing in a light breeze became a tad tedious, and by 1700 we found
ourselves seduced by Wallilabou Bay, a beautiful little anchorage on the west
coast of St Vincent (where most of the filming took place for Pirates of the
Caribbean), and decided to call in. The only problem was, we couldn’t find a
shallow enough anchorage – neither of us fancied hauling up the anchor chain by
hand from 12 metres. So we settled for Kearton’s Bay next door, where we took a
mooring buoy and, with the help of a local boatman, deployed the spare danforth
anchor as a kedge to hold us off the shore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“De mooring
am free,” the boatman told us, “long as you use de restaurant.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I looked
around the deserted, reef-bound beach and sheer rock-face surrounding the bay,
and saw nothing remotely resembling a restaurant – not even a shack. I
certainly didn’t want to beach the dinghy on that rocky shore. I shrugged,
nonplussed, at the boatman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Der, in de
corner, mon,” he called, “see de steps up de cliff?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the dying
light of dusk the steps were barely visible, but there, in faded blue paint, I
made out ‘Rock Side Café’. I gave him a dubious look and exchanged glances with
Nigel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Call when
you ready go ashore,” the boatman called, “and dey send a boat for you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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At the top
of the rough-hewn steps we found a magical garden, lush with flowers and
shrubs, then the quaint little open air restaurant where trestle tables were
laid for dinner. Two other boats were moored in the bay, and their crews were
already seated at one of the tables. We were greeted by Rosi, the German lady
of the house. We declined the complimentary rum punch (“we’ll have it after
dinner”), and settled instead for a couple of beers. Dinner was fresh grilled
Tuna and a vast array of salads and side dishes. And it was delicious.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Early the
following morning we used the dinghy to recover the kedge, then slipped the
mooring.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The crossing
between St Vincent and St Lucia was a real bitch, with a big swell and 20+
knots of wind against us. The weather was too heavy for the autopilot, so Nigel
took the wheel while I lay reading/snoozing in the saloon (Nigel relishes the
challenge of hand steering in rough conditions – and who am I to deny him?). We
reached the Pitons, St Lucia’s famous landmark, at around 1500, and with some
fifteen miles still to go to our destination it was clear we wouldn’t make it
before nightfall. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjboLZ7uEVWxmzSqmH7jxkZ8y72bBxK04bs9pGK3NBKvnD1ol6Ihtx4EtMARxFP5W9HKgQvYyrTHL-X8dyiBrwgcFtSriRETkDXKr6YPT0pZa5LwF3rN4ab7aqIYqOkMT_oHTCHypq7pj/s1600/7+pitons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjboLZ7uEVWxmzSqmH7jxkZ8y72bBxK04bs9pGK3NBKvnD1ol6Ihtx4EtMARxFP5W9HKgQvYyrTHL-X8dyiBrwgcFtSriRETkDXKr6YPT0pZa5LwF3rN4ab7aqIYqOkMT_oHTCHypq7pj/s640/7+pitons.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pitons, St Lucia</td></tr>
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Despite my pilot-station chart plotter, I’m loath to enter an
unfamiliar anchorage at night, so we decided to drop the hook for the night off
Anse Cochon, a nondescript but sheltered bay halfway up the coast. Having yet to
clear in to St Lucia, I hoisted the “Q” flag opposite the country’s courtesy
flag, and, like the good mariners we are, we left the dinghy on its davits.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We slipped
into Rodney Bay Marina at 1140 next morning and took a pontoon berth. We needed
water, and besides, it was time the batteries had a good charge up from shore
power. First things first though; after booking in I joined Nigel at the bar,
and we drank the afternoon away swapping sea stories with other yachtsmen. Oh,
and we took our first hot shower since La Palma, back in October. Lovely! Next
morning a lady came to collect our long-overdue laundry and returned it that
afternoon, clean, dry and folded.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcP24UiGscdwQrI7iRg-zW8EGpa2M5XQrx2TWBWcj1-BTrDnWeYyWNKEUqUen4Px3__nH94_krBaVUga0vUwJN6OtQZaAcjq9ygV1S7unktxvrq1H4SfaTfSJ_XAKIQr0ZBHHIlN_D81KM/s1600/8+RBM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcP24UiGscdwQrI7iRg-zW8EGpa2M5XQrx2TWBWcj1-BTrDnWeYyWNKEUqUen4Px3__nH94_krBaVUga0vUwJN6OtQZaAcjq9ygV1S7unktxvrq1H4SfaTfSJ_XAKIQr0ZBHHIlN_D81KM/s640/8+RBM.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rodney Bay Marina, St Lucia</td></tr>
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On Saturday evening,
I bumped into an old friend; Colin Thomas*, with whom I’d first sailed the Atlantic
four years ago; he, more than anyone else, gave me the inspiration and courage
sail my own yacht single-handed from Greece to Spain (see my early blog
entries), a voyage I now consider much more arduous and risky than the Atlantic
crossing. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIUWg0xapjeNBYOLhfCConLjjLP5KPv53LdobiJodl4iTjZv5zCbxDHGQh46KKTyRRvdI7CKlFFoFLZLn6gB2-cvkIRyZ0F8fDUF_DPlUYzBkDmkjDiYl4JU1tV6tQbA_3ne9kOUbWNss/s1600/Img_1874.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLIUWg0xapjeNBYOLhfCConLjjLP5KPv53LdobiJodl4iTjZv5zCbxDHGQh46KKTyRRvdI7CKlFFoFLZLn6gB2-cvkIRyZ0F8fDUF_DPlUYzBkDmkjDiYl4JU1tV6tQbA_3ne9kOUbWNss/s640/Img_1874.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memories of Summer Breeze with Colin Thomas and Friends</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I had already met Colin again briefly during our stay in Union
Island, and his opening words then were: “So you did learn something from me
after all?”. If you’re reading this, Colin, yes, and thanks.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Later that
night we joined a bunch of German yachtsmen for a barbeque in the local village
of Gros Islet, a rip-roaring evening with much beer and good food consumed,
then later, after Nigel got a taste for Mudslides (a fabulous concoction of
vodka, baileys, tia-maria, cream, and chocolate syrup), found ourselves in a noisy,
crowded bar in Rodney Bay Village. Once again, collective memory loss (and propriety)
prevents me adding more details to that night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhplSCfWTVpCwS7XwNnyeaH7dGg9YzDJ92sTap93hQBcswn4jlrVLJS5UWGARfSs2YQyI1mWKmkuYV6yJ_saj6lB_sS_AJTQfLuH0VGAkZ_1hUMUKsLt7CEJdXJtfALCLqObXfwU7Lsgm7l/s1600/Mudslide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhplSCfWTVpCwS7XwNnyeaH7dGg9YzDJ92sTap93hQBcswn4jlrVLJS5UWGARfSs2YQyI1mWKmkuYV6yJ_saj6lB_sS_AJTQfLuH0VGAkZ_1hUMUKsLt7CEJdXJtfALCLqObXfwU7Lsgm7l/s640/Mudslide.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mudslide - Nigel's New Tipple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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On Sunday
(22<sup>nd</sup> Jan) morning, we anchored out in the bay to save money (for
all its advantages, the marina is expensive), but that didn’t stop our
shoretime excursions – that’s what the dinghy’s for, after all.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We finally
left St Lucia on Tuesday (24<sup>th</sup>), arriving in Marin, Martinique later
that afternoon. We spent the first night in the overcrowded anchorage, then
moved alongside the marina to get that damned windlass seen to. After two days
tutting, shaking of heads, wringing of hands, arguing, heart-searching, and
hard negotiations, I finally went with a brand-new replacement windlass at a
cost of 2000 Euros; a decision made tougher because I had to borrow the money.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was in
the marina at Marin that I met an old friend from Lanzarote. Trevor, a retired
judge, crossed with the Barbados Fifty rally in early November (far too early,
in my opinion), and had just arrived from Barbados, where his wife, Corrie, had
joined him. Over a few beers, he regaled us with his stories of hilarious (and often
unlikely) judicial scenarios, and, as a criminal barrister, with some of the
less-than-savoury characters he defended. As a natural raconteur, Trevor has
managed to abolish the awkward silence in conversation, and Nigel never seemed
to tire of his long, drawn-out (but nonetheless, funny) anecdotes. I guess my
listening-fatigue was due to having heard them all before in Arrecife. Trevor
remains, nevertheless, a valued and likeable friend (I hesitate to say rogue,
but he is, after all, a lawyer).<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Saturday
(4<sup>th</sup> Feb), spanking new windlass fitted, we sailed round to Fort du
France, anchoring at 1130 under the shelter of the great wall of the fort,
close to the town with its long and spacious dinghy dock. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The word
city is a vague and frequently misused term in the Caribbean, but Fort du
France is, in every sense of the word, a city, complete with tall office
blocks, hotels, and grand civic architecture. The pavements are clean, well
maintained, and wide, and its people, whether black, white or unspecified, are
undeniably French. The women dress like French women, stylish and beautiful,
and the men behave like Frenchmen, self-assured, humorously rude and slightly
patronising to foreigners. French, and French Creole, are the only languages
spoken (though many more of the population speak English than you would expect
in the continental homeland), and the Euro is the only currency. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And
Martinique, like the rest of the French Antilles, is notionally and politically
French, so, as Europeans, we get all the privileges afforded to any Brit
visiting the European mainland. Good, eh? <o:p></o:p></div>
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Until
Brexit, that is… don’t get me started!<o:p></o:p></div>
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And like
France, everything closes at the weekend. So, the following day, Sunday, we
weighed anchor and sailed north for Dominica, agreeing to call here again on
the way back for a longer stay, and so exploit all this European oasis in the
tropics has to offer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Once again,
we spent Sunday beating to windward in heavy seas, and finally had to drop
anchor in Roseau Bay; another non-landing overnight stop. The following
morning, Monday, a few miles from our destination, we were intercepted by a
Coastguard patrol launch; flashing blue lights as she streaked towards us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Good
morning, Sir,” came the voice on #16 as the boat took station a few feet to
leeward, “what is the name of your vessel?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I resisted
the temptation to glance over the stern to see if the name had been wiped off
the transom. Besides, he must have been tracking my AIS signal, so he knew full
well who we were.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Island
Spirit,” I replied, “and good morning to you. What can I do for you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“This is a
routine check. We will now ask you some questions, after which we may board
your vessel.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
For the next
twenty minutes, as we drifted gently ahead together in a light breeze, he
questioned me about my registration details, last ports, destination, next
ports, names of persons on board, etc, with long pauses in between, presumably
while he checked my replies and consulted his flow chart. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally,
“Thank you, Sir, welcome to Dominica, and have a good time in Portsmouth.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
With that
the launch roared away, towards his next victim; a catamaran sailing closer
inshore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As we
entered the Prince Rupert’s Bay, another vessel raced towards us, this time a
small, garishly painted speedboat of the type seen everywhere in the islands,
usually there to sell you something you don’t need at a price pushed to the
limits of credibility.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good
morning,” the young guy shouted, a cheerful grin as he drew alongside, “welcome
to Dominica!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Good
morning,” I called back, “are you PAYS?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He nodded,
and I said, “Show me your card.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He closed in,
still smiling, and held up the plastic card that hung on a chain about his
neck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Portsmouth
Association of Yacht Services. I’d read it up from the Imray Cruising Guide,
how the local people had got together and evicted all the aggressive boat boys
in order to provide services to a high standard at reasonable prices, and
without the belligerent pushiness usually encountered at popular locations.
This is what makes Portsmouth such an attractive anchorage for visiting yachtsmen;
a model that has won much acclaim throughout the boating community.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I noted his
name, and told him to come and see us after we’d anchored. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“You need a
mooring?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“No, we’ll
anchor.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He nodded,
flashed another smile, and sped off ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We anchored
among several other yachts, a couple of hundred yards from a neat little dinghy
dock leading up the beach, behind which, among waving palms and lush greenery,
stood the PAYS reception office. To its left was another stone building; a bar with
free WIFI, run by PAYS, and to the right, along the sandy beach, another dinghy
dock with a line of shanty-style bars and restaurants, some of which were
already populated by members of the yachting community.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Island
of Many Rivers. And why? Because it’s nearly always raining. The verdant, lush
greenery here is astonishing; every space not occupied by a building is filled
with trees and shrubs – you can almost see the stuff growing. Breadfruit,
avocado, papaya, banana, mango, passionfruit, all sprout wild among a dazzle of
richly flowering shrubs. As we explored ashore, we saw men with cutlasses,
chopping back the encroaching vegetation from buildings and gardens. Brightly
coloured blooms of countless exotic variety bursting through garden fences and
cascading over rooftops, great bunches of fruits hanging ripe and juicy from
above. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Supernature!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And the
people here are also different from those on other islands, perhaps a product
of their gentle environment. This is arguably the least economically developed
island in all the Lesser Antilles; no hotels or resorts have sprung up here as
they have elsewhere, and there is little in the way of tourist amenities. So
their only income is from the abundance of local produce. But while the poverty
here is palpable – the people are kind, generous, polite, and extraordinarily
helpful. Here, for example, you don’t buy ‘mountain tea’ – they give it to you.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“It grow
wild everywhere, mon, so why I want to take your money?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We went to a
back-street bar – little more than an improvised shack really, and a grinning
black face bade us welcome and paid for our beers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Perhaps I’ve
overegged it a little – as everywhere, there are exceptions. Once or twice in
the main town we were accosted by folk wanting a couple of dollars, ostensibly
to buy food. But that doesn’t detract from the kindness of the general
population, and even those beggars weren’t pushy or aggressive, and accepted
our refusal with good grace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The day
after our trip to Morne Diablotin we took a boat trip up the Indian River.
Here, motorboats are prohibited, and we were rowed up river by Boodah, our
guide from yesterday, one of half a dozen official guides employed by PAYS. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1Whfe2M_l23aJSfBT-DaNUsxo3XaXZCJzKSoiI5yGTZQiVRQSbZO1Va16rjS35R4PhnyNrzuLwDr2wxof2ej41n3F-AO3dweeSL_RExX_9ak2rkhCqGp88IwsybuvSNO_RkIVRhaLRU3/s1600/Boodah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX1Whfe2M_l23aJSfBT-DaNUsxo3XaXZCJzKSoiI5yGTZQiVRQSbZO1Va16rjS35R4PhnyNrzuLwDr2wxof2ej41n3F-AO3dweeSL_RExX_9ak2rkhCqGp88IwsybuvSNO_RkIVRhaLRU3/s640/Boodah.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr Boodah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Boodah, we
discovered, has a doctorate in botany, and as he pulled the boat effortlessly
upriver, he entertained us with interesting and anecdotal facts about the
plants and trees along the densely-vegetated riverbank. Along the way we saw
herons hunting on the muddy bank, iguanas swivelling their weird eyes down at
us from high up in the trees above, tiny frogs with big luminous eyes that glow
in the dark and give rise to ghostly folk superstitions, and the shapes of
great fish gliding silently beneath us through the turbid, brown water.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In a quiet
backwater of the river, we stopped at a roughly-built shack on a pile of
rotting tree debris. The ramshackle structure was wet and slimy, hanging with
weed and creepers, and exuded a sinister and evil presence, which was clearly
the intention. It was almost theatrical - it could surely have no practical
use? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RiFDzihku2e9PNeBNL4y3Fc3TATwpkYq6n_QSjVhohgZBoHfafufWW_DEB9Vn9AkzNKQGVzVsmdm0ZwAObCLUrvRCr1Ah0xcYjNZUMO2Ly13pIeCRNWyHVUCt_4dgMWckCpnB9ULq767/s1600/witch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RiFDzihku2e9PNeBNL4y3Fc3TATwpkYq6n_QSjVhohgZBoHfafufWW_DEB9Vn9AkzNKQGVzVsmdm0ZwAObCLUrvRCr1Ah0xcYjNZUMO2Ly13pIeCRNWyHVUCt_4dgMWckCpnB9ULq767/s640/witch.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Witch's Cottage - apparently</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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This was
built for the filming of Pirates of the Caribbean, Boodah enlightened us. It
was apparently the witch’s hut. But never having seen the film, there was no
connection for me. I assume it was the same for Nigel, for he just stared at
the ghastly edifice in blank silence. I took a picture, nevertheless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Finally we
stopped at a rickety wooden pier, where we climbed out to stretch our legs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
“Dis way,
folks,” said Boodah, leading the way along a neat little pebble path. And
there, in amongst the wild forest, was the strangest and most unlikely thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A Bar!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>0700 Monday
13 February 2017</b><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We’ve been
in Dominica for a week, and it’s time to go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We wanted
longer; Nigel especially eager to explore the wild places around the island;
the unmanaged forests, the mountains and rivers, the hot springs and the sites
of the original inhabitants; the Arawak and the Carib Indians, the former now
long wiped out, the latter still evident in a handful of the island’s modern
population. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Such a
safari would need a couple of weeks, and would require proper hiking gear and
camping equipment; which we don’t have. And Nigel’s flight home is on the 21<sup>st</sup>
Feb.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
From St
Lucia. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One day, I
hope to come back and do it alone – or perhaps he’ll be back for his unfinished
business.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Since his
recent visit to the Pompey and Herculaneum ruins, Nigel’s got a bee in his
bonnet about visiting St Pierre on Martinique, the island’s former capital
before the 1902 eruption of Mt Pelée wiped out the entire population. I’ve
agreed to stop there briefly on the way south. For that, Dear Reader, you’ll
need to wait for my next update. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it;
and perhaps feel inspired to seek an adventure of your own. Don’t forget to
leave a comment or two below – it helps to gather new followers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><b><span style="font-size: large;">*</span></b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Colin is an RYA Yachtmaster Instructor with more
than twenty Atlantic crossings under his belt, and author of the Gibraltar
Straits Handbook. He now runs sailing holidays with his yacht, Summer Breeze,
in the Caribbean.<o:p></o:p></div>
Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-89142850166531444172016-12-22T22:13:00.002+00:002016-12-22T22:16:31.242+00:00Log of the Island Spirit (MMSI 235113215)– Atlantic Crossing<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Crew: Mike
Rothery (Skipper); Nigel Sampson (Mate)<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<br />
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</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTYcT9h9EDNh59Ahg-0kuOwfI-vUyoJv2F0pU-XSw_Fj8B4D9HZSeA1rQeBpW53O5_5l-5nSEe2BqfOh752W3dGMvSzse0gglyQ7_3HrN9nwXqXQh7DiWmypvWNuFmHIWtFGC_IcKMgs1/s1600/20161130_162304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiTYcT9h9EDNh59Ahg-0kuOwfI-vUyoJv2F0pU-XSw_Fj8B4D9HZSeA1rQeBpW53O5_5l-5nSEe2BqfOh752W3dGMvSzse0gglyQ7_3HrN9nwXqXQh7DiWmypvWNuFmHIWtFGC_IcKMgs1/s1600/20161130_162304.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nigel fixing the Veggie Net</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_sSNsFytB905aRhTy_w-o-q3G8LHPI5MJ5E1PS8bzBwO3e8IhWzRhZy4AvLW6Sc6fpPoDk-RqDEZjEWbQjrntAEN3bsk0vMUZubb7vHlZKx6rwUJZg5sIgsIymeJ_BjL-vEuaIkXgCHA/s1600/IMG_0130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_sSNsFytB905aRhTy_w-o-q3G8LHPI5MJ5E1PS8bzBwO3e8IhWzRhZy4AvLW6Sc6fpPoDk-RqDEZjEWbQjrntAEN3bsk0vMUZubb7vHlZKx6rwUJZg5sIgsIymeJ_BjL-vEuaIkXgCHA/s640/IMG_0130.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Floating Bar, Mindelo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgxJ-QBhAkewr3qzD7I_nDbH0A4YZCQA_d-FgvXyXOg8XKKiQKfyn-GOIVfkYUnJbIHv7yg-SCCIvJY8pyi22_vW8y2D0yj6tm1zcZ72aNwy905LRDS38l6CSO-xQtCiXAvd6ZP4Mg-Q2/s1600/IMG_0136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXgxJ-QBhAkewr3qzD7I_nDbH0A4YZCQA_d-FgvXyXOg8XKKiQKfyn-GOIVfkYUnJbIHv7yg-SCCIvJY8pyi22_vW8y2D0yj6tm1zcZ72aNwy905LRDS38l6CSO-xQtCiXAvd6ZP4Mg-Q2/s640/IMG_0136.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Great Place to Meet & Greet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigU7AaY0ZHKzI2qglCaA5YypxF2t4sE0KiSTG3SjPWOqHIYeK9u_J-KIgq59ESKkHKPiHUpWtN1inlfcjSVIOCDZ09WUe4EmwJLTGimGaCNEL7P1_QxplMoCKo5n-hKA-chJzIeKrN9Kbr/s1600/20161201_122301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigU7AaY0ZHKzI2qglCaA5YypxF2t4sE0KiSTG3SjPWOqHIYeK9u_J-KIgq59ESKkHKPiHUpWtN1inlfcjSVIOCDZ09WUe4EmwJLTGimGaCNEL7P1_QxplMoCKo5n-hKA-chJzIeKrN9Kbr/s640/20161201_122301.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All Ready to Go!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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<b>Thursday 1<sup>st</sup>
December 2016</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>2100 - 16
38.5N 25 22.7W Co 260 Sp 5</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The last two
days taken up trying to source provisions for the big passage; very
frustrating, especially on the bread front. Should have stored up for the full
month-long passage in Canaries. Apart from that, Cabo Verde was worth the
stopover, as you will see from Nigel’s following contribution.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>The floating bar is a magic place, buzzing
from breakfast till late. We spent many a pleasant hour there socialising (and
trying to connect to WIFI, which was slow everywhere). Here’s some of the
memorable characters we made friends with: <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Phil, the American alcoholic; okay when half
sober, but not much cop after 11am. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Heinz and Karin, an Austrian couple on a
Lagoon 42 anchored out in the bay (more on them later). Then there’s Philip who’s
German but sent to England for his education by parents fearful of his
involvement with the home drugs scene. Nice guy, once you get past the public
school/Oxbridge affectations. This tall, muscular, twenty-something Adonis was
crewing for a German couple, but jumped ship at the last moment due to “unspecified
difficulties”. Apparently, the parting was amicable enough.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>We also met up with Jaques & Odelle, a
gregarious French couple with their bright-yellow plywood RM whom we’d first
encountered in La Palma.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Finally, Shayla, a waitress at the floating
bar who took us shopping – good to have someone along who knows where stuff can
be found.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Despite all
the difficulties of getting our engine repaired (faulty Bendix on the starter
motor) and that pesky autopilot (drive belt misaligned on the clutch), and the
hassle of re-provisioning in a subsistence backwater, we had a great time in
Mindelo. Though for a heart-stopping moment on the first night, I thought our
adventure had come to a horrible early end when Nigel, after one too many local
rum cocktails, fell headfirst down the companionway. Luckily the saloon sole-boards
broke his fall, and probably due to his ultra-relaxed condition, he survived
with only a bruised shoulder. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On Monday
(28<sup>th</sup> Nov), leaving me in the Floating Bar to write up the previous
Blog, Nigel went on a trip with friends Heinz and Karin to the neighbouring
island of Santo Antao. Here’s his account of that trip, and some of his
pictures.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>We caught the 0800 ferry (</i><i>€8 each) to Porto Novo, where we spent the
first 20 minutes negotiating for a taxi/minibus. Ended up paying €47 to share a
ride with a few others. Drove all along the coast road round the north of the
island to Ponta do Sol, a sleepy little backwater with an airstrip. Most of the
roads are basalt-cobble, not the quietest of road surfaces. Driver didn’t mind
stopping a few times for photos, though from the glum faces of our
fellow-passengers, I suspect our frequent calls to halt caused them some
irritation. The coastline is scattered with small fishing villages, while
inland on the western side, the lush volcanic slopes of this greenest of all
the islands provide most of Cabo Verde’s fruit and vegetables.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Some of the views were spectacular; steep
caldera and jagged knife-edge ridges. Sometimes the vertical drop was on both
sides of the narrow road! (No, Mike, it’s not called a bridge, it’s a ridge).<o:p></o:p></i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBH7z1sxOPaGk6wtWd9Rxcno0CwsnF8xlPAZr0tyzDTxrFZ4f41jf5vq8d9brIdM9fYSh1lrXnIka2nxG3NlR6a7HVVcp0-ZWW9sniGNeAh7HoZG8JSeC1Hp86yzfOZ66rnCFKJGDA8rW_/s1600/IMG_0187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBH7z1sxOPaGk6wtWd9Rxcno0CwsnF8xlPAZr0tyzDTxrFZ4f41jf5vq8d9brIdM9fYSh1lrXnIka2nxG3NlR6a7HVVcp0-ZWW9sniGNeAh7HoZG8JSeC1Hp86yzfOZ66rnCFKJGDA8rW_/s640/IMG_0187.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Karin & Heinz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I was
still hard at work blogging when they finally returned at around 1830, so I
declined the invitation to join H&K on their boat for dinner, urging Nigel
to go ahead and finish his day with this charming couple, something I came to
regret later when he couldn’t stop going on about how nice everything was, the
great food, the spacious boat with all the mod cons (multiple fridges, generator,
water maker, washing machine, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Yawn).</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Yesterday
we had a young lady come by asking if we knew anyone needing transat crew. Said
the could cook, hand and steer, and had been the chief provisioner on the
tall=ship that bought her here. Lexie was late-twenties and had the look of
good sailorly qualities about her. She talked about her skills at breadmaking
and veggie cooking, as well as her abilities to plan provisioning. In fact, as
I soon discovered, she talked a lot. When she finally left us alone, I
suggested to Nigel she might be a useful addition to the crew. “Your call,
Skipper.” was all he said. That evening we met up with Lexie in the bar and I
questioned her further, telling her of the hardships she would have to endure
on a small, elderly sloop, sleeping in the saloon with little space for her kit
(and banjo!!), and with two of those nasty carnivores to feed each day – in fact,
two grumpy old geezers who smoked and farted and snored (at least, Nigel does).
She wasn’t at all put off, and so I invited her to move her kit onboard and
stay overnight. In the morning, we would both decide if it was a go or nogo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the
end, Lexie didn’t work out, and after I asked her to leave the boat, we both
knew we’d made the right decision. Nice girl, but far too much to say, very
critical of our preparedness for the crossing, ambivalent in her commitment to
the passage, and quite manipulative in her dealings with us. So off she went,
complete with giant kitbag and banjo, to another boat who hopefully found her a
place.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We
eventually got away just before two this afternoon, after waiting for our turn
on the fuelling jetty, and very soon we were clipping along nicely on 15 knots
of following wind, genoa on the pole and main goose-winged to starboard. Our “beautiful
bunch of bright bananas” dangling from the stern gantry, and our supply of
fresh fruit and veg hanging in a net under the bimini like an elephant’s
testicles. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NfyYHtCx3D6djZkGHMR-KFmrcmGLvbXAnMxcslSJOfBCtZ6iP5DWWrP3HyAaNyqpER4YQKu8v2xJrQ3p1ITLEhcj9Rpp-fUtHXUDEM18D7vTUQVpAZNpKQL6qHfLyhqnw2Dqc_qwX5q1/s1600/IMG_0202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NfyYHtCx3D6djZkGHMR-KFmrcmGLvbXAnMxcslSJOfBCtZ6iP5DWWrP3HyAaNyqpER4YQKu8v2xJrQ3p1ITLEhcj9Rpp-fUtHXUDEM18D7vTUQVpAZNpKQL6qHfLyhqnw2Dqc_qwX5q1/s640/IMG_0202.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last of Cabo Verde</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG64d73reEGsYbW5hdt7lzvZAdMcM-aOokh-BzCoYaiQu8AYFjNb_pFRnUN5Hzft_zrTjXQ_5L21ZG61rJVKcl0d76VfN6ffQ8E15ak_uo1zloA7qUXxdJf8ZkZ_pR12V5BfAU-AadEeA2/s1600/20161203_111458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG64d73reEGsYbW5hdt7lzvZAdMcM-aOokh-BzCoYaiQu8AYFjNb_pFRnUN5Hzft_zrTjXQ_5L21ZG61rJVKcl0d76VfN6ffQ8E15ak_uo1zloA7qUXxdJf8ZkZ_pR12V5BfAU-AadEeA2/s640/20161203_111458.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nigel Writes up his Diary</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNHz7YV8kpQ-358ZuTwHDSaAWJbLic2a603lQQBAZ3kEdSS98Kl-YSTTJrq5wK5B2MgtBe4ii4JISuhGz0gSTzBbcyg-h11sKEWdV_xm1NQEenBGLgbZmZTSXdf1h0RB1Sypppi5Y01LM/s1600/20161204_170414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNHz7YV8kpQ-358ZuTwHDSaAWJbLic2a603lQQBAZ3kEdSS98Kl-YSTTJrq5wK5B2MgtBe4ii4JISuhGz0gSTzBbcyg-h11sKEWdV_xm1NQEenBGLgbZmZTSXdf1h0RB1Sypppi5Y01LM/s640/20161204_170414.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Bath at Sea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk8-_LrphGNTIg03tAXu5zt7wRfMTS2DxN1UO2LZNStfC5k_hPNBxpT7LoWDJ-RRiE7K_tF1w2KJ0S3L0f8urGplAZjkKx9XLCyJrRnGCpm33P-rY4eHUbPXLqiJQcp-MhObUc79-xXHo5/s1600/20161208_153737.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk8-_LrphGNTIg03tAXu5zt7wRfMTS2DxN1UO2LZNStfC5k_hPNBxpT7LoWDJ-RRiE7K_tF1w2KJ0S3L0f8urGplAZjkKx9XLCyJrRnGCpm33P-rY4eHUbPXLqiJQcp-MhObUc79-xXHo5/s640/20161208_153737.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fishing for Supper</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LI2MvmmqH0UDw4s9Ev4wNisCpN3CrohUGtbZYEv15MYt1mzr3Hy1EMCWhlDtkVP_kHrSd7ecgkEmoreMDqe7Ca5CsK2HmoP8fedpk-6kHhTrVg1UjvGSYDrtAByCmGX-UpAH_33SvTcX/s1600/IMG_0107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LI2MvmmqH0UDw4s9Ev4wNisCpN3CrohUGtbZYEv15MYt1mzr3Hy1EMCWhlDtkVP_kHrSd7ecgkEmoreMDqe7Ca5CsK2HmoP8fedpk-6kHhTrVg1UjvGSYDrtAByCmGX-UpAH_33SvTcX/s640/IMG_0107.JPG" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Madame du Sac</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpemRpwV96HEXoVZ7fRtZZVYbOYF8Yx2mHhieEKgr7KJl7jZ9D3FS8ZdQ3jHeL8N56rFzvz5Vr54Ul7eLd4oP5esyv_UjSTSJ5kwaeW98ENdM6xSqJ3lVvQxL7g8Uw8FBJO5vwzYueRJ_4/s1600/IMG_0115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpemRpwV96HEXoVZ7fRtZZVYbOYF8Yx2mHhieEKgr7KJl7jZ9D3FS8ZdQ3jHeL8N56rFzvz5Vr54Ul7eLd4oP5esyv_UjSTSJ5kwaeW98ENdM6xSqJ3lVvQxL7g8Uw8FBJO5vwzYueRJ_4/s640/IMG_0115.JPG" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Knackered!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuZVe4ZmWPcIx3Xa_qTHjpk5KfFhBSGvBQBF2-UKp0OTy2GL1rTfz85n5JEo-dXGxZjH-djaxgv5aBWg-8KL3toI4AJrrjtBkPfKowqBsusDHpQjZrzmOExs2S3V0_9yggXnqra3ai4V8/s1600/IMG_0215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuZVe4ZmWPcIx3Xa_qTHjpk5KfFhBSGvBQBF2-UKp0OTy2GL1rTfz85n5JEo-dXGxZjH-djaxgv5aBWg-8KL3toI4AJrrjtBkPfKowqBsusDHpQjZrzmOExs2S3V0_9yggXnqra3ai4V8/s640/IMG_0215.JPG" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hazardous Duty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTo3p0Kpg1rap4vUZIfWUtc5LCpxqEfYG177GoeNzDXSbc85pbLVk2eo75Q0-HafLbFfKVb0S7KUxbd8bp5WtA3KGFGWlWa1x6Mqp3mXr_kzkmIDLujOlV1YiPx6pcI4C_VtS4YtPzF7Kl/s1600/IMG_0248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTo3p0Kpg1rap4vUZIfWUtc5LCpxqEfYG177GoeNzDXSbc85pbLVk2eo75Q0-HafLbFfKVb0S7KUxbd8bp5WtA3KGFGWlWa1x6Mqp3mXr_kzkmIDLujOlV1YiPx6pcI4C_VtS4YtPzF7Kl/s640/IMG_0248.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Perfect Lid!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkm0SM7Z-KTrMBcSCg699vI3geYrIXb65w9SDUfa2K-SEnMh1GQcwTibxeqmNi0PO2AA2_q___ujoTezuZgv5zSuAWnjY_7veKv5t-phk3DfXJV3_DjFwYIfIV2sbxcDhRkqURujgUFcLZ/s1600/20161201_161521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkm0SM7Z-KTrMBcSCg699vI3geYrIXb65w9SDUfa2K-SEnMh1GQcwTibxeqmNi0PO2AA2_q___ujoTezuZgv5zSuAWnjY_7veKv5t-phk3DfXJV3_DjFwYIfIV2sbxcDhRkqURujgUFcLZ/s640/20161201_161521.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And Off We Go1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmioYVCJnfn7ZpMLmW6ND8WbVO8Hvr1p26vHJzYVMIptD7aud1P5WGUhcsafTfRY-Ex1AgKbsnxTOZPBZv0Sv1ylblnyUEXS_gO2dBSRcACwnDx8rEUyd-GmVVJ4gsxpR5iOs6f2WaWg_4/s1600/20161201_161612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmioYVCJnfn7ZpMLmW6ND8WbVO8Hvr1p26vHJzYVMIptD7aud1P5WGUhcsafTfRY-Ex1AgKbsnxTOZPBZv0Sv1ylblnyUEXS_gO2dBSRcACwnDx8rEUyd-GmVVJ4gsxpR5iOs6f2WaWg_4/s640/20161201_161612.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goose-winged & Poled Out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotexeY723txZbZKcHzvRe6iNsNW1_2xwvRWLEoALoPFx1_B4Vw0CPMcvCkuwGpowK1oLhRIGSsYsuEdVguTrj3zW7SG22gQMjIIIIkUdLryF1kwrfpxnigR133_YZOaCMQOz0vH3pLHxc/s1600/20161202_150052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotexeY723txZbZKcHzvRe6iNsNW1_2xwvRWLEoALoPFx1_B4Vw0CPMcvCkuwGpowK1oLhRIGSsYsuEdVguTrj3zW7SG22gQMjIIIIkUdLryF1kwrfpxnigR133_YZOaCMQOz0vH3pLHxc/s640/20161202_150052.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fitting a New Autopilot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6KmQb3WJRBbAxwGFLMiWRVglZktmxdX_jP4tkvjjRb-ce2ij2p4X_gczjJ8kINCHI03FIYib7x-WVU5sk0E43KGxu-bToK9ZFzAzznHHlhh8hvhynUMWhxaIRQLaEu96jSDAXUfm4FpI/s1600/20161202_150101.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB6KmQb3WJRBbAxwGFLMiWRVglZktmxdX_jP4tkvjjRb-ce2ij2p4X_gczjJ8kINCHI03FIYib7x-WVU5sk0E43KGxu-bToK9ZFzAzznHHlhh8hvhynUMWhxaIRQLaEu96jSDAXUfm4FpI/s640/20161202_150101.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hove To with Genny Poled</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I’m now on
watch until midnight, on a calm sea, following wind and swell, and the
autopilot managing nicely with minimum rudder effort, under the glorious tropical
star-canopy. Looks like we picked the perfect day to depart, and it seems we
weren’t the only ones; for the lights of no less than ten other vessels dot the
darkness around us. We seem to be gaining on a fourship-flotilla ahead, which
may give us a problem if we get to overtake them. Nigel’s gone to bed,
commenting: “This is quieter and calmer than the pontoon!” Very true; the surge
in that marina was formidable, and relentless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
My intention
is to remain (if possible) on this point of sail for the entire 15-17-day
passage, keeping the wind almost dead astern, and thus allowing the
gradually-veering easterlies to waft us southwest, then sweep us along a
southerly Great Circle route on the 14<sup>th</sup> parallel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Friday 2<sup>nd</sup>
December<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>1542 – 16 11.0N
26 52.0W Co 250 Sp 5</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Did I say
the new autopilot was working well? Well hush my mouth and fill it with dog shit!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
This morning
she (we’ve dubbed her “Georgina”) she reverted to her all-too-often defunct status,
grunting as she tried unsuccessfully to turn the wheel. Same trouble as before.
Nigel hand-steered all morning, both of us daunted at the prospect of doing so
for the next 17 days and dreading the prospect of creeping fatigue as the
continuous vigilance and effort takes its toll. Finally, we faced the inevitable
conclusion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And what I
haven’t told you, Dear Reader, is that I bought a second-hand spare autopilot
unit in Mindelo, for just this eventuality, but in truth, not really believing
it would be needed. Such an attitude of denial stems from the facts of
undertaking such a task whilst underway in heavy seas; not least of these being
the removal of the steering wheel. So, we bit the bullet, fitted the emergency
tiller, hove to, removed the wheel, and got work. Wonder of wonders, it took
less than an hour to complete the job, Nigel proving his technical skills with
great aplomb, and soon we were underway once more feeling much relieved to have
Georgina back in business.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Saddened by
a trio of forlorn visitors this afternoon. The young egrets appeared from the
south flying low over the great Atlantic swell, and began circling the boat,
looking decidedly weary and barely able to stay airborne. They looked as if
they wanted to land on the boat, but clearly put off by the sails and whirling
wind genny. One even attempted a water-landing, lowering its long legs towards
the breaking wavetops, but wisely thought better of it. They continued their
hopeless circling for another ten minutes, me pointing the way to Africa and
refuge, they tragically unable to comprehend, until finally struggling on
northward to an undoubtedly watery end in a baffling and alien world. My
spirits lifted half an hour later when a pod of large bottlenose dolphins
arrived, surfing in grand formation down the precipitous swell. All this high
drama on a warm, balmy afternoon with just 2100 miles to go.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Saturday 3<sup>rd</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>1249 – 15 15.3N
28 46.5W Co 280 Sp 6</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I should
point out, Dear Reader, that all courses reported are in degrees magnetic.
Right here, the variation is close to 18 degrees west, so our true course right
now is nearer 260.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The wind has
backed a little too much, and to keep my original plan would take us too far
south – don’t fancy Brazil. So, this morning we took the genoa off the pole and
continued a broad reach westward <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>2100 – 15 07.6N
26 33.8W – Hove to, making 1.5 kts to the south.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I make a
point of not using bad language in my blogs, Dear Reader, but describing this
latest occurrence, I just want to let rip with all the profanity at my disposal
– which is substantial. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
******!!!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
At around
1645, engine on to charge batteries, I went below to fill in the log, and
discovered the red “active” light on the stern gland bilge pump was on. Nigel
had not long turned in, so rather than disturb him, I went into my cabin and
ripped out my bed to investigate. Good news and bad. The stern gland was intact
and not leaking. But… the engine bay was so full of water that it was flowing
freely over the top and into the stern gland compartment. I then called Nigel,
before opening the engine bay, to reveal a split cooling-water pipe from which copious
amounts of seawater was pumping into the boat. It had long since flooded the
engine bay, flowing freely into the main bilge and slowly sinking us. I killed
the engine and groped down through the murky water to turn off the engine
seacock. Reader, this was serious. Not only had we lost the engine, but we had
a ton of water in the after bilges, which was even now seeping through the forward
ones.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, while
Nigel assesses how to proceed to fix it, I lug down the toolbox and a length of
spare hose from the cockpit lazarette, noting with some relief that Georgina
was on course and carrying us along nicely. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Two hours later,
both running with sweat and caked in black engine muck, we get the new pipe on
and start the engine. She runs perfectly, no leaks, and exhaust water aplenty. “Get
in there!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We shake
each other’s blackened greasy hands, before setting to work bailing out. That
takes another four hours; hot, sweaty, filthy work, the two of us staggering
about against the violent rocking, free surface water sloshing back and forth
in the bilges as we try to balance buckets and bail out. by which time it’s
fully dark and too late for food. At some point during our labours Georgina has
decided to give up, slinging us off course into an untidy heave to. We decide
to leave her hove to, nav lights and AIS collision alarm on, and go to bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Sunday 4<sup>th</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>0134 – 15 01.9N
26 34.7W – Hove to</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I wake, and leave
Nigel snoring as I check our position, write up the log, and prepare to get
under way. He wakes at 0230, refreshed and raring to go. We get under way by
0300, on a broad reach making a bouncy 7 knots. We share the remaining night
watch, me crashing in the saloon until 0530 while Nigel takes the helm – for some
reason the autopilot’s fluxgate compass has gone wild, so Georgina can’t hold a
course. We’ll investigate in the morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>1415 – 14 58.1N
30 49.3W Co 280 Sp5.4</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wind now
steady back easterly, so put the genoa back on the pole, and goose-winged the
main. Only 12 knots or so of wind, so quite pleased with our 5+ knots. Still no
joy with fluxgate compass – have removed all possible sources of interference
from the nav-station area, but no change in its erratic behaviour. Tried
powering down everything and starting up one at a time. No good. Damn!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
(A few days
later it mysteriously resets itself and Georgina’s up and running again.
Eventually we discover that the fluxgate is tripping each time Nigel goes past
the nav station with his iPad switched on. Even placing his machine on the
saloon table can send the compass crazy, from a good two metres away. Okay, so
now we know.) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Monday 5<sup>th</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>0610 – 14 57.3N
32 26.4W Co 290 Sp 6</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nigel: <i>While on watch in middle of the night we had
a visitor; a flying fish flew into the cockpit right in front of my face and
landed in the piss bucket. After a quick look, I flipped it over the stern. Mid-afternoon
yesterday a yacht passed about 2 miles astern flying a big spinnaker, en route
to Brazil, judging by her course. First we’ve seen since Friday. Tried fixing
the autopilot – thought we had it sussed, but it decided to go walkabout; Ward
4 by the looks of it. Just had a great skua flying around us. Out of filters
for my rollups – couldn’t find any in Mindelo, not for lack of trying. Still
hand-steering, but an uneventful day – thank God!<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On flying
fish. The novelty of flying fish quickly wore off over the next few days, with
the beasts entering the cockpit and skidding across the sole, leaving their
scales and smell everywhere. Every morning we’d find them littered across the
decks and in every nook and cranny in the cockpit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Wednesday 7<sup>th</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>1344 – 14 10.6N
37 41.6W Co 285 Sp 5.5</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nigel:<i> Last night Mike told me about steering by
the stars – he uses it a lot. Must try that. We’d been talking about fixing the
fluxgate compass, and carrying out a compass swing, when Mike, at the wheel,
lost concentration as a big wave slewed us to windward and backed the genny.
Mike steered on around, boxing the compass, then oversteered and did the whole manoeuvre
again. Glad I was in the cockpit to witness it – we fell about in fits of laughter.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Yes, Dear
Reader, I boxed the compass, not once, but twice. What made it funnier, we’d
just been talking about doing a compass swing to try and calibrate the
fluxgate. No, it didn’t fix itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nigel: <i>Our big bunch of bananas have ripened a
little earlier than we’d hoped. Any suggestions for recipes? Must have eaten
half a dozen yesterday (burp). They taste beautifully sweet. Did the first
VBlog today, Mike doing commentary with me at the wheel. The take out was
funny. I cooked tagliatelle bolognaise tonight, and just managed to get it on
the t5able before sunset.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>2126 – 14 13.0N
38 24.6W Co 280 Sp 4.5</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nigel: <i> We
now do 2 x 3-hour watches each night, so I practice sailing to the stars. In
this instance, it was the star just behind the wing of Pegasus. This technique
is brilliant, letting you look out all around, rather than staring at the
compass for three hours. That is, until the clouds come and crash the party.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Nigel got
gradually more accomplished at steering this way, using the glitter-paths from
the setting Moon and Venus, Vega on the starboard shroud, and the various stars
in Calliope and Pegasus. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Thursday 8<sup>th</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>1040 – 14 05.3N
41 16.1W Co 280 Sp 6</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We now have
around 1300 miles to go, and the last couple of days have passed pleasantly
enough. The sea has become quite boisterous, but by now we’re well inured to
the violent motion, coping well with cooking and cleaning, and even managing
each to get a shower (seawater soap-down and fresh rinse) from time to time.
This morning we have a new sail plan – Sailplan Charlie (Clipper Rig). Here we
stow away the pole and the mainsail, and attach the genoa to the main boom.
After a bit of trial and error, we discover this works best with the genny
sheet hauled up tight to the boom. It’s wonderfully stable, easy to steer, even
for Georgina, and gives us a good turn of knots in all wind speeds. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Saturday 10<sup>th</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
0315 – 13 53.4N
44 11.3W Co 280 Sp 5.5<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I’ve secretly
been on tenterhooks for the past week. Why? Because misfortunes usually come in
threes, and the last week has been trouble-free; and I’ve been trying to
second-guess lady fortune on what her next trick will be. Well, now we know; three
hours ago, she let rip with a real sneaky one. The genoa decided to part
company with the top hoist-swivel, sending the full sail sliding overboard to
float serenely alongside, held only by the tack-shackle and the sheets. I was
just coming on watch when it happened, so quickly donned lifejacket and went
forward to recover the errant sail while Nigel started the engine and held her
steady down wind and swell. I have no idea where I found the strength to get
that great sail inboard, but soon I had it all lashed down on the foredeck.
With the swivel-hoist still at the top of the mast, there was no chance of
hoisting that sail again, so we got the main up and continued on our way, resigned,
for the time being at least, to completing the remaining voyage on main only. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Over the
next few days we discuss various strategies for getting that genny back up on
its furled, and conclude that, while getting the hoist down again should be
quite a simple task (using an improvised grapnel of fish hooks seized onto the
spinnaker halliard), hoisting the sail in these conditions would be difficult
and quite dangerous. We would need virtually zero wind, and because I’ve come
far enough south to guarantee consistent trade winds, that seems highly
unlikely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thursday 15<sup>th</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
2127 – 13 10.4N
57 42.6W Co 270 Sp 4.5<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Our local
time is UT -1, so for us, it’s still daylight. Wind down to 10 knots, so took
the opportunity to pull down that hoist – our improvised grapnel worked a treat.
However, attempts to get the genny hoisted failed miserably – so gave up that
idea. The last five days have been characterised by wave after wave of heavy
squalls, with the rain lashing down in torrents and the winds gusting 40 knots
in sudden shifts, forcing us with our restricted sailplan to veer temporarily off
course to keep from backing the main. When a squall hits it’s sudden and
violent, forcing us to hand steer and react instantly to gusts and shifts as
the boat gets slewed barely under control along at a ripping 9 knots. It's like
driving a F1 racing car in the rain with dry-weather tyres. Scary but exhilarating.
We have 249 miles to run and our ETA Prickly Bay, Grenada, is Saturday
afternoon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Saturday 17<sup>th</sup>
December 2016<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
1352 – I’m
awakened from my afternoon slumber with Nigel’s strident shout “Land Ho!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-57497623053951150342016-11-28T14:12:00.001+00:002016-11-28T14:15:17.113+00:00Log of the Island Spirit – La Palma to Mindelo (Cape Verde Islands)<b>Sunday 27th November, 2016. Mindelo</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marina Mindelo from Floating Bar</td></tr>
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First, Dear Reader, apologies for the delay since my last posting. The reasons are various, but mainly due to back to back crises, throwing up a series of new and vexing challenges. The first of these actually came to light before our arrival in La Palma, when I spotted a steady drip from the engine, which I assumed to be from the cooling water system. Regrettably, on closer inspection, this turned out to be a fuel leak from the vent on the lift-pump. This was later diagnosed as a ruptured diaphragm in the pump assembly, requiring replacement of the entire unit. The necessary part was eventually located in Barcelona, and it took a full week to ship to us, causing our planned week in La Palma to stretch to a fortnight.<br />
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So here we are in Marina Mindelo, a lively haven for yachts in transit, on the edge of a post-colonial (Portuguese) town on the small island of Sao Vincente. These past days have been busy but intensely enjoyable; in arguably the most sociable and atmospheric watering hole this side of the Big Pond. Apart from the lively interaction with fellow “Atlantikeers” in the busy floating bar, our visit here is punctuated by quirky little incidents that you’d find hard to credit elsewhere. Take, for example, my constitutional visit to the shore heads this morning, which I undertook pre-armed with my own toilet paper against the inevitable absence of such necessaries in the horsetrap cubicles. Mid-strain, my grunts were interrupted by a perfectly manicured female hand holding two rolls under the door. “Paper for you, Sir”.<br />
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But I’m getting ahead of myself. First let me recount the highs and lows of our passage here (a supposed six-day passage that turned out rather longer) and the last days in La Palma leading up to our departure. By the way, in this and future posts, my crewmate Nigel will participate with selected comments from his own diary. I’m sure you’ll find the alternative perspective interesting and enlightening.<br />
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Nigel bought a white panama hat In Lanzarote, which makes him look like Geoffrey Boycott, so you may hear me refer to him occasionally as Geoffrey. In retaliation, he’s dubbed me “Obi wan Kenobi”<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Geoffrey after a successful forage for the elusive PG tips</td></tr>
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<b>Sunday 13th November 2016</b><br />
<b>0805</b> Departed Santa Cruz harbour into a formidable south-westerly swell, running before a lively sixteen-knot wind.<br />
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Our two-week stay on La Palma was pleasantly restful but largely uneventful. The one exception was the day we hired a car and drove up to the lip of the volcano. Wow! The pictures say a lot, but I’ll leave Nigel to tell you about that experience.<br />
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Nigel: <i>It’s Monday morning, and I’m driving a little old white Fiesta all the way to the top of the volcano to get to the west coast. The drive up the mountain is spectacular; it’s so lush and dense with native woodland trees. The road up is all twists and turns; hairpin bends for about 80km that make for fun driving, although Mike is at times white knuckled and grimacing at the more precipitous drops on his side. “Use the Force, Obi Wan,” I tell him.</i><br />
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<i>We stop at a viewing point by the observatories. The caldera is partially choked with swirling, turbulent, cloud, though this does little to diminish the sheer drama and scale of the view; looking across the two-kilometre void to the jagged rim that falls away steeply into floating white nothingness.</i><br />
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<b>1138 – 28 26.4N 17 44.3W Co 215 Sp 6 kts</b><br />
Autopilot stubbornly refuses to hold a course – something wrong with the drive belt, I think, but could be the motor on the way out. So, hand steering for the next week or so. Not a pleasant prospect. For me alone, this would be a turn around to get it repaired, but with two of us, it should be do-able. However, it is a definite “nogo” item for the crossing, so we need to find someone in Cape Verde to fix it. Meanwhile we’re resigned to our fate, with two-hour watches on the helm.<br />
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<b>1615 – 27 59.0N 18 05.0W Co220 Sp 6kts</b><br />
Running engine to charge batteries, and getting ready to face a wearing night.<br />
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<b>Monday 14th November 2016</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spectacular morning moonset...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...As the sun lights up the sky astern</td></tr>
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<b>0802 – 26 49.0N 18 48.6W Co 215 Sp 4kts</b><br />
Made a cooked breakfast to boost crew morale. Slackened wind this morning reducing us to a disappointing four knots.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning Watchman Relieved</td></tr>
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Nigel (coming on watch):<br />
<i>“What the hell have you done with the wind, Mike?”</i><br />
<i>“You steer, Geoffrey,” says he, “I’ll go and make us breakfast” </i><br />
<i>We got bacon, egg, mushrooms, and beans, and even toast. Plus of course, a mug of steaming PG tips. UHT milk isn’t so bad when you get used to it. (That’s the only thing about this trip I wasn’t looking forward to).</i><br />
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<b>1700 – 26 17.5N 19 08.3W Co 215 Sp 5.2kts</b><br />
Motoring due to lack of wind.<br />
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Nigel: <i>Sails down and motoring 1600 rpm, doing about 4.5 knots, plus a bit of help from the Canaries Current. Spirit transformed into a stinkpot.</i><br />
<b>1946 – 26 06.5N 19 16.5W Co 250 Sp 5.1kts</b><br />
Decided to make ground westwards, hoping for better wind further into Atlantic.<br />
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<b>Tuesday 15th November 2016</b><br />
<b>1053 – 25 29.7N 20 23.8W Co220 Sp 5kts</b><br />
Following another tiring night of two-hours about, at last we have wind. Now making good progress under full sail, and without the monotonous throb of the engine, that and the diesel exhaust wafting into the cockpit on the following wind.<br />
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<b>1510 – 25 19.2N 28 38.3W Co225 Sp 4.2kts</b><br />
Wind dropped again. Motorsailing under a sulky sky, towering cumulous all around, some ominously dark at their flat bases, with rain cascading beneath. Astern we watch a twisting tube emerge from a cloud as it tries unsuccessfully to reach the surface to form a waterspout.<br />
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<b>2016 – 25 01.3N 20 50.6W Co 210 Sp 4.1kts</b><br />
Continuing squally conditions with heavy rain from time to time. Decide it prudent to douse the main and rig the spinnaker pole for the genoa. It’s the first time we’d used it in anger, so quite a bit of trial and error before the genny is happy and settled. Nigel thinks it still is not right, and this continues to be a bone of contention over the next few days. Eventually we discover the error and fix it, more of which later.<br />
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<b>Wednesday 16th October 2016</b><br />
<b>0752 – 24 17.4N 21 10.7W Co 210 Sp 4kts</b><br />
The wind dropped away completely overnight, but we were cheered by a pod of visiting dolphins. Motorsailing under a grey, sultry sky.<br />
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<b>1615 – 23 39.7N 21 17.2W Co 210 Sp 5kts</b><br />
Nigel spends the day fishing. Wind picks up, but from the south in this unseasonal low pressure system; not expecting it to last, but now enjoying a spell of lively close-reach sailing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Spag Bol for Dinner</td></tr>
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Nigel: <i>Could be worse – at least the tea was good. Mike cooked. Afterwards he took the watch and said: “Before you go and do the washing up, you’d better bring in the fishing line.” I got two thirds of the way reeling in and got a huge take. FISH ON! This huge green/blue/yellow fish leapt out of the water trying to dislodge the hook. Then… bang. Nothing but a slack line. Another had taken the weight, trace and swivel. Bugger!!!”</i><br />
<br />
<b>2230 – 23 19.5N 21 35.4W Co 190 Sp 2.5kts</b><br />
We have a problem! Went to start engine. “Click” and nothing more. Try again with extra power from house batteries. Nada. With sinking heart, we try several more times, even rearranging battery wiring to add the auxiliary AGM battery. Starter motor jammed? Or something more serious? Either way, we’re stuffed for normal cruising. Desperate measures needed. Fridge off, all lights off, heave to, and get some sleep. Hopefully, when daylight dawns, we can fix the pesky thing.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Thursday 17th November 2016</b><br />
<b>0812 – 23 18.4N 21 44.4W – Hove to</b><br />
I’m down below getting breakfast when an almighty shout issues from the cockpit. “Oh No! Now what?” But then I catch the high exuberance in Nigel’s continuing cries. Turns out our stationary condition has attracted a flotilla of large pelagic predators who seem to think we might be breakfast.<br />
<br />
“Let’s go fishing” screeches Nigel. (Now he’s Robson Green). So I get us underway while my distracted crewman feverishly busies himself with hooks and lures.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1556 – 22 55.4N 22 06.5W Co230 Sp 3.4</b><br />
We’ve been sailing goosewinged most of the day before a half-hearted following wind. Nigel’s attempt to land his catch of a lifetime has so far yielded mixed results, with several lost rigs and one near-success; a big dorado almost gaffed, but managed to jump the hook at the last moment.<br />
<br />
<b>1940 – 22 42.4N 22 12.2W Co200 Sp 3.1kts. </b> Caught our first fish, and Robson is ecstatic. He played it well, the beast leaping high from the water, then trying to dive deep, and under the boat. I left the wheel to help (which caused Spirit to heave herself to most prettily) and eventually brought our quarry to heel under the stern, where I gaffed it and hauled it inboard. Much blood and gore splattered us and the cockpit as the 40-pounder thrashed about trying to avoid my winch-handle blows to its conk. I eventually subdued the monster with a shot of Bombay Sapphire into its gill. Unfortunately, without a working fridge, there’s no way to save much of this enormous dorado, so I take off a sizable filet and consign the remaining carcass to the deep with a whispered thank you.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nigel:<i> Wow! My biggest fish...ever!</i></td></tr>
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<b>Friday 18th November 2016</b><br />
<b>0002 – 22 20.5N 22 16.6W Co 190 Sp 3kts</b><br />
Slugging along on a mithering breeze. Our second night without charging batteries, after a dull day with little coming in from solar panel or wind turbine. All lights off, (including nav lights) to conserve power. Sailing on minimal instruments (anemometer, log, and compass light), and taking fixes from my phone. We both have headlights glued to our heads to light our way through the boat. 336 miles to go; another long night ahead.<br />
<br />
<b>0613 – 22 01.3N 22 26.3W Hove to</b><br />
Yeah, long alright; two hours on feels like five, two off, a scant five minutes. Both too tired to think straight, with grouchiness close to the surface, so decided to heave to and get some sleep.<br />
<br />
<b>1553 – 21 34.6N 22 29.1W Co 190 Sp 4.3kts</b><br />
Barely made twenty miles today, but the wind has started to pick up; struggling back to its prevailing north east, where it surely belongs. Nigel on watch while I prepare some of that dorado for dinner.<br />
<br />
<b>1919 – 21 23.3N 22 35.0W Co 220 Sp 4.5kts</b><br />
Oven-baked the dorado in foil with olive oil, butter, fresh lime, and capers; served with butternut mash and sautéed mushrooms. The fish came out just right; juicy and tender. But alas, it seems the great fisherman prefers catching dorado to eating it. He liked the butternut squash though. I look at the other half of the filet in the fridge and wonder how to cook it next.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgi_X1tlX9HLnkLjG5j-6MwXiy211s2HTKGNKUsbocw4ojYHUSHozxnqGpJUBQu7J_KqKm5UJumuvOqE8Jd4JeEfURq13A22dc4uv6IJbsr0kF21c2Hb8CSaixOyH0aDf1_Y3ta0cpJHqI/s1600/20161118_173720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgi_X1tlX9HLnkLjG5j-6MwXiy211s2HTKGNKUsbocw4ojYHUSHozxnqGpJUBQu7J_KqKm5UJumuvOqE8Jd4JeEfURq13A22dc4uv6IJbsr0kF21c2Hb8CSaixOyH0aDf1_Y3ta0cpJHqI/s640/20161118_173720.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Er... not sure.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Er... Nah!</td></tr>
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After reviewing our sailplan, we re-rigged the spinnaker pole, giving us a more encouraging turn of speed.<br />
<br />
Nigel: <i>We’ve been using the spinnaker pole a lot. It certainly tames the headsail; makes steering a lot easier. Still can’t get used to ploughing headlong into the pitch black at 90mph – well 7-8 knots anyway, but it’s hell of a fast.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Saturday 19th November 2016</b><br />
Nigel on heaving to: <i>We just had another couple of hours hove to. It makes a huge change to the motions of the boat. You’ve got the headsail and the rudder working in opposition, so you only move forward really slowly, leaning over a bit with the wind. The sailor’s motorway station I suppose, but you don’t have to wait for one to come along, just park up where you like, as long as you’ve got sea room. A quick look outside every ten to fifteen minutes to watch out for shipping, but it’s really restful.</i><br />
<br />
<b>0917 – 20 25.2N 23 00.5W Co 219 Sp 6kts</b><br />
Not liking the sky much, and the glass is falling (albeit not a lot), so unrigged pole and shortened main to two reefs. Wind gusting 18 knots with prospect of more to come.<br />
<br />
<b>1539 – 19 50.2N 23 13.7W Co 205 Sp 6-7kts</b><br />
Creaming along nicely but awkward increased swell making steering tiresome. Reduced to half genoa. Sky still overcast, but batteries seem to be getting something from whatever u/v’s are getting through. Tonight, I’ll pan-fry the rest of that dorado.<br />
<br />
<b>1928 - 19 34.0N 23 21.9W Hove to</b><br />
So, this time I cut up the dorado into 2 inch cubes. I melted some butter in a frying pan, and dropped in the pieces of fish, gently browning them all over. I then added salt, pepper, and a sprinkle of dried star anise, and finished it off with a good dollop of UHT cream, then served it up with new potatoes and green beans. Nigel’s verdict: The potatoes were nice.<br />
<br />
Wind dropped away again – getting some sleep while we can.<br />
<br />
<b>2215 – 19 27.9N 23 27.5W Co 215 Sp 4.8kts</b><br />
Enough wind now to goosewing poled out. Making reasonable speed.<br />
<br />
<b>0428 – 19 04.4N 23 40.3W Co 215 Sp 7kts</b><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my best moment! An hour later, after dark, the whole rig collapsed.</td></tr>
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An hour ago the pole topping lift jumped out of its carabiner, dropping the pole crashing into the water. So, while Nigel battled to hold her downwind on main only in by now heavy weather, I managed to furl the genny and struggle forward to recover the dangling pole. Twenty minutes of high adrenalin rush sees the job done, and by now I agree with Nigel that something is seriously amiss with our pole arrangement. I’ve discarded that treacherous carabiner for a start, replacing it with a conventional bow shackle. But that’s not it. I now agree that having the pole fixed out at right angles when reducing the genoa is not the right solution. There is far too much play in the sheet, causing the violent shivering that loosed the topping lift from its fixture. We now agree that we should use the pole itself to reef in, bringing the whole rig forward as we furl in the genoa. There is also the matter of the foreguy, which I have led directly from the block, under the bottom guardrail out to the pole. This has been causing an alarming creaking in Nigel’s forepeak cabin, disturbing what little sleep he could get (and causing me severe ear-ache from his mithering). I look once again at my friend, Dave Morait’s, drawings and notes, and realise the foreguy needs to go through the forward fairlead to give it lateral, rather that vertical, load. This works much better; gives the sail stability, stops that awful noise below, and even improves the steering. Well done Nigel for sticking to your guns. I’ll say it again; you never stop learning on a boat. But really, I shouldn’t have missed that important point about the foreguy lead.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How it should be done!</td></tr>
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<b>1002 – 19 03.3N 23 54.1W Co 240 Sp 3.5kts</b><br />
After a particularly gruelling night we’ve just got underway again from hove to since 0720; A chance for a leisurely breakfast and a short nap.<br />
<br />
<b>1238 – 18 57.5N 24 01.8W Co 223 Sp 7kts</b><br />
The wind has veered once more to the south, but Nigel the cat-sailor is loving the feel of Spirit in close-hauled mode. For the sheer thrill of sailing you can’t beat a mono-hull upwind.<br />
<br />
<b>1635 – Stationary.</b><br />
Becalmed, dammit! Lolling on a grey ocean, under a grey sky, the rain pattering on the bimini and speckling the water. Yawn.<br />
<br />
<b>2222 – 18 30.6N 24 17.6W Co215 Sp 5.6kts</b><br />
Got underway at 1700, and since then the wind has gradually backed northeast and strengthened. Now less than a hundred miles to go, and time to start planning for a daylight arrival. Need to be sure we can get assistance to berth without engine.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday 21st November 2016</b><br />
<b>0720 – 17 59.3N 24 31.5W Hove to.</b><br />
Yes, to get some rest again, but also to avoid getting too close, too soon. 83 miles to go – only 16 hours with this favourable wind. Want to arrive mid-morning tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday 22nd November 2016</b><br />
<b>0222 – 17 06.5N 24 50.2W – Hove to</b><br />
Merely changed position, and here we are hove to making around 1 knot towards our destination – perfect. Only 20 miles to go.<br />
<br />
<b>0705</b> – We get underway as the mountains of Santo Antao loom out of the murky morning.<br />
<br />
<b>1003</b> – A blistering twenty five knots of wind in the harbour, sailing in far too fast on just a docker’s hanky of genny showing, made more precarious by the score of anchored yachts between us and the marina. But made it safely to the pontoon, aided by a man in a little dinghy tied up alongside; “You just steer, Captain – I am your engine.”<br />
Booking in:<br />
<br />
Okay, We're both tired and desperate for our first shower in ten days. But first I need to check in to the marina office. I pay a week in advance for mooring fees, complete all the necessary paperwork in about half an hour. Now immigration. It’s a mile walk to their office. I fill in more forms and pay five euros to get entry stamps in our passports. Now I have to visit the National Police. More forms, questions, passports scrutinised. They keep my boat registration card. “You come back de day before you leave and we return your card – for dis you must pay 7 Euros. Then you go back to immigration and get exit stamps in your passports. Den you are free to leave.”<br />
<br />
Two hours later I find Nigel sitting in the cockpit wondering if I’ve been kidnapped. At last we get our shower, then being sailors of strict priorities, stumble into the floating bar and sink two pints each in short order. By now, Nigel has a wide grin etched on his face: “What a fantastic place!” he beams.<br />
<br />
Yes, Dear Reader, it really is that good. The charm and buzz in the floating bar is instantly infectious – the shared excitement of the great Atlantic adventure is something that needs to be experienced to be understood. Sailors of twenty nationalities, some with families, small (but well behaved) children, some with dogs; gnarled old sea-gypsies rub shoulders with young sporty types on their first crossing, ideas swapped and sea-stories told; the talk is about the oceanic weather, downwind techniques, water and provisioning, hairy mishaps, the hilarious state of the material world we’ve all left behind, Trump, Brexit, Putin, Marie Le Pen, Berlusconi. In fact, just about anything. Above all, it’s happy, friendly, and ringing with a cacophony of languages, spontaneous laughter, and the clink of glasses. It’s no great wonder Nigel walks about with that stupid grin all the time.<br />
<br />
That’s all for now, Reader. I’ll try to update you on our stay here before we leave (planning for 1st December), and of course those vital repairs. Please remember to leave comments below, and thanks for following.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scenes from downtown Mindelo</td></tr>
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<br />Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-78619788784149559462016-11-01T15:25:00.003+00:002016-11-02T11:20:31.216+00:00Log of the Island Spirit - Playa Blanca to Santa Cruz, La Palma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Friday 28 October 2016 – Marina Rubicon, Lanzarote</b></div>
After three fabulous weeks in Playa Blanca, and having gained a crewman, my Brother in Law, Nigel, it’s finally time to get this show on the road again. So tomorrow, we unstick ourselves from the pontoon and, after stopping off at the fuelling jetty, we set sail for the island of La Palma, 208 NM to the west, estimating to arrive on Monday afternoon. That will give us two days of fairly gentle sailing to shake us down working together as a crew. Having sailed solo for more than a year, it’s going to be just as challenging for me as for Nigel.<br />
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The time here was highlighted when t’other Brother in Law, John, came here on hols with niece Pam, her husband Glynn and the kids, Ellie and Isaac; along with their grandparents, Jim and Christine. It was good to see them all. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brother-in-Law John, Niece Pamela, & Family - Dinner at Playa Blanca</td></tr>
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John and Co were fortunate with the weather, because the day after they went home the heavens opened and we had a rare week of heavy rain, thunderstorms, and high winds, brought to us courtesy of an unseasonable shift south in the Azores Low. It’s still a bit shifty, but forecasts for the next few days is calm (perhaps a little too calm).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuF_wwOXJg-PEso1VeYS9Yp8sag_MYxVE0HpOtqUVyBEQXlVjzP6_O5lfxE_6Iptz3E27FWqYqaYxfRuMhvyQm9Z1_yslY4M8R3gCdlCyOH7XKxVqtmAbw2xbwRbSx_n28x8xdh3RHw1o/s1600/ViewsofPlayaBlana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuF_wwOXJg-PEso1VeYS9Yp8sag_MYxVE0HpOtqUVyBEQXlVjzP6_O5lfxE_6Iptz3E27FWqYqaYxfRuMhvyQm9Z1_yslY4M8R3gCdlCyOH7XKxVqtmAbw2xbwRbSx_n28x8xdh3RHw1o/s640/ViewsofPlayaBlana.jpg" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Views of Playa Blanca</td></tr>
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Nigel is settling in nicely, learning to cook, refreshing his seamanship, chatting to all our marina neighbours (and hopefully getting past trying to micromanage his company by phone). He’s with me till February/March so I guess after a month incommunicado he’ll either be crawling the bulkheads in frustration, or (more likely) be pleasantly surprised how well they’ve got on without him. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrheg-vOSpIZ1Uf9OIPLWLQ-mh-w-YS95susH7IFLFu92Lz4t6ub9wrcH5ow538Vq_tmp_EJ3loUitJaGu5337jjcbnFhuvNUpJ3_aFN7kOlhIJ6r_4uXDVul-mYu_rN1WnTPKLLqw8NNM/s1600/Me%2526Nige.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrheg-vOSpIZ1Uf9OIPLWLQ-mh-w-YS95susH7IFLFu92Lz4t6ub9wrcH5ow538Vq_tmp_EJ3loUitJaGu5337jjcbnFhuvNUpJ3_aFN7kOlhIJ6r_4uXDVul-mYu_rN1WnTPKLLqw8NNM/s640/Me%2526Nige.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nigel & Me on Island Spirit</td></tr>
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We were invaded by some friends from Arrecife last Sunday (Chris & Cathy, Robbie & Christine, and Zara), which predictably turned into a rather boozy boat-party. I think Nigel enjoyed it, and is perhaps secretly disappointed that those events don’t happen more often. Personally, I’m perfectly happy at their infrequency, though I’m sure that will change when we reach Carriacou. <br />
<br />
More when we get to La Palma and you can read how we got on (or not, hehe).<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday 29 October 2016 – Marina Rubicon. Passage to La Palma</b><br />
1100 – Departed Rubicon after taking on 160 litres of fuel. Once clear of breakwater, hoisted main (1 reef) then rolled out the genny; close reach on a moderate northerly breeze. Nigel got his first go at hand-steering; apart from one or two lapses, he soon got the measure of the wheel (he’s more accustomed to a tiller). <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hee Hee, Life so easy with an extra pair of hands</td></tr>
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<b>1230 – 28 49.9N 13 57.6W Co 275 Sp 6.5</b><br />
As the hazy mountains of Lanzarote melt away astern, we’re making six plus knots on a pleasantly calm sea, a slight northerly swell, and a clear sky. Then Nigel makes an observation, “Why is the leach of the genny flapping?”<br />
“It happens,” say I, “she’s an old sail and a little baggy in places.”<br />
“What about that piece of string hanging down?” replies Nigel.<br />
“As my old sea dad once told me,” I rejoined, “if a Jenny has a piece of string hanging down, don’t, whatever you do, pull it.”<br />
Of course, Nigel pulled the string, and the leach stopped flapping. As I’ve said many times, you never stop learning on a boat.<br />
<b><br />1729 – 28 50.5N 14 22.9W Co 280 Sp 3</b><br />
Wind dwindled to a lazy breeze from the starboard quarter, wafting us along at walking pace, while the lowering sun spreads a great swathe of ocean with sparkly sequins. Nigel sits reading his book (Potato Mining… by Stewart Hale, a hard copy. Oh, we’ve had such fun trying to get his Ipad Kindle App working – two old geezers trying to use technology designed for twelve-year-olds.) <br />
<br />
Me? Well, between writing up this, I doze peacefully in the warm sunshine. No other vessels in sight, and nothing much on the AIS. Oh, and the new fishing rod is getting its first airing, trawling a weighted pink lure about 200 feet astern. One way or the other, we’re having fish for supper tonight – Nigel’s cooking, and, at the moment, it’s salmon. I’ve just reminded him to take it out of the freezer – duh. Looks like we’ll be eating in darkness.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73D8UzYv2jXXecqLVLwO8C5o13nKZN73fOqHqZ7TbaYnU0bspXi8W6tCe4widZOmKHXxryaZfScEPvhr8ZJ2-B39-fLvBexWkQzwSohZZRgny8FlX3hZlYLNZabWxj5Et80QYTcFMAczl/s1600/20161029_190649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73D8UzYv2jXXecqLVLwO8C5o13nKZN73fOqHqZ7TbaYnU0bspXi8W6tCe4widZOmKHXxryaZfScEPvhr8ZJ2-B39-fLvBexWkQzwSohZZRgny8FlX3hZlYLNZabWxj5Et80QYTcFMAczl/s640/20161029_190649.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset - Will Dinner be ready?</td></tr>
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<br />
<b></b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcsclv_P89O3UwaEq2HB0mrpY6gC4Cd9pujIL-5crnWgL1yUvukGO_aVIhhpgwkAtqncDt7n7qlB90y1j7YIsgFfWwJmQ3565m3Z4adOtRu8ACy-o3IvgO7KJfXw05JauFIMRxD1ztcTd/s1600/20161029_190711.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcsclv_P89O3UwaEq2HB0mrpY6gC4Cd9pujIL-5crnWgL1yUvukGO_aVIhhpgwkAtqncDt7n7qlB90y1j7YIsgFfWwJmQ3565m3Z4adOtRu8ACy-o3IvgO7KJfXw05JauFIMRxD1ztcTd/s640/20161029_190711.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nah!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkAjtxCEcqTW4ShbaRjt6cLmRBmvo-ApcvpjJeI1lvVsw7QJvTn8pfUSG6aYGT15A_QjFeW0OzKGo3kAXvyj298xJcTqCC2yW63qnOfG_lTG53Cd_0zZVx-A2h5Uf9f_FrXt1y4-zaQNr/s1600/20161029_204629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkAjtxCEcqTW4ShbaRjt6cLmRBmvo-ApcvpjJeI1lvVsw7QJvTn8pfUSG6aYGT15A_QjFeW0OzKGo3kAXvyj298xJcTqCC2yW63qnOfG_lTG53Cd_0zZVx-A2h5Uf9f_FrXt1y4-zaQNr/s640/20161029_204629.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ok, well you can live on it.</td></tr>
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<b>1822 – 28 50.4N 14 25.7W Manoeuvring</b><br />
<div>
Spotted an orange-coloured object in the water a couple of hundred yards off to port, couldn’t make it out with bins, so turned, jibing, to investigate (me secretly dreading finding a bloated body and thinking through how we should deal with that situation.) Turns out it’s an escaped mooring buoy. It’s small, but quite a solid thing with at least two metres of wire cable hanging beneath it – a possible danger for any fast motorboat. I’ve no great love for stinkpots, but I wouldn’t wish them harm, so I call it in to Las Palmas MCC. <br />
<b><br />1947 – 28 50.4N 14 31.4W Co 279 Sp 3.2</b><br />
Having fulfilled our sailorly obligations, we continue on our way. Nigel is cooking, and yup, dinner’s going to be late, so our hopes for a sunset feast in the cockpit are going to be dashed.<br />
<br />
<b>Sunday 30 October 2016<br />0222 – 28 49.2N 14 59.6W Co 279 Sp 4.2</b><br />
I’m on the graveyard watch, 2 till 8, and we’ve just entered the busy shipping routes heading in and out of the inter-island Separation Zones. Several vessels are predicted to pass quite close so I need to watch them carefully – they’re supposed to give way to us, but you can never quite be certain they’ve seen us.<br />
<br />
<b>0433 – 28 48.2N 15 13.5W Co 279 Sp 6.5</b><br />
Whoopee! Wind has strengthened and we’re flying along. Still in the melee of merchant shipping, but most have so far passed well clear. Only one came close; we crossed a cable or so ahead of it, a big factory trawler heading for Las Palmas, (Tenerife) at 14 knots. I always hate crossing ahead of a potential killer-ship, and watched anxiously until both her red and green lights became visible, portable VHF in hand ready to call for sea-room. It was good to see her pass safely across our wake. It was then I heard strange noises coming from up forward. It kept me wondering for a while, until I realised my crewmate snores rather loudly. Oh dear.<br />
<br />
<b>1125 – 28 47.0N 15 58.6W Co 279 Sp 5.3</b><br />
It’s Sunday, so I cooked us breakfast; egg, bacon, and beans, bread and butter (toast would have been nice, but not possible to use the toaster at sea – my little inverter can’t handle it). Lovely morning again, warm, sunny, and skipping along nicely on a friendly sea.<br />
<br />
<b>1835 – 28 46.2N 16 33.7W Co 279 Sp 4</b><br />
<br />
What a glorious day’s sailing! We couldn’t have asked for a more benign wind and sea, and our speed is averaging out well for an early arrival tomorrow morning. Just cooked us dinner – one of my speciality Chinese chicken stir fry, with rice and a medley of fresh vegetables. Quick and simple, and very tasty. This time we eat in the cockpit at sunset. Perfect.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday 31 October 2016<br />0230 – 28 45.1N 17 09.3W Co 270 Sp 2.8</b><br />
Drat – wind dropped away overnight, so flapping along disconsolately. Reluctant to use engine, so we’ll just have to arrive later in the day.<br />
<br />
<b>1040 – 28 40.5N 17 41.1W Co 271 Sp 4.7</b><br />
Wind is zero, so running in the final 12 miles on engine. La Palma standing up clear and jagged in the morning light, while astern, Mt Tiede on Tenerife rises majestically up into the glare of the sun.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approach to Santa Cruz, La Palma</td></tr>
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<b>1150</b> – Berthed alongside in Marina La Palma, Santa Cruz. Our final stop in the Canaries, before sailing for the Cape Verde’s on 9th November<br />
<br />
It’s Halloween, and already, as we go for our first stroll into the town, little ghosties and skeletons wander the cobbled streets. The first beer is predictably delicious.</div>
Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-6175289133326419022016-10-13T18:29:00.005+01:002016-10-13T18:29:58.870+01:00Log of the Island Spirit - Gran Tarajal (Fuerteventura) to Rubicon (Lanzarote) - In which I spill some personal beans.<b>Tuesday 11 October 2016</b><br />
<b>1335 - Puerto del Gran Tarajal</b><br />
What an extraordinarily pleasant three days I've had here. This town is a throwback to what it must have been like before the tourism boom. Starting with the marina; it's cheap, with water and electricity included - less than €12 a day. It has two visitor pontoons; the bathrooms are a bit of a hike but they're reasonably clean and functional. The Officina Capitania is only sporadically manned but the security staff are quite happy to do the booking in and take payment.<br />
<br />
It's easy to criticise the amount of needlessly duplicated paperwork in these off piste marinas, but it's just the way of things. They're not technophobes by any means, but it's blatantly obvious that introduction of a smart data entry system would kill off a dozen jobs. I've grown to love the Spanish for their contradictions and idiosyncrasies; especially in these islands. They're workshy, hopelessly inefficient, socially loud and boisterous; quick with a joke, slow to criticise (if ever), well mannered, friendly, helpful (when they understand your needs), and extremely family-orientated. And, aesthetically sophisticated; some of the public art you find in the most ramshackle of places is quite astonishing. Yes, I'll miss the Canaries when I leave in November, especially these undeveloped locales.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some views of Gran Tarajal</td></tr>
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<br />
So, specifics about the town for anyone planning to come here. It has a longish, clean sandy beach fronted by half a dozen café/bar/restaurants, an ice-cream parlour, and a "Spynese" restaurant (not a KFC or MacDonald's in sight). I found only one café with WIFI, so if you need to connect, be careful where you choose for that catch-up cup of coffee. "Tiene WIFI?" often just gets you a bemused shake of the head.<br />
<br />
I must mention the sea-food restaurant near the boatyard on the way to town. It doesn't look much, but the fish is fresh-caught, widely varied, reasonably priced, and... amazing. Last night I had the langostinos, and I have to say, those baby-lobster-sized prawns were some of the best I've tasted anywhere.<br />
<br />
So, my passage plan. Tonight I will sail from here, time depending on when this strong northerly wind abates. I'll make my way northwards into a reducing, backing wind, and with luck, by mid-morning I'll reach the top of the island just as the wind swings westward. That should give me a brisk beat across the gap to Rubicon. Let's see how that pans out, hehe. Before I leave I'm going to visit that Chinese for dinner, but now it's siesta time - it's going to be a long night.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday 12 October 2016</b><br />
0155 - Departed GT a little later than expected, waiting for that gusty north-easterly to settle down. Besides, I enjoyed the paco a la naranja con arroz y vedura so much, especially with a glass of fine Rioja, I felt a couple of hour's head-down appropriate. Now calm and quiet in the marina; feeling a little guilty about disturbing the sleeping mariners next door with my engine. We stand out into a moderate swell; wind light from the north, and as soon as the ropes and fenders are stowed, I hoist the main with one reef.<br />
<br />
<b>0320 - 28 13.2N 13 56.5W Co 066 Sp 4</b><br />
Motorsailing half a mile offshore in an awkward shifting wind. Tried the genny a couple of times but she wouldn't have it. Looks like motorsailing all the way. Still, it's a pleasant night passage under a star-spangled sky. Astern, a big, yellow, rock-a-bye-baby moon drifts down to the horizon.<br />
<br />
<b>0648 - 28 23.4N 13 48.9W Co 020 Sp 3.1</b><br />
Spent the early hours catnapping in the saloon, in between looking out for fishing boats and frequent course changes to step around the corner. I have swell, current, and a light northerly breeze against me, hence, at times barely making 3 knots. The only other vessel seen was a cruise ship overhauling close up the port side, lit up like a small city.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>0825 - 28 28.3N 13 47.4W Co 010 Sp 3.5</b><br />
A fine sunny morning, calm-ish sea, but with a moderate swell from the north. The wind hasn't been very inspiring; still a feeble 8 knots, but shifting towards the west - a good sign. But still too fine over the bow for the genny. El Lobo island within sight some fifteen miles on the port bow, and I can see the hazy mountains of Lanzarote far ahead. Three miles to port, the ash-heaps of FV look glorious in the morning light. Should get to Rubicon late afternoon, dependant on conditions between the islands.<br />
<br />
<b>1014 - 28 35.3N 13 46.5W Co 005 Sp 3.8</b><br />
On the port bow, two white blocks appear to be floating on the water; an optical illusion caused by refraction. Actually, I know exactly what they are; beach resort hotels, and they appear like that because the low spit of land on which they stand is below my horizon, as in fact, are the mountains that I know lie behind them.<br />
<br />
Six years ago, I spent Christmas at the larger of those two hotels, in an attempt to self-deny that I missed my home and children, after being forced to leave due to the intolerable conditions of a deteriorating marriage. It didn't work. The all-inclusive holiday was an unmitigated disaster. Far from escaping those early memories of domestic bliss (if they ever really existed), I found myself among hordes of delirious children crowding the pools, stereotypical German businessmen acting like they owned the place, queues of obese hedonists going round a third time for weinelschnitzel & sauerkraut and over-sweetened puddings, louts at the bar getting rissoled on free beer and cheapo wine on tap, and to cap it all, Santa arriving at the swimming pool on a camel to the accompaniment of a brass band. Now don't misunderstand me. People are entitled to spend their holidays just as they wish - I just chose the wrong holiday for me, and to be fair, I should have known better. That following summer, to compensate, I flew to Jamaica, which suited me fine. And that winter I went to Grenada and stayed on Carriacou for five months - that's where I found, peace, closure, and the impetus to write my first novel, The Errant Petty Officer. It was also there, on that enchanting little island, that I gained the inspiration for my second. And that's where I'm heading again in November, where I'll complete the current one, my fourth.<br />
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<b>1430 - Berthed alongside at Marina Rubicon</b><br />
Wow, what glorious spell of real sailing! As I passed El Lobo, the westerly sprang up, and I unfurled the genny; toe-rail in the water as I streaked across the gap at 6 knots. Wonderful. I couldn't help thinking to myself, I'm getting rather good at this sailing lark; a trip that went fully according to plan.<br />
At the marina I paid up for two weeks in exchange for 10% discount, though my other motive was fear of the plummeting pound. Checking my bank account later, I was shocked to see the exchange rate I got for the transaction; close to parity.<br />
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I was even more dismayed to see how little money I have left - none, in fact; I'm into my allowed overdraft. The cost of my recent mishaps and splashing out on meals out have taken a wicked toll. I'm spending far too much, too quickly, and without a single asset left to fall back on, I need to be more careful. It might have been the tiredness of the overnight passage, but last night I was quite depressed. I haven't been this broke since my early twenties. Right now, after a good night's sleep, I'm feeling more positive. But time to tighten the belt, methinks.<br />
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(I know this revelation will disappoint those of my readers who think my novels are cash cows. In truth, I make a couple of quid a month from sales. No marketing or promotion, you see; too much trash on the Indie market, and word of mouth hasn't been as effective as hoped. Basically, it's a hobby; but one I love, so that's all right then, isn't it?)<br />
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It's a bit cooler here than I've been used to over the last three weeks, with even a few spots of rain this morning. It's forecast to improve tomorrow. My brother-in-law John arrives here on Saturday with some of the family, staying at nearby Playa Blanca. Looking forward to seeing them. And the following week, my other Brother-in-law, Nigel, arrives to help me sail Spirit across the pond. The company and an extra pair of hands will make a refreshing change.<br />
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Once again, thanks for reading and following. If you received this by email, please skip over to the Blog and leave a word or two in the comments? And please, if you can, use the icons to share with your social media friends/followers; it spreads the word and thereby helps my online visibility - very important for an aspiring writer.<br />
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Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-76701331810302808332016-10-09T11:12:00.002+01:002016-10-09T11:12:38.829+01:00Log of the Island Spirit - Puerto Colon to Puerto del Gran Tarajal (FV) (via Puerto Mogan<b>Friday, October 7 2016</b><br />
<b>1710 - 27 46.1N 15 43.7W Co 144 Sp 4.2</b><br />
<span style="text-align: center;">People often ask why I chose the life of a sea gypsy, and, indeed, it’s a question I frequently mull over on my lone voyages. The stock answer is, of course, I’m living the dream. But that doesn’t quite spread the butter. One aspect of this existential exodus from ‘normality’ is the rich variety of experiences, and not least of these, the challenges of crisis management and problem solving that occur almost daily, and sometimes, hourly. But more on that later.</span><br />
I slipped from Puerto Mogán at 1605 into a calm grey overcast, the wind light westerly, and presently motorsailing down the southwest corner of Gran Canaria, heading for Gran Tarajal on Fuerteventura’s southeast coast, an overnight sail of about 85 miles.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last of Puerto Colon, Tenerife</td></tr>
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Now if you’ve been following carefully, you’ll be aware of a huge gap in the narrative between this post and the last; vis, the trip between Tenerife and Gran Canaria. And why Puerto Mogán when I was supposed to be heading for Las Palmas on the northeast coast? Well, as some of you might have noticed in previous posts, when I’m busy dealing with calamity, the log goes by the board. Yes, reader, my trusty craft was struck by yet another misfortune. But before I detail the circumstances of those events, let me get back to my most recent stopover, and some of the less hair-raising features of this great adventure. After all, I don’t wish to deter any of you budding dream-catchers out there (hur hur).<br />
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Puerto Mogán is a quiet and pretty little resort; the marina area in particular, is surrounded by delightfully arched walkways festooned with overhanging flowers of dazzling hues. The clean, sandy beach nearby is overlooked by the usual medley of restaurants and gift bazaars. But it’s not as noisy and bustling as you might imagine, and that’s probably partly due to prices here. You can easily find yourself paying 4 Euros for a caña of beer, or even six for glass of wine. The food too is quite pricey, though the quality and variety of offerings are exceptional, with few of the usual concessions to the eating and drinking habits of overseas tourists. On the marina, close to where Spirit was berthed, is a quaint fish restaurant where you can eat todays catch within a few feet of the boats that brought it in that morning - but be prepared to pay for the privilege.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puerto Mogan, Gran Canaria</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, and I had a haircut.</td></tr>
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Now, if I say, “Dennehy’s Irish Bar”, what comes to mind? Yeah, me too. Now picture a fine restaurant with clean white tablecloths and sparkling wine glasses. Yes, there is a bar inside, but it’s a very posh version of what you might expect, with not too much sign of “The Craic”. But hey, they serve a superb Irish Breakfast at a very reasonable price, and their coffee is to die for.<br />
For the yachties amongst you, however, beware. The marina fees here are amongst the highest in the Islands, and they charge extra for just about everything. So why did I choose here, with my severely limited financial resources? That’s a question I’ll leave for later. For now, back to the present.<br />
For the first time since leaving Lanzarote, I’ve shaken a reef out of the mainsail to take advantage of what little puffs of wind we’re graced with. Right now there’s not enough to unfurl the genoa, but I’m expecting more lively conditions when I get around the corner. The overnight crossing is forecast to be quite energetic, that’s why I’ve left a reef in the main.<br />
Hate having to motorsail, but not for much longer; I can already feel it getting up.<br />
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<b>1945 – 27 44.7N 15 31.4W Co 078 Sp 4.6</b><br />
Such fun coaxing her around the bottom of Gran Canaria; sudden wind-shifts, out genoa, in genoa, engine on, engine off, jibing, trying to balance sails for the autopilot, and hand-steering when it got confused by a chasing current. Nodding into a moderate swell, waiting for that accelerated northerly; any time now. Thinking I might have been better to sail south away from the land influences, but then I’d be faced with a hard beat back when it kicks in. No, I’m sure my strategy, and all this nuisance fiddling will pay off.<br />
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<b>2330 – 27 47.3N 15 16.4W Co 076 Sp 3.8</b><br />
At just after 9 the wind kicked in with a vengeance! One moment, nada; battering disconsolately into a steep swell, the next, kicking along in 25 knots on a beam reach, managing six knots against the swell and current with half a genoa and that single-reefed main. Again, an impressive performance from Spirit, but not so with the poor, beleaguered autopilot. However, she’s nicely trimmed with the helm lashed, allowing me to escape below from the goffas coming over the sprayhood. The combination of westerly swell and increasing current has slowed her down to barely 4 knots, but it’s still a bumpy ride, with a formidable heel to starboard. Glad I got that gut-busting late Irish Breakfast at Dennehy’s – won’t need to cook tonight. Hoping for less boisterous water further out. The bottom end of the Inshore Traffic Zone (ITZ) lies 15 miles ahead, so will need to keep awake until I’m clear – about 0200, I reckon. Cripes, she ain’t half noisy close-hauled in a gale; all that rattling and straining, creaking chain-plates and thunderous bow-smashing – thinking I should have left two reefs in the main.<br />
At just before ten, a ship (Ocean Maria – the wonders of technology) 2 miles south, heading north on a collision course. As the gap closed with no sign of her altering, called her on #16 to make sure they’d seen me. Yes, they assured me, and would manoeuvre to avoid me. Still, it was a relief to watch his red (port) light turn green (starboard) and pass safely astern.<br />
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<b>0312 – 27 48.9N 14 58.9W Co 060 Sp 3</b><br />
Only just cleared the ITZ after having to bear away for the last few miles in order to cross at right-angles (according to the rules; you never know who might be tracking you ashore - the mixed blessings of AIS). Lost a bit of ground to the south, and can’t seem to coax more than 3 knots out of her, despite the continuing dash and din. When it’s like this, with great incomers over the bow, there’s only one place to be; horizontal on the lee banquette down in the saloon – it’s the world’s most comfortable place. I’m going there now, this time to sleep. And, dear reader, while I drift off into that half-dream state, listening for changes in the racket and movement, I’ll tell you what happened between Tenerife and Gran Canaria.<br />
Very similar situation to today; rounded the bottom of Tenerife into the between-island maelstrom, with the prospect of a tiresome beat to the north. The first leg, close-hauled, got me to barely a quarter way up the GC coast, with the prospect of the second leg taking me into another of those pesky ITZ’s. By now it was 4am and I was exhausted, so I hove to ten miles from shore and got some sleep. Spirit heaves to very prettily, and she gave me a comfortable few hour’s rest, despite the heavy seas and howling gale. At first light, with no let-up in the weather, I set off northwest, hauling the genoa in as much as I could to get as close to wind as possible. Then it happened. A terrific bang as the straining genoa decided to part company with its sheets – the clue ring had failed, leaving the great sail with its tattered corner flogging free and violent in 25 knots. I was on deck at the time, so managed to furl it in before it suffered any further damage. But now I was in trouble. It’s impossible to sail upwind without a headsail, and even with the engine on, I could barely make a knot and a half into that wind and sea, and with the Canaries Current at full strength agin me to boot. So I had no choice but to limp eastward for the nearest port. And that was Puerto Mogán. My other fear was that the genny, with nothing to hold it in place, would unwind from the forestay. This would be dire, because you can’t furl in any more once the inhaul’s at the end of its tether. In an hour or so in that wind, it would likely flog itself to shreds. So, donning lifejacket, I crawled forward along the bucking, rolling deck, and tied a stopper around it. I can avow to that being a scary ten minutes, especially reaching up the forestay to get the stopper sufficiently high. Anyway, to wind up this tale, it cost me 150 Euros to get the genny repaired, a fair price, and done within 24 hours. It could have been a lot worse. Now, back to the current passage.<br />
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<b>0825 – 27 50.2N 14 41.1W Co 065 Sp 3.5</b><br />
The sea is much moderated this morning, and the early overcast seems to be clearing. The wind has dropped to fresh breeze. I slept well, albeit with several breaks to check on shipping and how well she was holding course (no autopilot, remember, just a bungee strap holding the wheel). I’ve just re-trimmed and come off the wind a touche, and managed to get her upto 4.5 knots.<br />
At just after 11 the poor old girl just lost her way, I didn’t notice until she sprang upright and everything went quiet (yes, dear reader, I was back in the world’s most comfortable place, dozing). Anyway, we’d got in the lee of the tail of Fuerteventura, the wind abruptly dropped to 10 knots, and she lost the fine balance of her trim. She’d nearly boxed the compass before I had her under control. Now motorsailing to get to my destination before dark.<br />
It’s warm, sunny, and calm. Time to get naked. Now I know many of my female readers will be drooling at this, but NO! You can’t have a picture. Private is private. I was, however, welcomed on deck by an enthusiastic pod of dolphins, ducking and diving gleefully under the bow, squeaking and cavorting around the boat for twenty minutes or so, obviously enamoured of my glorious physique. One even took an extra big leap for a better look.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quite difficult capturing dolphins with a phone, but success at last.</td></tr>
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<b>1312 – 27 57.8N 14 22.0W Co 067 Sp 4.5</b><br />
Now heading into a light breeze on a calm sea with a gentle swell. Lovely. For some these are ideal cruising conditions. For me, it’s about all of it; the fear, the adrenalin rush, the problem solving, the noise and feel of my sturdy boat battling in her natural element. And of course, gliding along on a gentle swell with the sun on my aging bones.<br />
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<b>1510 – 28 04.3N 14 14.9W Co 060 Sp 6</b><br />
That was exciting! A blast suddenly sprang up, and for half an hour we charged madly along at 6 knots; would have been faster but for the horribly short fetch into which the bows banged sickeningly with every wave. Played hell with my lower back. Then, as suddenly as it began, it just dropped away to nothing. Not a breath. These islands – so changeable, and challenging.<br />
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<b>1915 – Berthed alongside at Puerto del Gran Tarajal.</b><br />
Read about that in the next post, when my journey takes me up the east coast of FV to Playa Blanca, Lanzarote. And, dear reader, please remember to add a comment or two below.<br />
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<br />Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-35001376574797157212016-10-03T15:42:00.002+01:002016-10-06T14:56:04.221+01:00Log of the Island Spirit (MMSI 235113215) - La Palma to Puerto Colon (Whoops)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Thursday 29th September 2016</b></div>
<b>Santa Cruz, La Palma</b><br />
The old town of Santa Cruz was just as I remember it from three years ago when I came here with Colin Thomas on Summer Breeze; cobbled streets and Italienate houses, quant little shops and bars, nestling in the collapsed crater of an extinct volcano. The marina was almost empty, and those few boats here were largely unmanned, so not much in the way of socialising; but the four days waiting for better weather passed pleasantly enough.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Cruz, La Palma</td></tr>
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That weather appeared late on Wednesday, so, on a warm, sticky Thursday morning I took a last shower and got going. Left harbour at 1000 under a sun trying to burn through hazy cloud. Heading for La Gomera before a brisk north-easterly, and making 6-7 knots on just the genoa. At 1130, skipping along on a long moderate swell with the mist-shrouded volcano melting behind me, a pair of dolphins appeared alongside.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last of La Palma</td></tr>
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<b>1352 - 28 20.7N 17 33.6W- Co 155 Sp 6.5</b><br />
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Salubrious sailing. Halfway-ish, the Autopilot up to its old tricks again; clutch keeps disengaging, so out comes my trusty piece of cord to tie it down. Will get it checked out in Las Palma, GC.<br />
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No other vessels in sight – AIS shows another yacht 12 miles ahead, also heading for La Gomera. Still a thin layer of cloud, but El Sol is gradually winning through. With the wind on the quarter it’s a little fresh to get naked – toyed with the thought of just slipping the shorts off, but dignity won through in the end; even all alone I don’t like the idea of trotting around the boat like a toddler waiting for his new nappy. <br />
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All land out of sight now; the only signs of life, the occasional solitary petrel patrolling the wavetops, and sporadic passing interest from pods of dolphins. This is the kind of cruising I love. The advice for downwind from a sailing buddy has proved useful – the genoa alone pulling us along at 7 knots is quite astonishing, and giving the autopilot an easy time to boot.<br />
<b><br />1500 </b><br />
Woohoo! Just hit the La Gomera Acceleration Zone, doing 9 knots, with the steep shelving here creating a tremendous overfall swell. Down below, while preparing lunch, a locker bursts open, spilling biscuits and cereal bars all over the saloon. No matter how many times I go through this, my heart is still in my mouth when she heals over and yaws violently to windward. The confused sea and formidable swell is causing the autopilot grief, so after my hurried lunch, I take the helm in hand.<br />
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<b>1703 – 28 04.5N 17 22.0W – Co 130 Sp 5.4</b></div>
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Back in fair conditions following a crazy half hour. What happened? A sudden catabatic gust from the mountains caused a 90 degree windshift. Lost it for a while and had to let her heave to while I worked out a solution. Finally decided to wear round and heave to on t’other tack. Then, with the two sheets in one hand, and wheel in the other (autopilot had no chance), eased genny to leeward and sailed off – a neat little single-handed manoeuvre, if I do say so myself. (Careful Rothery, pride comes before the fall).<br />
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<b>1800 - South coast of La Gomera</b><br />
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In calm waters with Engine on and headsail furled – no wind to speak of in the lee of the island. Motoring a mile offshore watching the rugged scenery glide by. High, almost sheer cliffs rise up to the cloud-cloaked mountains; layer upon layer of lave flows rise like precarious hill-farm terraces. In winter this is probably lush and green, but now, in the heat of summer, it looks like it’s been breathed on by the dragons of hell. Small clusters of houses appear from time to time at then bases of those towerin g crags. No sign of access roads, leaves one wondering how on earth people get to and from their homes. Even by sea there appear scant opportunities for a safe landing. One strking feature is the vast number of sea caves gaping at the shoreline.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_YxJ4ZRDT4pesX315eKnmN8ouiqXKiqay4H3nBxUU71L2zpewaLns65a5A8j1IPjhOHTHHMDGlry3iXgJ06ygHjYjU4Mys0voIGTTbBf64D2HCOaVXlTiFIb4TU3HqD3wK3wn33fQgNBE/s1600/20160929_180644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_YxJ4ZRDT4pesX315eKnmN8ouiqXKiqay4H3nBxUU71L2zpewaLns65a5A8j1IPjhOHTHHMDGlry3iXgJ06ygHjYjU4Mys0voIGTTbBf64D2HCOaVXlTiFIb4TU3HqD3wK3wn33fQgNBE/s320/20160929_180644.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Gomera's Rugged Southern Coastline</td></tr>
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<b>1915 – 28 02.3N 17 10.4W – At Anchor</b><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyXsfp7OFFTK6oHpx73yHf4WKox85LoiStX57iL5ewXQUOckCWld8B7neTVRNm0GX4totkl43_15stRXUMdHp0zE2esIKbW3jNxxV_IcQIvgzpqHF6brwt0higOCVVNlckRntmEkp2UuR/s1600/20160929_195808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyXsfp7OFFTK6oHpx73yHf4WKox85LoiStX57iL5ewXQUOckCWld8B7neTVRNm0GX4totkl43_15stRXUMdHp0zE2esIKbW3jNxxV_IcQIvgzpqHF6brwt0higOCVVNlckRntmEkp2UuR/s320/20160929_195808.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheers!</td></tr>
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Dropped anchor in a little cove surrounded by formidable red cliffs. Time for a tot, then dinner. Tonight I’m cooking beef, sliced and pan-fried with onions and garlic, then dressed with hoi sin sauce. And with it, roasted vegetables and Canarian new potatoes. Yummy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrctfZxiF21tVQoBqZ0SY1EDEpEeJ6cUx5VB6gBi-i3ZZ0iiEG-4NYs-tof0vCgEJdM6bEDHbKMDhy4BaJUNOD9mXH8YbxvT3IYlrz0wXJbvyoWB28XOSuACNicwHhbsbHDyC5ZXmgpDS/s1600/20160929_192438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkrctfZxiF21tVQoBqZ0SY1EDEpEeJ6cUx5VB6gBi-i3ZZ0iiEG-4NYs-tof0vCgEJdM6bEDHbKMDhy4BaJUNOD9mXH8YbxvT3IYlrz0wXJbvyoWB28XOSuACNicwHhbsbHDyC5ZXmgpDS/s640/20160929_192438.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Anchor</td></tr>
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Whoops! Just came back topside with my whisky, and there’s an orange-skinned man standing on the rocks, staring at me. Can’t imagine how he got there – he must live in one of the caves riddling the cliffs. Maybe a hermit, or some sort of wild man. Orange skin though? Weird. Think I might sleep with the saloon locked up tonight.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_l7NbAPDPrScOvDZIELogTxEBi8vw4BtYBgaddX7GasLeuvibfl5x-F4ypY9-9pcgnO00gpa1JZm7-7sLT0UVPWZ-KBNJ_MCrm0hQTCPOHP_8qZe2jV9AwfbZiKFtLwpS2wk7kYDf8mPb/s1600/orangeman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_l7NbAPDPrScOvDZIELogTxEBi8vw4BtYBgaddX7GasLeuvibfl5x-F4ypY9-9pcgnO00gpa1JZm7-7sLT0UVPWZ-KBNJ_MCrm0hQTCPOHP_8qZe2jV9AwfbZiKFtLwpS2wk7kYDf8mPb/s320/orangeman.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wild Orangeman of La Gomera</td></tr>
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<b>Friday 30th September </b><br />
<b>0810</b><br />
Weighed anchor at first light – no sign of my orange friend.<br />
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The wind remains northerly, as forecast, and so as I emerge from the lee the wind gradually picks up. Today I’m heading for some downtime at anchor on Tenerife’s south east coast; a spot of swimming, reading etc. Only 38 miles to go.<br />
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<b>0852 28 01.9N 17 07.5W Co 100 Sp 6.5</b><br />
Yup, there’s the wind. Making nice progress on a close reach.<br />
<br />
<b>1030 </b><br />
Hello? That wasn’t in the forecast. Wind just dropped away completely, and what little there is appears to be backing towards the west.<br />
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<b>1134 – 28 00.5N 16 51.8W Co 101 Sp 3.1</b><br />
Now goosewinged before a half-hearted breeze. Five minutes later I switch on the engine. If the wind continues to change, my plan might need to as well – don’t want to drop the pick on a lee shore.<br />
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<b>Sunday 2nd October<br />1645 – Puerto Colon Marina, Tenerife.</b><br />
Well, I guess shit happens, and this time it was almost big time. As you can see, no log entries since Friday. Firstly, for the rest of Friday I was a little tied up managing crisis, and as for the rest of it, my heart just wasn’t in updating the Ship’s Log, let alone the Blog. <br />
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So, here’s what happened from around 1400. Because of the by now SSW wind, albeit not very much of it, I decided to revisit the Los Morteres (Hippy Commune) Beach of last week. However, I found the holding poor this time, so moved along to the next little inlet which offered more shelter should the wind strengthen. Then, with less than a few hundred yards to go, I noticed a change in the engine note. But with no wind to sail clear, and close to a lee shore, it was not prudent to switch off and check it out. Better, I thought, to carry on to a quick anchorage, and then investigate with the boat safely moored. However, as I rounded into the bay in 5m and turned upwind to drop the hook further out, the engine died, and smoke billowed out of the companionway. Only one course of action; drop the anchor now before she began drifting towards that suddenly dangerous pile of rocks. I let out as much chain as I dared, and then waited to see if she held. She didn’t. Slowly but surely we were dragging towards the rocks just a boat-length away.<br />
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There were only two other vessels in that anchorage. One was a stinkpot with a drinking party going on, loud music and observation skills in neutral. The other was more promising; a diving boat that looked to be packing up to leave. I managed to attract their attention, and bless their cotton socks, they chugged over to me. I shouted “Mi Motor esta roto” and they agreed to tow me to P. Colon. Then came another horrible moment, when the tow rope I had thrown them got wrapped around his prop while I was hoisting my anchor. He now had to drop his hook or he would have been on the rocks as well. So I held my breath for ten minutes while one of them donned SCUBA gear and went down to free the fouled prop. By the time I was safely in tow, I had barely half a metre under the keel.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72a63xSUH6GodfSPs6B5RoO1NkwSXYPXmsLAGqI3_lHiavkTK0y-tLtqrYkk5od3tO1c-pAsPnZcTujaFsnxrH84ysNeTrI2tqk4Er08YZokJ1vvPMTFqhd47jKGmxBSCQthkRsT46aRm/s1600/20161003_085329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72a63xSUH6GodfSPs6B5RoO1NkwSXYPXmsLAGqI3_lHiavkTK0y-tLtqrYkk5od3tO1c-pAsPnZcTujaFsnxrH84ysNeTrI2tqk4Er08YZokJ1vvPMTFqhd47jKGmxBSCQthkRsT46aRm/s640/20161003_085329.jpg" width="638" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Rescuers - The Fellowship of the Sea</td></tr>
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Puerto Colon is a private marina with no visitor berths, so it took me a little while to explain to the authorities that I couldn’t leave until I had an engine to leave with. Eventually they found me a berth whose owner has hauled out onto the boatyard. His name is Carlo, And he’s charging me 25 Euros a day to use his berth. Meanwhile, the divers who rescued me would take no reward for their trouble, saying it was all in the give and take of the sea-goer’s life (in Spanish, of course - I had to insist on buying them a drink in the bar last night).<br />
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So what, exactly, went wrong? Well, initially, when I heard the change in engine noise, that was when the impellor failed (a spinning rubber thingy that pumps seawater around the engine to cool it). I’ve now replaced that; however, letting the engine run on without coolant caused the exhaust silencer to melt, allowing smoke (and water) to belch into the boat rather than out of it. To make matters worse, thanks to some pretty unimaginative French boatbuilding, the silencer is in a place with no access, except perhaps by a small kitten with a Satnav, so I’ve had to cut out an improvised access panel in the bathroom coat-locker. I’ve taken out the offending article, and hopefully a new one will arrive tomorrow.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjia9fOiFX2PCRoLlB40V6sLKu5XWpi-01dKO0_5fMN0F1Kbo_qm1WJFGu4qKQ6oBmJNI-hll61DT6Wf4LoxV5B4zNI0Fm_WuanbLrZaZblhD9HFc0MC7NZx-SG3bqxF4iC4jqCTbauwWLH/s1600/20161002_163325.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjia9fOiFX2PCRoLlB40V6sLKu5XWpi-01dKO0_5fMN0F1Kbo_qm1WJFGu4qKQ6oBmJNI-hll61DT6Wf4LoxV5B4zNI0Fm_WuanbLrZaZblhD9HFc0MC7NZx-SG3bqxF4iC4jqCTbauwWLH/s640/20161002_163325.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Melted Silencer Box and the (not very neat) hole I cut to remove it.</td></tr>
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Meanwhile, I’m stuck in what has turned out to be an extremely pleasant little holiday village.</div>
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<b>Monday 3rd October</b></div>
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Hurrah! Engine fixed and running sweetly, thanks to Yogi Adam, the local engineer.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yogi Adam, fixer extraordinaire</td></tr>
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Ordered some spares which arrive tomorrow, then planning to sail early afternoon, heading south, around the bottom of Tenerife, then beating across to the top of Grand Canaria, and Las Palma. Winds forecast NNE 15 knots, to which add ten knots in the AZ, so looking like a lively crossing overnight.<br />
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Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-33828510029245219232016-09-27T12:53:00.007+01:002016-09-27T12:53:49.293+01:00Log of the Island Spirit (MMSI 235113215) - Lanzarote to La Palma<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sailing Goosewinged</td></tr>
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<b>18th September 2016</b></div>
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<b>1300 - 28 42.0N 13 36.9W Co 206 Sp 5.5</b><br />Finally got going at 0830 on a clear blue Sunday morning, sailing goosewinged* before a brisk north easterly. After six months alongside, the deep swell and awkward cross-seas brought a spell of queasiness, but I was over it by noon and loving the liberation of being back on the shiny briny. My only problem, the depth sounder isn’t working, which might be a problem for anchoring.<br /><br /><b>1610 – 28 31.1N 13 45.6W Co 215 Sp 5</b><br />Late afternoon saw the usual lull in the wind, so furled the genny and fired up the engine. A small pod of dolphins drew alongside and coaxed the wind out of its sulk, and six o’clock saw us skipping along once more, sails billowing ahead like a pair of pregnant matrons. <br /><br /><b>2010 – 28 13.3N 13 53.4W Co 255 Sp 6</b><br />I had intended to anchor overnight at the bottom of Fuerta Ventura, but without the sounder, and darkness coming on, considered it too risky, so onwards to Grand Canaria. Heated up a pot of chicken stew and ate in the cockpit.<br /><br /><b>2315 – 27 59.6N 14 14.3W Co 267 Sp 5.4</b><br />Wind gradually backed NNE and the sea beginning to get boisterous. Now on a broad reach with two reefs in the main and half a genoa, catching short, wet naps in the cockpit overnight. <br /><br /><b>19th September 2016<br />0820 – 27 50.8N 14 52.7W Co 257 Sp 6 </b><br />An overcast morning, with the wind picking up as I approach the acceleration zones south of FV. Glad I shortened sails last night.<br /><br /><b>1010 – 27 45.9N 15 06.3W Co 277 Sp 9!</b><br />So this is the acceleration zone! I really don’t like going this fast, but with 30 kts of wind and fully shortened sail there’s not much else I can do to slow her down. Just got to grin and bear it. Precarious few minutes in the galley preparing breakfast, but no serious mishaps and managed to get my tea and wheaties back into the cockpit intact. <br /><br /><b>1510 – Anchored off Playa del Meloneros</b><br />Whew, what a cavalry charge! At least I made it here before nighfall; a pleasant little sheltered cove next to the port of Pasito Blanco. Hot and sunny now. A couple of other yachts have taken refuge here; got a desultory wave from a nearby British flag. After my swim and shower, cooked salmon steak and roasted vegetables, had a drop of scotch, then settled down for a good night’s sleep.<br /><br /><b>20th September 2016<br />1615 – Weighed Anchor</b><br />It was so nice here by the beach, and I’m far ahead of schedule, that I spent the whole day bobbing at anchor and well, just chilling. So now I’m off again, under sail but running the engine to recharge batteries. Sails fully shortened ready for the next series of mad northerlies whistling down between here and Tenerife.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Boxes, little boxes, all made out of ticky tacky, and they all live in little boxes, and they all look just the same.</td></tr>
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<b>21st September 2016<br />0315 – 27 57.6N 16 37.8W Co 298 Sp 6</b><br />Another maniacal dash overnight, winds gusting 35 and my poor old lady clocking up a terrifying 11 knots across the bumps. Now in calm water off the south coast of GC. I got here far too quickly, and now I’ve just got to amble up and down outside Los Cristianos until first light. Can’t sleep because there’s a smattering of fishing boats around, and right here, a risk of high-speed ferries.<br /><b><br />0800 – Anchored off Los Cristianos</b><br />Too tired to bother with all that port entry stuff, so dropped the pick and got my head down. Finally went in at noon and tied up in the fishing marina, first having had to negotiate my way in with the Port Authorities. (They don’t encourage visiting yachts here and predictably the boatyard hadn’t told them I was booked in.)<br /><br />After checking in with the boatyard (and discovering they had no facilities for visitors – i.e. no heads or showers) I went for stroll and a beer or two. LC is a lovely little resort grown around a fishing port and remains largely unspoiled by tourism. It has a roro ferry port, and a wide sandy beach fronted by lots of bars and restaurants. I ended up at an Irish bar called The Dail and got a warm welcome from Bernie, who gave me my first pint of cold Guinness on the house. <br /><br />Next morning, we hauled out into the boatyard and they began cleaning off 14 months of gunge and barnacles. The two zinc anodes on the prop were badly pitted so I ordered them replaced, but apart from that, she looked in good shape.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8X4gksq7WKjIPW36ZRnIffXfSJxGEtoi5HArN4DGP7_9030qrLFDwDBoA0PxVNN5r8gvKMJqrFIsNWhk4ym-phAj6bbWp5BW1nJPeWVdYyvUhxd5QiIhAifdOAgExl8Z_XoWQpJ9OHZPJ/s1600/20160922_111123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8X4gksq7WKjIPW36ZRnIffXfSJxGEtoi5HArN4DGP7_9030qrLFDwDBoA0PxVNN5r8gvKMJqrFIsNWhk4ym-phAj6bbWp5BW1nJPeWVdYyvUhxd5QiIhAifdOAgExl8Z_XoWQpJ9OHZPJ/s640/20160922_111123.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /><br />It was only a skip to the beach, and there I discovered a handy shower, so for three days, a swim and freshwater rinse served my bodily hygiene needs. To save piling up a load of unwashed dishes onboard, I ate out every night on the seafront, sampling the wonderful variety of seafood on offer. I especially recommend the local mussels, served cold with vinaigrette, onions and peppers. At another Irish bar (The Irish Times) I got chatting to a charming young lady from Latvia, called Janya. And then there was Debbie, a bubbly English forty-something engaged in ushering potential customers into the pub. And of course, I spent time in the local Spanish bars practicing my Espanol. Altogether, LC proved a relaxing, enjoyable break; I can’t recommend it too highly for anyone wanting the quieter kind of holiday without the raucous flamboyance of the Costa del Let-it-all-hangout.<br /><br /><b>24th September 2016<br />1406 – 28 02.7N 16 44.3W Co 285 Sp 4.2</b><br />Lifted back in this morning with a bright spanking new coat of antifoul, and my sounder working again. I tied up alongside for a few hours, and while the batteries recharged, went for a swim and bite to eat. Not really wanting to battle into the fierce northerlies between the islands, I’m now making my way up the west coast of Tenerife – little wind to speak of, so having to motor.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xZu89iXUpbAavLLDJ3GoCHqlBbcG7MceSK4nLpJ8m3EYLQWVIj8o1DEfRrRp8HVIfMn5vNI5P0K995AgDx19HIybgagybfTDnfr8xlc51lA4bz11cTC_va2DnsuSATx-BOg4HIfxoP3u/s1600/20160924_104200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-xZu89iXUpbAavLLDJ3GoCHqlBbcG7MceSK4nLpJ8m3EYLQWVIj8o1DEfRrRp8HVIfMn5vNI5P0K995AgDx19HIybgagybfTDnfr8xlc51lA4bz11cTC_va2DnsuSATx-BOg4HIfxoP3u/s640/20160924_104200.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /> <br /><b><br />1600 – Anchored off Playa de los Morteres.</b><br />No point wasting fuel – I’ll stay here until the wind picks up. <br />I have stumbled upon a secret. A narrow cove surmounted by steep slopes of sandstone overlooking a sandy beach, the singularity of the location is not obvious at first sight. But as you stare up at the cliffs, you start to make out the odd pieces of coloured canvas of ramshackle dwellings, and straggly figures moving about on the cliffside tracks. Then, what you first mistook for dead clumps of dried vegetation, turn out to be more dwellings; grass houses if you please. And the more you look, the more you see, until you conclude that here, hidden away from civilization, is an isolated hippy commune. Finally, your eyes are drawn to the hundred or so people milling around on the beach, and you realise that more than half of them are naked. German voices carry across from a lively football kick-about; wedding tackle swinging akimbo.<br /><br /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzGnl_IYK4XzudKlszyOuMcTXapxsWl0KtHSEkFqg0BEa3wxPfNh3PQJdrlXY9kUaEYjVlQGsDKZ6K__HLYi_cj4d1Yzr9pARiCwS7qZ1Qc0GpB2i9ylJ7tHXL6pzRf3IJs1ana9M8c-Oy/s1600/20160924_161528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzGnl_IYK4XzudKlszyOuMcTXapxsWl0KtHSEkFqg0BEa3wxPfNh3PQJdrlXY9kUaEYjVlQGsDKZ6K__HLYi_cj4d1Yzr9pARiCwS7qZ1Qc0GpB2i9ylJ7tHXL6pzRf3IJs1ana9M8c-Oy/s640/20160924_161528.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFkJ2epTFX7CdkhlBm_NfxCG0oV2sQt0fUSjXHvpxBuYwmN1s-wrOI2_Th-EBm45ylkzOKP_MLqCYvW-GOqW1gPPn-xJnjwgOLlLrEudEPWGbEhUTdEYektYopoObisKxn-nzH7vTVXzT/s1600/20160924_165652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiFkJ2epTFX7CdkhlBm_NfxCG0oV2sQt0fUSjXHvpxBuYwmN1s-wrOI2_Th-EBm45ylkzOKP_MLqCYvW-GOqW1gPPn-xJnjwgOLlLrEudEPWGbEhUTdEYektYopoObisKxn-nzH7vTVXzT/s640/20160924_165652.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTA0iwO3nwh_hXrNkT7MaTYqcDvFolY05tIf6quvNXlfdIafkdD4KvSR8_AtnX5FaNgUAQ6RUU1KuPrmyy3kkbhyphenhyphenmAhgvKv8kbxwpgOqIHAWoN8erE7_sjl13Tfeb-JQGG5rxT7tYajKHI/s1600/20160924_165803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTA0iwO3nwh_hXrNkT7MaTYqcDvFolY05tIf6quvNXlfdIafkdD4KvSR8_AtnX5FaNgUAQ6RUU1KuPrmyy3kkbhyphenhyphenmAhgvKv8kbxwpgOqIHAWoN8erE7_sjl13Tfeb-JQGG5rxT7tYajKHI/s640/20160924_165803.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIb3DQGJblsrPk4B4hSsVNQpLAtbXJYr4zeC2k3BqIaO6ujSrUtH8I5TYpE2RBbjnN1pzEefogHkAuBhTjJFRM2essVfLId_GOb5PkftxQdMzDalL3iicBFGahD2h8CO0dr0kFlG61ajEa/s1600/20160924_173722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIb3DQGJblsrPk4B4hSsVNQpLAtbXJYr4zeC2k3BqIaO6ujSrUtH8I5TYpE2RBbjnN1pzEefogHkAuBhTjJFRM2essVfLId_GOb5PkftxQdMzDalL3iicBFGahD2h8CO0dr0kFlG61ajEa/s640/20160924_173722.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /><br />As dusk approaches, wisps of smoke begin to rise up from the beach and from among the clusters of habitations perched precariously in the cliff face. Twinkling lights from all around appear as night settles, and below, the wandering beams of torches from those camped al fresco on the beach.<br /><br />By 0800 a breeze has begun to stir – time to leave before the tide swings me in to the beach. I wend my way gently up the coast before a weak southwesterly on a moderate sea. Several hours pass, but then, as I approach the northwest corner of Tenerife (Punta Sardinia), all hell breaks loose. The wind has suddenly shifted NE and gusting 25. At first I think, “acceleration zone”. Keep sailing north and get past it. But no, as I clear the headland I’m in a full-blown gale, streaking along at 10 knots, on a beam reach and battered by formidable rollers. Dark clouds race above, warning of worse to come, so as the wind speed reaches 30 knots, I decide to run before it rather than battle close-hauled into that monstrous sea. My destination is now the island of La Palma, some fifty miles to the northwest. Go where the wind takes you. <br /><br />Once again the dreaded mareo is upon me, so, there being no shipping about, I leave her to sail herself and retire below to my bunk. For the next six hours I doze fitfully listening out for changes to the feel and noises of my creaking, lurching, madly careering boat. Only occasionally do I drag myself up to the cockpit to check for shipping, then stagger back below and crash gratefully once more into my pit. Oh why do I do this? You will note that I haven’t recorded my log positions for a while. Couldn’t be arsed to fill in the log, that’s why.<br /><br /><b>25th September<br />1900 - Alongside at Marina La Palma, Santa Cruz de La Palma.</b><br />Heavy weather hounded me all the way into the harbour entrance, making hard work of stowing the sails. Once secured and booked in, I go for a walk in the town and grab a beer and nosebag. By 2130 I’m back in my bunk sleeping the sleep of the just, and don’t wake up till 0900.</div>
Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-39273363845018916492016-09-11T02:08:00.000+01:002016-09-11T02:25:04.574+01:00Log of the Island Spirit (MMSI 235113215) - Marina Lanzarote<b>17th March 2016</b><br />
Meant to post this before sailing from Gib.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqENYpdm3VjJkhAPZZtMCwpKTLFKUFDdGmTHfyFTg0NmbgdToLWnPzKgagM9VE0vWcgt87PtfVVLK30TP3-s4a1CdkF3nwEIZBU1jP52-6wZe9JFVq97D-PyVCCjVMDzOfAy6YXjwOZ57K/s1600/WeymouthCard.jpg"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqENYpdm3VjJkhAPZZtMCwpKTLFKUFDdGmTHfyFTg0NmbgdToLWnPzKgagM9VE0vWcgt87PtfVVLK30TP3-s4a1CdkF3nwEIZBU1jP52-6wZe9JFVq97D-PyVCCjVMDzOfAy6YXjwOZ57K/s640/WeymouthCard.jpg" width="617" /></a><br />
Thank you, to my buddies in Weymouth. Very moved<br />
<b><br />22nd March 2016</b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWtKsG4uIhKtThkSppBaMoxhmQYZP54fPMscVpZdCmQvQTTms7lEi9JA7h54W-0Nlmbth4aBU2aHMmrqtCzFTFKXpQuxW62XWzlUtpdeCKEWaqBIc8Zs-UPTk9_Vk57yPna5tG5Egei0U/s1600/AtWork.jpg"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipWtKsG4uIhKtThkSppBaMoxhmQYZP54fPMscVpZdCmQvQTTms7lEi9JA7h54W-0Nlmbth4aBU2aHMmrqtCzFTFKXpQuxW62XWzlUtpdeCKEWaqBIc8Zs-UPTk9_Vk57yPna5tG5Egei0U/s640/AtWork.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
Back to work on the current novel<br />
<b><br />26th March 2016 </b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxblfSJygb4GXRGYNUW2-pgqoznPefRHYXy8is7EjMdWSdZB1xRDdeo2FS_reWS1XTZJFQbzmK42vH0pa9dM2ApB4TyF_Q5zh9_3_LTBeTN6v2XrV1qRwOXzk_5g88wvDrDSZIUhxGAuQD/s1600/PlayaArrecife.jpg"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxblfSJygb4GXRGYNUW2-pgqoznPefRHYXy8is7EjMdWSdZB1xRDdeo2FS_reWS1XTZJFQbzmK42vH0pa9dM2ApB4TyF_Q5zh9_3_LTBeTN6v2XrV1qRwOXzk_5g88wvDrDSZIUhxGAuQD/s640/PlayaArrecife.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
My Easter Walk - Playa Arrecife<br />
<b><br />23rd April 2016 </b><br />
Today I got intimate with the ins and outs of my sea toilet. Symptoms were no wet-bowl flush, so prepared to take it apart to fit a new top valve and gasket. But on removing the sea-water input pipe, discovered a tiny fish had made its way up to the joint and wedged itself in there. You never stop learning on a boat. (The fish didn’t survive the experience). <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5f3tRq6hFVmG8JGAbe4Zp8CRQf2jLslshEhgkQBiiPK6eAA-NC0pd1EtNDW7D6cmU6OR0MYZDcfZpmguYlQC41de6WigkToLp0F_WSJkWDD7yAItnN_XrNWGLbzWpd9CJsft8aLqqcz9A/s1600/CabinQuilt.jpg"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5f3tRq6hFVmG8JGAbe4Zp8CRQf2jLslshEhgkQBiiPK6eAA-NC0pd1EtNDW7D6cmU6OR0MYZDcfZpmguYlQC41de6WigkToLp0F_WSJkWDD7yAItnN_XrNWGLbzWpd9CJsft8aLqqcz9A/s640/CabinQuilt.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
This patchwork quilt was made for me 30 years ago by Tania Slaughter, with whom unfortunately I've lost contact.<br />
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<b>14th May 2016 </b><br />
A bit blowy in Lanzarote today. The last time I rocked and rolled like this whilst alongside was in Tórshavn, Faroe Island, back in the 60's. Mind you, that was a frigate, not a 38 foot sailboat. <br />
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<b>16th May 2016 </b><br />
Just had an extra-long session in the shoreside shower block; decontaminating myself after having to replace my broken toilet pump. What a palaver that was! At least I can now stow the piss bucket away again. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscg4twwwN-FiMoZlUoSGeuPsA_ItgEYXZteRL5TI0UuhbjjNIo4qraLc2yZfTtyrVW7BE8eH29HK1PA_yFeDq595fjv14M5RS8OiV4N4_hVLbXFs_fvJnnuwytob9BIuN-_Es5eqloExQ/s1600/SeaToilet.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscg4twwwN-FiMoZlUoSGeuPsA_ItgEYXZteRL5TI0UuhbjjNIo4qraLc2yZfTtyrVW7BE8eH29HK1PA_yFeDq595fjv14M5RS8OiV4N4_hVLbXFs_fvJnnuwytob9BIuN-_Es5eqloExQ/s320/SeaToilet.jpg" /></a><br />
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<b>14th August 2016</b><br />
Sunday Morning, 11am. Sitting in saloon having breakfast when came an almighty crunch, boat lurched over, and mucho expensive graunching sounds. Emerged from below to see this...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxccBh1cOCGZ7VhnukmBp80I-QGd1p-jt69HgtG_Zwn2WYPYWtCj0O7Frdp9QqqRXDG6PNPX-P3E7rr_0323t7i29jt3rbeRj3OB38QWB9t2fe65z3yxjfzrRMhcHvp2LAYsPjEM2WViWl/s1600/bella+lucia1.jpg"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxccBh1cOCGZ7VhnukmBp80I-QGd1p-jt69HgtG_Zwn2WYPYWtCj0O7Frdp9QqqRXDG6PNPX-P3E7rr_0323t7i29jt3rbeRj3OB38QWB9t2fe65z3yxjfzrRMhcHvp2LAYsPjEM2WViWl/s640/bella+lucia1.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIL7Zws_CXAhgdTB6zycdnXpoycIu60bQkZ0_aoc-Du6901hlBlDFm6D8ISYUhwRq9mAHhdKHGP-iEiy2VvdSU3iqpkMos4P9uE70mGyXhrZXDWgACOLp12uAkruaFO6skPuCBdjgndlrZ/s1600/bella+lucia2.jpg"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIL7Zws_CXAhgdTB6zycdnXpoycIu60bQkZ0_aoc-Du6901hlBlDFm6D8ISYUhwRq9mAHhdKHGP-iEiy2VvdSU3iqpkMos4P9uE70mGyXhrZXDWgACOLp12uAkruaFO6skPuCBdjgndlrZ/s640/bella+lucia2.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
Schooner Bella Lucia in collision with moored yachts<br />
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A 100ft schooner lost steering and collided with my pontoon, wiping out two yachts. Luckily on t'other side of pontoon. Feeling very lucky this morning, but sorry for the two absentee owners.<br />
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<b>10th September 2016</b><br />
It’s been a relaxing six months here in Lanzarote. Arrecife is a lovely little town, uncompromisingly local, and virtually unspoilt by tourism. The town’s Spanish-ness has encouraged my learning of the language and I have to say I’m quietly pleased with my progress. I still find it often quite difficult to understand the rapid-fire vernacular, but at least I know how to ask them to slow down. I’ve spent many a fine evening eating and drinking on El Chaco; a waterfront strip of bars and restaurants where the Spanish locals like to wine and dine with their families, often with outdoor entertainment and even sometimes with spectacular firework displays. Being Spanish of course, means that after the three-hour lunchtime buzz everything goes quiet until around six, and doesn’t really get going again until after eight. At weekends no one seems to need sleep and nothing closes before 2am, some bars continuing until dawn. Despite that, nobody seems to get drunk; it’s just an endless riot of chatter and laughter and dancing. It wears me out just watching them. But I also feel a little ashamed of the contrast with Costa del Little Britain a few miles down the coast. You know what I mean – I won’t dwell on it. <br />
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The Marina itself is smart and well run, and cheaper than most others in the Islands. It has a smattering of bars and restaurants, clothes shops, and even a small chandlery (the town has two bigger and better ones, as well as sailmakers, marine engineering and various boat-related specialists.) A plethora of nationalities form the boating community here, Dutch, Belgian, German, Americans, Spanish, Portuguese, various species of Scandinavians, and of course, Brits. I’ve made quite a few new friends, but of course, many come and go. I expect to meet up with some of them again on my cruising of the Islands.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGMAQL-LJQ92adcMnily1675V0_l6HGnAVzSIvuD-X3FnB0TuaQA-2WVUg_ZPGXDTM6M99nW-OeMO6kmC05bZddnMyQK1HbEoSLrJ_DAVCji7CWnpj0vCbwrdx94TMH3K5GWoMfqZiZX6/s1600/IMG_8917.JPG"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeGMAQL-LJQ92adcMnily1675V0_l6HGnAVzSIvuD-X3FnB0TuaQA-2WVUg_ZPGXDTM6M99nW-OeMO6kmC05bZddnMyQK1HbEoSLrJ_DAVCji7CWnpj0vCbwrdx94TMH3K5GWoMfqZiZX6/s640/IMG_8917.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
Fellow Sailors at Arrecife Yacht Club - Reception for Atlantic Crossers hosted by Jimmy Cornell (left)<br />
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I managed to get 72,000 words into the latest novel, but there’s still a long way to go – I doubt it’ll be ready to publish this year. As usual the boat has continued to demand my attention. Whilst here I rewired the power system and navionics, installed a new voltmeter, replaced all my lighting with LED’s, deflated and stowed the dinghy, fixed the solar panel regulator, upgraded my gas system, replaced the toilet pump, and bought some new fishing gear. <br />
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I also managed a fortnight back in UK to visit Sis and her family, my children and grandchildren (most of them anyway) and family and friends in Yorkshire, Warwickshire and Weymouth. It was wonderful to see them all again, but I found the driving exhausting and the traffic quite terrifying; why is everyone in such a hurry? Give me four to seven knots any day.<br />
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So now the time has come to up sticks and get out of here – the sea beckons. Just stored ship ready to sail next Thursday. I’ve still to work out my detailed navplan, but here’s the outline:<br />
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AM Thursday 15th Sep – sail Arrecife bound for Los Cristianos on southern tip of Tenerife.<br />
PM – call in at Puerto Calero for fuel<br />
Overnight sailing<br />
PM Friday 16th – Drop anchor somewhere off F. Ventura – swim, eat and sleep.<br />
Midnight – ish. Weigh anchor for Overnight Sailing.<br />
PM Saturday 17th – Drop anchor somewhere off G. Canaria – swim, eat and sleep.<br />
Midnight – ish. Weigh anchor for Overnight Sailing.<br />
PM Sunday 18th – Berth alongside at Los Cristianos<br />
AM Monday 19th – Haul out – 2 days for bottom clean and antifoul<br />
PM Tuesday 20th – Lift in and berth alongside<br />
PM Wednesday 21st – Sail for Las Palmas, G. Canaria<br />
AM Thursday 22nd – intention to berth alongside Las Palmas but availability uncertain. <br />
AM Sunday 25th – Sail Las Palmas for La Graciosa <br />
PM Monday 26th – Caleta del Sebo, La Graciosa. – Remain 3 days to explore this beautiful island.<br />
AM Friday 30th – Sail Caleta del Sebo – Destination TBD.<br />
Friday 14th Oct – Arrive Rubicon Marina, Lanzarote<br />
Thursday 20th Oct – Crewman Nigel (my brother-in-law) arrives from UK<br />
Occasional day sailing for crew shakedown.<br />
Saturday 29th October – Sail for La Palma (Santa Cruz)<br />
Will depart SW around 17th November…<br />
Plan A. Directly to Grenada – sail time approx. 21 days<br />
Plan B. To Mindelo, Sao Vincente, C. Verde Is – sail time approx. 6 days, then 17 days to Grenada.<br />
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That's all for now folks - I'll post once more before sailing, and then updates whenever I get a connection. Please give your reaction below, feel free to leave a comment, and share on social media. Thanks for reading.<br />
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<br />Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-76620758575806825872016-03-20T14:15:00.000+00:002016-03-22T12:12:07.920+00:00Log of the Island Spirit - La Linea to Arrecife<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8JDigv1hXkz8qxzrvVPnNPsbK7s076FZT350Be7olLs1g_e3Q2z3S4y-Ddzig3eN5v8H6JIjggJuge_0f3a5gcOEEZRNbtnQXHIz-xc45ORsD2qS2VGeTm9JUtSSFq54xwBcj8vcSMId/s1600/20160309_131505.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8JDigv1hXkz8qxzrvVPnNPsbK7s076FZT350Be7olLs1g_e3Q2z3S4y-Ddzig3eN5v8H6JIjggJuge_0f3a5gcOEEZRNbtnQXHIz-xc45ORsD2qS2VGeTm9JUtSSFq54xwBcj8vcSMId/s640/20160309_131505.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All ready for Sea</td></tr>
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<div>
I always get a touch of the collywobbles a few days before departure. Thoughts like “what the f*** makes you think you can do this?” and “I’m getting too old for this.” invade my quiet moments. But this fear carries a bonus: it helps to focus my mind on the preparations for the task ahead. For tomorrow, after six months languishing in Alcaidesa Marina, I’m finally moving on to the next leg of my round the world adventure. <br />
<br />
Farewell to the many new friends I made in Gib and La Linea, and my good pal Shaun, who remains in La Linea looking for a new direction for his life after having sold his Ocean Rowboat. I’m also pleased that my close friend Tricia managed to fly out to see me for a couple of days earlier in March. It was so good to see her again.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0acA3JxQ7Ln0vH8CLxKRL-RpVbBpDItkkHntABPI9TcZZFNqDpPFQoySk0YUJVRyNMN54QJffabhpWZaiarXHuRSUMZsE3Xj6JraaP42fUgh8Izqs8vqY5YglQ0op1qdNDrOtpPYMkr4/s1600/20160304_141850.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr0acA3JxQ7Ln0vH8CLxKRL-RpVbBpDItkkHntABPI9TcZZFNqDpPFQoySk0YUJVRyNMN54QJffabhpWZaiarXHuRSUMZsE3Xj6JraaP42fUgh8Izqs8vqY5YglQ0op1qdNDrOtpPYMkr4/s640/20160304_141850.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tricia and I on the Rock</td></tr>
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<div>
Whilst here I’ve had the engine serviced, a new mainsail made and fitted, a big new auxiliary battery installed, a leaking window resealed, and a gamut of miscellaneous repairs and improvements. I’ve replaced the worn-out mattresses in my quarter-berth, and added a luxurious topper for that extra comfort. <br />
<br />
I’ve been out into the bay three times for sea trials, mostly successful, and on Friday I motored around to Gib and filled up with enough duty-free fuel to motor all the way if need be (paid £33 for 133 litres of diesel!). Weather conditions, although a bit short on a decent wind, look quite favourable.<br />
<br />
The six months break in La Linea wasn’t without it’s negatives, however. I managed to stick a knife through the icebox in my fridge, rendering the whole thing useless, including the compressor. Had to buy a complete new unit. Then my bicycle was stolen from the marina quayside, despite having left it locked. The final misfortune (it’s said they come in threes), was when I lost my iPhone – dropped out of my pocket into the water in Gibraltar’s Marina Bay. <br />
<br />
But the really upsetting event of last year was the death in December of my beloved eldest sister, Angie, after a valiant struggle with cancer. I went to UK for a fortnight to attend the funeral. I won’t dwell on the details, but her passing has left a big hole in my life, and her memory is never far beneath the surface.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXk_ZUSLiUaNkJR8IgXvPtqpWyJL0rUS_svWvUOUXONDdsBQmhjfGteSEbZH5f9B2AzMRZb2awtli9fCzM3lpiIXZS01uWUR2g4ex9vs0_WlYMQmEVCAZIcFXMp3N0TDVWtXfm4e8rswr/s1600/Front+main+picture+ANG+IN+CRETE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="596" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDXk_ZUSLiUaNkJR8IgXvPtqpWyJL0rUS_svWvUOUXONDdsBQmhjfGteSEbZH5f9B2AzMRZb2awtli9fCzM3lpiIXZS01uWUR2g4ex9vs0_WlYMQmEVCAZIcFXMp3N0TDVWtXfm4e8rswr/s640/Front+main+picture+ANG+IN+CRETE.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My lovely sister, Angie.</td></tr>
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<div>
<b>Saturday, 12th March 1016</b><br />
<br />
I stood out into Gibraltar Bay at 7am, two hours after High Water, into a calm, windless, predawn coolness, hoping to get as far west as possible before the tide turned. The current in the Strait is constantly eastbound, between one and three knots, so with no wind to help me along I can only rely on the tide to counteract its effects. When the tide turns it combines with the current, resulting in a foul tidal set that’s practically impossible for a small sailboat to negotiate. It’s a bit like rocket science really: in order to get into the “space” of the Atlantic one needs to escape the “gravity” of the Straits Current trying to pull the boat back into the Med. <br />
<br />
First problem: my port navigation light is out, and it’s still dark. Need to look at it later.<br />
<b><br />0905 - 36 01.3N 005 26.7W. Course 240 Speed 3.5 kts.</b><br />
<br />
Two miles south of Punta Del Acebucha, struggling a little. The engine should be giving me 5.5 knots, but that damn current…<br />
<br />
I’m now just on the edge of the Transit Separation System (TSS), the usual stream of large tankers and container ships lumbering past well clear to the south. My plan is to motor parallel to them until Tarifa, then cut across the corner to end up in the “central reservation” where the TSS finishes. Still no wind, so my sails remain disappointingly redundant.<br />
<b><br />1145 – 35 59.0N 005 38.3W Course 255 Speed 4.5 kts.</b><br />
<br />
Just cleared Tarifa, having changed my plan and hugged close to the shore to take advantage of more favourable tide and current. And it worked! I’ve outrun the worst of the eastbound set. The weather is persistently calm, with a sea like the whorled glass you used to find in old-fashioned vestibule windows. I’m now angled into the busy shipping lane, hoping I can get through a gap without needing to alter course. It’s a lovely day – for motorboats.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJVMd_u6K8CxHxnsBDT-7uxbBOrrCmbq_SX9-ZED1WGKUY-HQla8uH_YLsShANZfnq7HPZbXgTecKAow2oyYjTBTs-1UimJxxdejBkD9RY0fd0JbIW4jx_9rUIR88aHLSULi1WM0-QW0M/s1600/20160312_105625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJVMd_u6K8CxHxnsBDT-7uxbBOrrCmbq_SX9-ZED1WGKUY-HQla8uH_YLsShANZfnq7HPZbXgTecKAow2oyYjTBTs-1UimJxxdejBkD9RY0fd0JbIW4jx_9rUIR88aHLSULi1WM0-QW0M/s640/20160312_105625.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tarifa - approaching departure point</td></tr>
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<b>1345 – 35 58.0N 005 51.0W Course 255 Speed 5.4</b><br />
<br />
Great! Now I’m truly on my way into the Atlantic. Attempted to fix that port navigation light. The bulb seems ok, so I tried cleaning the contacts. No luck. This will add to the risk of night sailing, especially when I get my head down. <br />
<br />
<b>1540 – 35 53.0N 006 01.1W Course 225 Speed 5</b><br />
<br />
At last, a light wind on the starboard bow. Hoisted both sails and reduced engine revs. That’s given me a nice close reach, but will need to motorsail until it gets a bit more legs on it.<br />
<b><br />1630 – 35 49.4N 006 05.2W Course 235 Speed 5</b><br />
Engine off at last. Blissful silence. Now clear of all those floating blocks of flats trundling up the Strait.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrS4ZIVrwlVBZUwBrjJCMgS9_JsUlVGU7nvIzPwltsesWq1WJL70-E8XbbYbx3iLaj4y-62g-WoeQ2k_UpUQFi9aTIANtJDNceh6VPaZHm4oKhogJR9O4HwRMst6kPHmdza7VhfWrEVEz/s1600/20160312_145411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxrS4ZIVrwlVBZUwBrjJCMgS9_JsUlVGU7nvIzPwltsesWq1WJL70-E8XbbYbx3iLaj4y-62g-WoeQ2k_UpUQFi9aTIANtJDNceh6VPaZHm4oKhogJR9O4HwRMst6kPHmdza7VhfWrEVEz/s640/20160312_145411.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A German F122 Class Frigate heading for Tangier</td></tr>
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<b>1915 – 35 39.1N 006 18.0W Course 210 Speed 5.7</b><br />
<br />
Almost sunset – worried about that port light. <br />
<br />
Just overtaken by a 75ft sloop with a huge multi-coloured spinnaker, name of Luchya. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5t7lcfd8n1pmkhJP606TQW4cNaBk-zoG4CkIGtsYwN7QgTSn6vxcaqnAfAoSlUR8hX4vAVqFs-b9ZgifImJ8u4qgO3bglRu7bZyRlk4kbyfujNuKY6ULzfGR6lc_qbTzRgX_wTW8m9zZB/s1600/20160312_170649.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5t7lcfd8n1pmkhJP606TQW4cNaBk-zoG4CkIGtsYwN7QgTSn6vxcaqnAfAoSlUR8hX4vAVqFs-b9ZgifImJ8u4qgO3bglRu7bZyRlk4kbyfujNuKY6ULzfGR6lc_qbTzRgX_wTW8m9zZB/s640/20160312_170649.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Luchya on a glittering sea</td></tr>
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Normally I would reef in the main about now, a wise precaution for overnight, but decided against it on this occasion. The pressure’s steady (1022mb) with a moderate sea and around 10 knots of northerly wind. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhOcCao6q3-tfUQfniaz32A5ycJdlrFUBQYZWVZYOfG63jOI4MlFw4QN1oOLfMI9I7DWGMgxXlrvCnGAYYwd0T3aQ9TaPhONSY7mmI0_Tsvsuo0V6Q72IMHsiizGAKsiEjshJ-3EzNJIg/s1600/20160312_181202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglhOcCao6q3-tfUQfniaz32A5ycJdlrFUBQYZWVZYOfG63jOI4MlFw4QN1oOLfMI9I7DWGMgxXlrvCnGAYYwd0T3aQ9TaPhONSY7mmI0_Tsvsuo0V6Q72IMHsiizGAKsiEjshJ-3EzNJIg/s640/20160312_181202.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Full Foulies, but not for much longer</td></tr>
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Pan-fried a small dorado, which I ate with a salad in the cockpit under a rich golden sky.<br />
<br />
<b>1950</b> – Sunset – Navigation Lights on. Except the port light, which in our case we ‘ave not got.<br />
<br />
<b>0105 – 35 17.3N 006 51.9W Course 240 Speed 5.5</b><br />
<br />
With no shipping about, I dragged up my cockpit mattress and got some sleep. Still a bit chilly in the northerly air flow, so dressed in full foulies to keep warm.</div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Sunday 13th March</b></div>
<div>
<br />
<b>0800 – 35 00.1N 007 32.2W Course 225 Speed 5</b><br />
<br />
Woke up to a steel-grey sea – getting a bit lumpy now but wind remains steady in the north. A calm, sunny morning with a light fuzz of alto cirrus. Running engine to charge batteries. <br />
<br />
Don’t run away with the idea that I slept right through the night. I hardly got a wink due to endless swarms of fishing boats. As I sat eating my breakfast a familiar question flopped into my weary brain. I wondered again what elvish spirit drove me to this mad adventure. Tiredness and first-night blues, I know. <br />
<br />
It was the early seventies, and I was on watch on the bridge of a destroyer, when the first faint hankering for this life came to me. It was blowing a typical Atlantic hooley with a vicious sea, waves breaking over the bow and walloping the bridge windows. The Ops Room had reported a small intermittent radar contact somewhere ahead, and as lookout, I was scanning with binoculars to get visual contact with it. Then I saw a sail bobbing above the mountainous waves, a ridiculously small sail, on a ridiculously small yacht. We were a thousand miles from land. The boat was being tossed about horrendously, and I, being relatively young and inexperienced, wondered how the hell anyone could be at sea in such a tiny hull, in such severe conditions. Fascinated, I continued watching this gallant little yacht as it disappeared behind one gigantic swell, reappeared again only to duck once more out of sight. By now I could make out a tiny, oilskin-clad figure in the cockpit. A flash of red at his back indicated that he flew the Red Ensign. British. The Officer of the Watch decided to give him a courtesy call on VHF Channel 16.<br />
<br />
“Yacht on my port bow, this is Warship Glamorgan, Over.”<br />
There was a short delay, and then a jovial voice answered. <br />
“Warship Glamorgan, this is ???? (can’t remember the name of the yacht). Good morning old man, what can I do for you?”<br />
“This is Glamorgan,. Just checking all is well with you, Over.”<br />
“No problems here, thank you Glamorgan. Nice to see the Navy around though.”<br />
The effect this brave adventurer had on me, sounding calm and nonchalant amid the fearsome barrage of waves, was profound, and I decided there and then that one day I would be him.<br />
<br />
Now, as I watch the sea glittering in the late morning sun, like millions of diamonds scattered on its crinkled surface, I’m acutely aware that I’m alone in the vast Atlantic, out of sight of land and other ships. Mission accomplished? Well, at least, so far, so good. <br />
<br />
Those pre-passage collywobbles are now a distant memory. Out here I feel calm and settled, totally at peace with myself and the world.<br />
<br />
<b>1345 – 34 36.1N 007 56.0W Course 225 Speed 5.5</b><br />
<br />
Wind dropped away to mere light airs. Pressure steady (1022mb), sea calm with a long swell. Started engine, then added 20l diesel to the tank. Had lunch watching a pod of dolphins cavorting around the boat, and later, a pair of gannets diving for fish. <br />
<br />
<b>1530 – 34 28.2N 008 04.4W Course 225 Speed 6</b><br />
<br />
Motorsailing.<br />
<br />
<b>1755 – 34 18.6N 008 13.7W Course 225 Speed 5.7</b><br />
<br />
Mainsail griping badly, so decided to drop it for the night.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday 14th March</b><br />
<br />
<b>0117 – 33 54.7N 008 46.5W Course 235 Speed 4.4</b><br />
<br />
(60 miles west of Casablanca – “Of all the gin joints in all the world, she had to walk into mine.”)<br />
<br />
Clear of shipping and fishing boats, so went below to sleep in the saloon. Intended setting alarm to wake up hourly, just in case.<br />
<br />
<b>0639 – 33 39.5N 009 06.6W Course 235 Speed 4.5</b><br />
<br />
Whoops! Slept through the night. Forgot to set alarm.<br />
<br />
<b>1004 – 33 28.9N 09 19.3W Course 235 Speed 5.5</b><br />
<br />
Wind looking better. Hoisted main and genoa. Added another 22l diesel, then had to wash down the spillage after a wave knocked me off balance while I was pouring. Afterwards, stripped down to shorts and sat reading Pratchett’s Reaperman. <br />
<br />
I’m now in the cruising groove – feel I can do this indefinitely. Bodes well for the 21-day transat later in the year.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDpUo9-AjHa-lUGg9M9E_Hp2FmH3W_wZ-BIqDRFBNvOs4TxKGQj02jIA-p1bkKkJ1KeFvby9i-Mvh58ZR8iopvctE71V8yWizSHXK0D-Q-_xxLd5QzYi33qABoAQwaZG75u6v5AjPsFz6/s1600/20160313_175318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDpUo9-AjHa-lUGg9M9E_Hp2FmH3W_wZ-BIqDRFBNvOs4TxKGQj02jIA-p1bkKkJ1KeFvby9i-Mvh58ZR8iopvctE71V8yWizSHXK0D-Q-_xxLd5QzYi33qABoAQwaZG75u6v5AjPsFz6/s640/20160313_175318.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Groove</td></tr>
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<b>1445 - 33 09.1N 009 39.0W Course 225 Speed 6.5</b><br />
<br />
Lunch: A pan-fried chicken breast (sliced and cooked in a sauce to make it taste of something), with green beans and the last of my salad leaves. <br />
<br />
Wind now becoming a little gusty and fetching up a bit of sea from astern.<br />
<br />
Overnight under full sail, engine off. Up to now I haven’t been able to kip in my quarter-berth due to the engine noise. Now, peace and quiet to sleep in my own comfortable bed – luxury.<br />
<b><br />Tuesday 15th March</b><br />
<br />
<b>0600 – 32 06.9N 010 31.9W Course 223 Speed 4.6</b><br />
<br />
Yes, slept through. On purpose this time – needed the rest. I’ve directed my course in a wide sweep to the west to avoid the main shipping route, so worth the slight risk.<br />
<br />
By now I expected sunshine and wind – what I’ve got is cloudy stillness.<br />
<br />
Another thing I like about being alone at sea: I can sing with raucous abandon without concerned neighbours calling for an ambulance – or the RSPCA. <br />
<br />
<b>0945 – 31 51.5N 010 43.7W Course 223 Speed 5</b><br />
<br />
Breakfast of fried eggs, beans, bread & butter – lovely. <br />
<br />
Another can of fuel into the tank – didn’t spill a drop this time. Funny how little successes mean such a lot. Now 228 miles to go, (46 hours). So currently my ETA at Arrecife is 0745 Thursday.<br />
<br />
<b>1340 – 31 35.5N 010 56.4W Course 223 Speed 5</b><br />
<br />
Warm and Sunny. Trawling two hand lines in the vague hope of catching something pelagic. An equally hopeful tern came and sat on my radar scanner. With a tern on the radar, several amusing puns occurred to me (work it out for yourself).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmSC8ujA8TR-z3RCDLlsBPw7ZEVBoXfVc_IxxtiDo2dpuQfbfO1v29TrkNmGMqJ8MbcmuMFZi3r4wUzipvEjNsuarQ_ln92wjKO-d9pCZGh2OAa7KScVWlVX8ZuZioYlM3q2LBgEwvL0H/s1600/20160315_120522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCmSC8ujA8TR-z3RCDLlsBPw7ZEVBoXfVc_IxxtiDo2dpuQfbfO1v29TrkNmGMqJ8MbcmuMFZi3r4wUzipvEjNsuarQ_ln92wjKO-d9pCZGh2OAa7KScVWlVX8ZuZioYlM3q2LBgEwvL0H/s640/20160315_120522.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trawling in hope</td></tr>
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<b>1847 – 31 17.8N 011 15.1W Course 230 Speed 5.5</b><br />
<br />
Recovered hand lines (no luck with fish) and turned into wind. Shortened main to 1 reef then resumed course. 180 miles to go. Party time. What that means exactly I’m not prepared to say here.<br />
<br />
<b>2021 – 31 11.9N 011 21.8W Course 230 Speed 6</b><br />
<br />
As a fiery sunset burned up the western horizon a large flock of terns visited. After a time flying around me they went off to where another flock of birds, petrels, I think, swooped around something evidently of interest to the avian community. Then I saw what it was, as a great spout of spray erupted from the sea, and I quickly grabbed my bins. Yes, a whale, a humpback, I think. It was only up for a few more moments, then threw its great tail flukes into the air as it dived.<br />
<b><br />Wednesday 16th March</b><br />
<br />
<b>0139 – 30 56.4N 011 47.2W Course 250 Speed 6</b><br />
<br />
Seesawing in an awkward following wind. Not a sailing problem, but sleep disturbed by the frequently flogging sails, hence the alteration of course.<br />
<br />
Ok, so you want me to explain seesawing. Try this thought experiment. Let us assume that the true wind is ten knots from fine on the port quarter, and its force on the sails is pushing the boat along. Now clearly the boat’s speed will have an effect on the apparent wind, both in speed and direction. In this case, as the boat speed increases the apparent wind will reduce and its direction will creep ahead. This will spoil the trim of the sails, and they’ll start to flap, so the boat will lose way, causing the apparent wind to drop back again and increase. Thus regaining her trim, the boat will once again gain speed, until the whole cycle is repeated. In even moderate winds this repetitive flogging of the sails sends all sorts of strain noises down the mast and through the fabric of the hull, which, while not actually dangerous, is difficult to sleep through and not very kind to an old lady like my Island Spirit. A few degrees change of course to windward is the easiest way to alleviate this problem.<br />
<br />
<b>0835 – 30 42.0N 012 18.0W Course 215 Speed 5.5</b><br />
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The wild Atlantic! Huge rollers coming in from the west. Long enough to be not too uncomfortable, but combined with a serious fetch from the 22 knot northeaster, a bit rock and roll-ey. Needed to change tack to get back on track. Furled the genny, then wore through the wind to carry out a controlled jibe. Smooth as a good single malt.<br />
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<b>0915 – 30 38.4N 012 19.6W Course 205 Speed 6</b><br />
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Engine on. Rolling like a pig!<br />
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<b>1140 – 30 24.5N 012 24.8W Course 195 Speed 6</b><br />
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Engine off due to good strong wind, though had to alter course to avoid flogging sails.<br />
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<b>1851 – 29 48.3N 012 32.8W Course 200 Speed 5.5</b><br />
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Planning a change of course at 0100 to head directly for Arrecife.<br />
<b><br />0138 – 28 14.8N 012 37.8W Course 260 Speed 5</b><br />
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After jibing, engine off – getting some kip before entering harbour.<br />
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<b>0805 – 29 07.3N 013 10.0W Course 240 Speed 5</b><br />
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Lanzarote in sight, 21 miles to go. Breakfast.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZDkZcREhDzQQ5_5GiBdmWhFcbvdElAL60noRanemMiyZMWddsb3j_TJrgncia1qhUBGulCoGyAZRqTvE5egWu1VXZuKViN7zgBR9_3Fauj0JqszefUBCepaJO9InkMUK6wtahuiddPaXl/s1600/20160315_120329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZDkZcREhDzQQ5_5GiBdmWhFcbvdElAL60noRanemMiyZMWddsb3j_TJrgncia1qhUBGulCoGyAZRqTvE5egWu1VXZuKViN7zgBR9_3Fauj0JqszefUBCepaJO9InkMUK6wtahuiddPaXl/s640/20160315_120329.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nearly there</td></tr>
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<b>1230 – Berthed alongside Marina Lanzarote, Arrecife. Job done.</b><br />
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Next Leg: Here to La Palma in September, then St Lucia or Antigua in November. Meanwhile I’ll spend summer in the Canaries, with some nice sailing to discover the other islands. Anyone fancy joining me here for a short cruising holiday, just let me know. Your comments below are important to me, so please leave one. (It won't appear straight away because it needs to be approved)<br />
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<a href="http://mikerothery.blogspot.com.es/2015/09/in-july-2015-i-gave-up-trying-to-settle.html">Click here to read the whole story from its beginnings in Greece</a></div>
Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-20651962456241297862015-10-11T11:26:00.000+01:002016-03-20T14:27:23.826+00:00Log of Island Spirit – Gibraltar UpdateSunday 11th October 2015<br />
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Sitting alongside at La Linea contemplating a wet Sunday afternoon as the Lavante clouds cluster and thicken around the rock and sporadic rain casts a sullen lethargy over the marina’s nomadic inhabitants. <br />
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My mains’l is still with the sailmakers undergoing repairs and I’m filling in the time doing odd jobs around the boat and making ready for a few short leisurely passages over to Morocco and up the Spanish coast. <br />
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I’ve also resumed work on my latest novel, The Incomer, with a view to finishing the first draft by Christmas. I hope to be ready for publication by April, when I sail for the Canaries. Getting back into the writing groove has been slow and difficult, achieved only after severe self-bullying, but now I’m back on track I feel my motivation returning, and am excited once more about how the story is developing. Followers of the serialised version can expect a big surprise in the way the story develops, and how the first part will be entirely refocussed after the re-write.<br />
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Well, that’s all for now, lovely readers. I’ll leave you with some pictures.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOZMRNy0C3m54SspctyQo2dOSeeOfX2pkUoeh6Dguo4-nlbmqNk3xWgw9g0CoF2irBnGKPau4ZrWxlBGFtUN4h3ugV7Tcb1pOPotxSByKWCnM4Fha1zK8X1-6l4lYFMejvMR5_nOQpHit/s1600/IMG_2228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeOZMRNy0C3m54SspctyQo2dOSeeOfX2pkUoeh6Dguo4-nlbmqNk3xWgw9g0CoF2irBnGKPau4ZrWxlBGFtUN4h3ugV7Tcb1pOPotxSByKWCnM4Fha1zK8X1-6l4lYFMejvMR5_nOQpHit/s320/IMG_2228.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The View from Island Spirit's Saloon</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friend and Boat-neighbour Shaun joins me for Morning Tea</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gibraltar as seen by the Gated Ex-pat Community at Alcaidesa</td></tr>
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<a href="http://mikerothery.blogspot.com.es/2016/03/log-of-island-spirit-la-linea-to.html"><br /></a>
<a href="http://mikerothery.blogspot.com.es/2016/03/log-of-island-spirit-la-linea-to.html">Click here to read the next episode, La Linea to Lanzarote</a><br />
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Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-70371043371962121382015-09-30T14:44:00.001+01:002015-11-25T15:50:46.388+00:00Log of Island Spirit - Final Leg to Gibraltar<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sunday 27 September<br />
1240 37 31.1N 01 04.1W<br />
Departed Cartagena at 1120 after taking on fuel. A sluggish start but now making 5 kts under full sail, close reach, engine off. A lovely sunny day, almost flat calm with a gentle swell. Ideal sailing weather for the day sailor with nowhere much to go. Due to get a bit feistier later, but favourable for a good run down to Gib. ETA Tuesday mid-morning.<br />
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1730 37 12.4N 01 23.6W<br />
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After a brilliant afternoon's sailing, just had to dowse both sails due to the wind playing silly buggers again. I know it's just sorting itself out before the big fat easterly, but right now it's doing nada. Glad in a way, though. Stowing the main was easy and I didn't even have to point her up. If it does what I think it's going to do later I'm better off with just the genny - easier on the helm. The weather has a slightly sulky, almost threatening feel to it. "It's quiet, Too Quiet" the cowboy's last words, just before the whoosh of the arrow that slams into his chest.<br />
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1840 37 08.2N 01 17.8W<br />
Wheeee! Genny pulling us along at a blistering 6.5+ - at this rate, Gib tomorrow night. Got a wake like a carrier at flying stations (well, not quite but you get the picture). Trying not to feel smug about being oh so right about the wind and getting rid of the main.<br />
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2057 36 58.8N 01 38.7E<br />
Well, this is exciting. Running before a feisty blow being slewed and rolled like some demented fairground ride. Just had to pull genny in two reefs, as I've an idea 9 knots might be a bit quick for a cruising sailboat. The wind continues to back as it increases, currently a gut-twisting 30 knots. I'm going to have to wear her round soon as I approach my next waypoint. That should be fun. Autopilot working like crazy, so having to run engine (out of gear, of course) to keep the battery voltages up. Lightning now flashing all around the horizon, but (touch wood) I seem to be in a clear spot right now. Off to starboard the lights of the Costa Blanca resorts gleam prettily. It's all quite bizarre.<br />
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I love reading all the kind comments from FB friends and Blog followers. Thank you all - great for morale.<br />
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2312 36 47.5N 01 51.0W<br />
Managed to reef in a bit more sail before tackling the wear round. A fishing boat got in my way and I first had to bear up to avoid him - yes, he should have given way but fishing boats are a law unto themselves and expect everyone always to keep clear. Changing tack in this madness gave me a hairy few moments, but I planned ahead and it all kind of worked - the genny managed to survive a severe flogging. It’s a little more comfortable on this tack because I'm almost directly in line with the swell, but there's been no let-up in the gale. Even with a sail now not much bigger than a docker's hanky we're still tumbling along at 7 kts+.<br />
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Monday 28 September<br />
0040 36 43.2N 02 00.8W<br />
Wind lost some of its ferocity in past hour, but heavy sea still tumbling us around, exacerbated no doubt by the over-falls around Cabo de Gato, now 5 miles ahead. I'll need to stay awake until past that, so no early night for me. My current course is set for Gib, so no more planned alterations till Europa Point.<br />
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0814 36 35.3N 02 47.5W<br />
Good morning. As expected, back on the roller coaster, running briskly before a full on gale with the fetch heaving up boisterously astern. A bright sunny morning with a few wisps of alto stratus and a sharp horizon. I've angled the solar panel down to catch the rising sun, and I'm pleased to say the batteries are showing a net voltage gain with engine off, despite the mad thrashing of the autopilot attempting (almost in vain) to hold her steady. Off to starboard the mountainous skyline of the Costa del Sol (Sierra Nevada), it's beauty marred by the unsightly grey plastic festooning its coastal margins in order to supply Europe's supermarkets with perfectly shaped vegetables all year round. Ok, a bit of a rant, but it's a lingering complaint from my last visit to this region. Had to turn due east because the wind on my desired heading was dead astern, making the genny grouchy and irritable. So I'm now more or less hugging the coast, and will need to turn more southerly before I hit Malaga (literally). If the wind stays like this it will mean another awkward wear round, but I'm more comfortable with that manoeuvre now. Planning is the key, making sure everything's set up and ready before one begins.<br />
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1420 36 30.4N 03 36.5W<br />
Another pleasant afternoon dozing (unhampered by clothing, as nature intended) in the cockpit. Wind dropped to a modest breeze wafting me along on full genny. The Sierra Nevadas rise majestically to starboard and Europa Point lies 88 miles dead ahead. Feeling blissful.</div>
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Had another encouinter with Guardia Civil earlier (Yes I slipped a pair of shorts on before they got close)</div>
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0632 36 17.4N 05 05.5W<br />
This morning we're licking our wounds. <br />
It all started around midnight, after an uneventful evening sailing close reach on full sail in a fairly modest breeze. Cooked a lovely spaghetti with squid and tuna to eat watching the sunset, and sat reading till ten. Then the wind disappeared almost entirely, and I looked like having to motor sail the final 50 miles. I spent a while trying to coax an extra knot of two out of the sails, but then the breeze returned more or less as it had been. Satisfied that it would resume its previous benign behaviour, I left the sails up, un-reefed and ready for the triumphant final spurt for home. However, that was not to be. When I returned to the cockpit after cleaning up below and changing into night clothing, I noticed it had strengthened considerably, and a formidable fetch was developing. The sky showed no sign of animosity, the full moon smiling kindly down on me, and the stars twinkling with reassuring brightness, so I sat back and watched developments. Growing consternation as suddenly it was blowing yet another infernal gale, and this time I wasn't prepared. By the time I decided I had far too much sail out it was too late, at least for the mains'l. I decided rather than turn to windward in that by now quite vicious sea and tumble about on the coach roof trying to stow the sail, to gamble that it wouldn't get much worse - after all, I'd listened to all the VHF broadcasts and no mention of any gale warning. By 2300 my gamble was clearly lost, with 25 knots and horrible seas I fought desperately to keep the overpowered sails as safe as possible. I managed to reef in the genny to a sliver, but all I could do with the main, I felt, at this stage was to try and scandalise it. But with a rigid vang there's not much scope for that. My other problem was holding her downwind while avoiding an accidental jibe. The wind was gusty and kept shifting slightly, and the waves were taking us on a slalom, slewing alarmingly as we surfed on the crests, then lurched into the troughs. We yawed at least 30 degrees either side of the set course, wandering downwind and beyond, making the sails flog horribly and threatening to jibe, so I had to alter to give the Autopilot more margin to leeward. This meant we were now heading towards Morocco instead of Gib, and into the great herd of ships heading into and out of the Strait. By 0200 I had decided this would not be a good idea, so would need to wear round to starboard and head instead towards Estapona, taking us further away from our destination, but at least the prospect of better weather inshore and less shipping to worry about. <br />
And perhaps I could get some sleep.<br />
I had practiced wearing round in heavy weather before, and was pretty confident about doing it again with just the genny. But now I had two sails to manage, and that was going to be tricky with the wind now gusting 30 knots.<br />
I first hauled taught and tied off the lazy genoa sheet, then took the main sheet in hand, and with the other hand, reached over and stabbed 40 degrees to starboard on the Autopilot. This course change should have taken a minute or so, but a wave caught her on the turn and helped us round, so I had no time to haul in the main sheet before the moment of jibe. I had some pulled in, but then she went over, the sheet pulled from my hands (good job I had gloves on), and the boom whipped to leeward with a dreadful bang like an artillery shell being fired.<br />
The top of my mains'l is now in tatters, two great tears grinning down at me. <br />
The gale has now moderated and we are once more on course for Gib, the bright lights of the resorts twinkling to starboard.<br />
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Wednesday 30th September<br />
Now berthed in Alcaidesa Marina, La Linea. Got here yesterday morning and spent the day eating, drinking and sleeping. This morning I treated Island Spirit to a good scrub down, then cleaned up below. Have taken off the Mains’l. The tears are all along seams, so repair should be possible.<br />
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Leave your comment below, then <a href="http://mikerothery.blogspot.com.es/2015/10/log-of-island-spirit-gibraltar-update.html">Click here for next episode</a></div>
Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5328981187165595217.post-37456844845337329272015-09-26T16:14:00.001+01:002015-11-25T15:49:19.873+00:00The Maiden Voyage of Island Spirit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In July 2015 I gave up trying to settle down to a sedentary life ashore, and went in search of a boat. A boat to live on and to sail the globe, giving way at long last to my persistent wanderlust and irresistible urge to be at sea.<br />
After looking at several vessels in UK I trotted off to Greece, and the third one I went to see ticked all the boxes, a French built, owned, and registered Jeanneau sloop with the uninspiring name of Fidji.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1wFeqtUsMPAdehbvw1Cy_dO1j0l7IuSfudPqIYQIoK6HvfAfLcw93SObJCoaORdf06FzDdmE1tG0ZnYgxXYZYgyBRh2I0Q9FzX5-r1ZekqvgYxeSPZFz0WunUmiq6C8OYARm0FGoJ0fZ/s1600/IMG_1978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT1wFeqtUsMPAdehbvw1Cy_dO1j0l7IuSfudPqIYQIoK6HvfAfLcw93SObJCoaORdf06FzDdmE1tG0ZnYgxXYZYgyBRh2I0Q9FzX5-r1ZekqvgYxeSPZFz0WunUmiq6C8OYARm0FGoJ0fZ/s320/IMG_1978.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fidji - before I bought her</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg45FeHEe7MOit-TdBmMrqVR8u0_gdokADiUlSWvimKoiZ41IW8XVJ0yyvenvNFEJUQgUx0p4cIUVHSTU8AoOMxPvqR0tjtdc94cFn2gs7aohv2h8dQ1mO6kfa12e34YuX1ywpWB2CAGK-E/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg45FeHEe7MOit-TdBmMrqVR8u0_gdokADiUlSWvimKoiZ41IW8XVJ0yyvenvNFEJUQgUx0p4cIUVHSTU8AoOMxPvqR0tjtdc94cFn2gs7aohv2h8dQ1mO6kfa12e34YuX1ywpWB2CAGK-E/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Haul Out</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnSOymvDKEFrY8Zg72a8YHeWQTuHHKcOv8TR1rM5ZDcctZgGdrHq2u0Nl-XwqnkgLgk5g-cHRRFguVssxGsy7OQP6e61RgwTzrv8QFAwW5TcqlS5XSczkeG7sIEKqmx1TVEvmFPo68G4n/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBnSOymvDKEFrY8Zg72a8YHeWQTuHHKcOv8TR1rM5ZDcctZgGdrHq2u0Nl-XwqnkgLgk5g-cHRRFguVssxGsy7OQP6e61RgwTzrv8QFAwW5TcqlS5XSczkeG7sIEKqmx1TVEvmFPo68G4n/s320/2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keel - from forward</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEV6sIICLYkJMKI0mdZVfYqIwhs4mof6z3JjUneVRv2PuxNwYFYET-vJiyQKlf-xL3Vvm1BcL9xU6BRHN-x_XwkAwplem6HLHM68SMY1HeYBrLjDoxgvhy3i1JhTsR5PAnByvzlibpiLI/s1600/37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqEV6sIICLYkJMKI0mdZVfYqIwhs4mof6z3JjUneVRv2PuxNwYFYET-vJiyQKlf-xL3Vvm1BcL9xU6BRHN-x_XwkAwplem6HLHM68SMY1HeYBrLjDoxgvhy3i1JhTsR5PAnByvzlibpiLI/s320/37.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nav station - as was</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saloon</td></tr>
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Within a month she was mine, out of the water having her bottom seen to, while I fussed around getting her topsides and electronics the way I wanted them.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After refit, with new name & Part II Registration</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally back into the water</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Helm Console Chartplotter</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Equipment at Nav Station</td></tr>
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And so it was, on 3rd September 2015, I proudly sailed my UK registered, 38ft sloop, Island Spirit, out of Lefkas Marina, towards its winter home in La Linea, under the benign shadow of the Rock of Gibraltar. In order to keep friends and family informed of my whereabouts and progress, I began posting extracts from my log on Facebook. Before long I had accumulated a significant band of followers who expressed their avid interest in my continued updates.<br />
By the time I reached Cartagena on 25 September I realised I should be publishing these posts on my Blog, and directing my lovely fans there instead. So that is what I've done, along with pictures and related writings as I begin my last leg of this single-handed trial of stamina and determination - a personal trial to prove to myself I can do it, and to prepare for the Trans-global voyage next year.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And off we go...</td></tr>
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<br />
(Apologies to Pink Floyd for the following parody)<br />
<br />
So, so you think you can sail,<br />
Too scared to fail,<br />
Blue skies or rain.<br />
Would you get a sharp thrill,<br />
Swept along in a gale,<br />
Water over the rail,<br />
Do you think you can sail?<br />
<br />
Can I get you to trade,<br />
Your safety for bold,<br />
Cool parties for warm seas,<br />
Stale air for a sea breeze,<br />
Home comforts for range.<br />
<br />
Can you exchange,<br />
A walk in the park with your peers,<br />
For an ocean cruise with a friend.<br />
<br />
How I wish, how I wish you were here.<br />
<br />
You're just a landlocked soul in search of a goal, year after year,<br />
Trying always to break out, but fooled by the doubt, the old fraud fear.<br />
<br />
Wish you were here.<br />
<br />
<b>Single-handed Passage Lefkas, Greece to La Linea, Southern Spain</b><br />
<b>Sailing Sloop Island Spirit - SSR 162116</b><br />
<b>Skipper: Mike Rothery</b><br />
<br />
2nd September 2015.<br />
Last three jobs completed: new port water tank installed and working, engine fuel injectors replaced with new ones, jackstays fitted along side-decks. I can now sail tomorrow.<br />
<br />
3rd September<br />
1110 – Lefkas Marina, Greece.<br />
Left marina berth and went alongside fuel jetty. Filled 3 x 20l diesel cans then filled up my 80l tank. Have 230l water in two main tanks and 100l in deck shower tank, plus 24l drinking water in bottles. Have food provisions for more than two weeks.<br />
Departed Lefkas canal via Swing Bridge at 1200 local time. Once in open sea, hoisted dingy up on stern gantry, secured anchor, and stowed fenders and mooring lines. Once settled on westerly heading, hoisted Mains'l - noted apparent wind now 30 degrees to port, so unfurled genoa as well. Once underway on sail, killed engine. Settled down at 3-4 kts heading 260. Not really fast enough but wanted to see how she sailed and get used to the rig. Practiced heaving to and tacking. Found the new genny sheets didn't work properly in the self-trailers, making single-handed operation awkward. However, she sails beautifully, stiff and weatherly - 30deg on stbd tack, a shade over on port - don't ask me why. Rides close hauled with virtually no weather helm, hardly ever had to touch the wheel. Even the autopilot likes it and is never overworked, which is a good sign for my batteries.<br />
Set course for waypoint SE of toe of Italy, headed for Messina. New speed log not working, despite having been fixed once already. Chart plotter also keeps losing contact with AIS, a problem I was assured had been fixed. Oh well.<br />
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Day One went quite well. Sailed without engine most of the day and averaged about 4kts. At sunset I started engine as wind had dropped and anyway, was dead ahead on my intended track. So furled genny away. Motor sailed overnight at around 4.5 kts. Made up a bed in the cockpit, then had supper. Quite choppy seas so preparing first meal at sea, linguini bolognaise, was a little challenging. Problem with nav lights, despite being checked in Lefkas. Eventually the bow lights came on by themselves 10 mins after switching them on, and the stern light and steaming light followed ten minutes later - weird. Turned in on the cockpit around 10. Set my timer to wake me up every 20 mins. Crossed a shipping route at midnight till one so stayed awake until clear. Closest CPA was a bloody great cruise ship, lit up like fairyland so hard to miss - came within a mile but looked a few feet away. Mind you, the cruise ship's sartorial splendour was put to shame by the show overhead-the night sky at sea never ceases to astound: a black sheet of velvet, encrusted with billions of bright diamonds, and the silver swathe of the Milky Way running through it like a dazzling waterfall. Of course, then the moon had to rise and spoil the show - there's always one, isn't there?<br />
The 20 minute wake ups were nauseating in the extreme and made me very irritated - nearly threw the timer overboard on several occasions.<br />
<br />
4th September<br />
1800 38 24N 18 17E<br />
Woke up at sunrise still exhausted, so had another couple of 20 min naps after breakfast. A light breeze eventually materialised, so unfurled genny and killed engine. But it didn't last and I had to furl away again by noon. Used my deck shower for the first time - wonderful device. Showered in the cockpit due to the dingy taking up all the sugar scoop, but it all drained away nicely.<br />
Now motor sailing close reached in a light northwesterly. About halfway to The Toe - should reach there this time tomorrow. Morale high - Island Spirit feels like home.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain's Cabin</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Galley</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heads</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nav Station</td></tr>
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<br />
6th September<br />
Sunday morning finds me in Riposte Marina under the volcanic haze of Mt Etna. I plan to stay here three days, for reasons I'll come to presently.<br />
On Friday night I thought the evening sky to the west looked decidedly ominous - the wind had dropped to a whisper and the sea had an oily look to it. So I decided to dowse the sails and motor overnight, not wanting to risk it in darkness with a fierce blow brewing up.<br />
Well, the blow didn't materialise, and in the pre-dawn gloom I set sails once more to a light sou'westerly. By now I was crossing the bottom of Taranto Bay and sailing well. Unfortunately, throughout the morning the light wind gradually picked up fiercer proportions, and I decided a couple of reefs would be prudent. That's when disaster struck: my autopilot decided to choose this moment to go on strike, and refused stubbornly to hold a course, just ticked randomly around the card. So, there being no way to hold her into wind for reefing the main, I was in a real pickle. By now the wind was gusting 25 and looking intent on increasing. Fighting down my rising concern, I thought through the problem and realised I would need to dowse everything and continue bare-pole motoring until I could fix the Autopilot. Easier said than done - how to hold her to windward while I scrambled around the coach roof stowing the sail away? I chose to get rid of the Genoa first and that's when the real trouble started. I started the engine and gave her a few revs ahead, then lashed the wheel, hoping that would give me time to furl the genny. But as soon as I started hauling in she tacked, backing the genny hard against the mast and half-stay. Before I could do anything she wore completely round, the sail billowing out ahead with both sheets snagged under a cleat on the bow. I tried releasing the boom to stop her sailing round in mad circles, but by now the genny was flogging away like cannon fire in a near-gale and I feared it was going to carry away. Throwing caution to the wind (pun intended) I ran forward along the bucking side deck (no time for a lifeline), and unsnagged the offending sheets, dodging the maniacal antics of the sail that seemed determined to consign me to a watery end.<br />
Regaining the relative safety of the cockpit I managed to haul in the tortured genoa. Now the main. I tried once more to head into wind and lash the wheel, but I couldn't just let the boom swing - that certainly would have been fatal - so I hauled the main sheet hard in first, then leaving the wheel, made a frenzied dash for the halyard, released it, then jumped up to the boom and started dragging it down. Of course, I wasn't quick enough, and immediately the sail drew and turned the boat to leeward. So I waited for her to ware round and back to windward, giving me a narrow window of time to haul it down.<br />
In theory I shouldn't have been able to drag it down in that short a time, but must have acquired the extra strength from the adrenalin pumping through me. Down it came, and slowly but surely, while hanging onto the lazy bag for dear life with one hand, managed to get it more or less safely stowed.<br />
Thinking back to that terrifying half hour when I thought I'd lost it all, I've absolutely no idea where all the strength and agility came from, but it fills me with a great sense of personal achievement and pride that I coped.<br />
However, more reserves were yet to be called upon. I was now stuck at the helm in a moderate gale with no chance to go below even for a few seconds - I'd steadfastly ignored all the unsecured stuff crashing and clattering in the saloon and galley. They were not my main concern. The frantic activity and adrenalin rush had left me feeling weak and shaky - I suspected I needed some sugar in me, and pronto. <br />
With no sails to balance the steering, and of course, no autopilot, I started to feel real concern for my ability to cope physically with the next twelve hours to Reggio Calabria, my intended first stop. Furthermore, the wind had veered northwesterly and I was now faced with a massive headwind, reducing my speed to a meagre 1.6 knots. I decided therefore to run for shelter at a marina marked on the chart at Bavolino, on the eastern coast of the toe, six hours motoring.<br />
Alas, arriving there, having eaten only a yoghurt and drunk an emergency bottle of coke, I found the wind there northerly, and the name 'marina' was just that, a name. No shelter to be found there.<br />
So for another five hours I followed the coast south to the base of the toe, where thankfully the wind dropped, and I was able to grab a bite and a couple of hours sleep while letting the boat drift in the darkness towards shore - too deep to anchor but the current was pushing me at a mere 0.3 knots, and laying three miles off, it have me the break I so badly needed.<br />
My fuel was down to a quarter so I put another 20 litres in from my reserve stock. Then, leaving my nav lights on, killed the engine, lashed the wheel hard over, and let the heavy swell rock me to sleep. Two hours later I awoke, and with still 30m of water beneath, had time to make myself a cup of tea and a sandwich before setting off once more for Reggio, now a mere five hours at five knots. I will just point out at this point, if it was not clear from my previous comments, that without autopilot, sailing single handed was out of the question. So getting it fixed was now my highest priority. I knew Reggio had the Raymarine services I needed, so I had to get there.<br />
Rounding the headland into the approaches to the Strait of Messina, I quickly discovered that my travails were not yet over - not by a long chalk. The wind here, funnelled by the two mountainous land masses of Italy and Sicily, was even worse, exacerbated by heavy seas charging down from the strait, making progress painfully slow and uncomfortable, water breaking over the bow as she crashed and shuddered her way through the tempest. I soon realised that at less than 2 knots, it would take twice as long to get to Reggio, with no guarantee of a safe shelter from this filthy weather when I got there.<br />
So I turned around and headed downwind, clocking up 6.5 knots with mountainous seas charging up behind, making Island Spirit plane and rock and corkscrew madly in her dash southward. She took it all in her stride of course, my plucky little boat, but for me, steering her in this was a real chore as she bounced around at random, giant waves sweeping underneath and constantly slewing us off course. I now had two choices of suitable marinas. Seventy miles to the south lay Syracuse, which I could make on my present heading. But the prospect of another 14 hours in these conditions was just too daunting, and I doubted my ability to stay awake at the wheel. And if I nodded off she would almost certainly slew round and broach fatally.<br />
Over to the east southeast was Riposte, a mere 30 miles, but it would mean turning across this monstrous sea with 30+ knots of wind on the beam. I had already tried it once and feared she was going to go over into a trough. I was between a rock and a hard place. Then I had the idea to just continue south, either to see if the weather abated further south, or if not, make my approach from the southeast with the weather on the bow - uncomfortable, but survivable.<br />
As it happened, the weather didn't abate - it just got worse, so in the end, worried about my growing fatigue, I just bit the bullet and crossed that awful sea. It was scary, and I found myself fighting panic for the first half of that 5-hour nightmare. But then I kind of adapted to it, after all, we had survived the worst so far, so why not the rest? And even though it did get worse, I grew quite sanguine, probably due to extreme tiredness, and became an automaton at the wheel, not thinking, just doing what was needed and staying more or less on course. Towards the end I nodded off several times, but only for a second or so. More worryingly I started hallucinating: the compass became a misty crystal ball and instead of numbers on the compass card I found myself blinking away goblins and pixies cavorting within it. Also, the creaking of the rigging, the gurgling of the engine exhaust as it ducked in and out of the water, and the strange noises from the dingy hanging on the gantry, combined to sound like human voices talking to me, giving both encouraging advice and scorn of my folly in attempting such a foolhardy adventure. I even spoke back to these voices.<br />
But there is an even more interesting phenomenon I want to share with you. Throughout all these incidents and near-disasters I have felt a real presence here with me on the boat - the feeling that someone is watching over me, someone I keep having a mental conversation with. Now, I have no doubt that this is a mere illusion, something within me that I've invented to act as guide and mentor, but a less atheistic mind might well attribute religious experience to this phenomenon. Food for thought.<br />
Anyway, here I am in Riposte, feeling a little shell shocked after a meal and a short sleep. Evening approaches and I've a mind to have a few beers tonight - after all, I've got plenty to celebrate and be thankful for. Tomorrow I'll get the Raymarine engineer onboard, then get to work cleaning my beautiful and faithful Island Spirit.<br />
<br />
8th Sept.<br />
Still laid up in Riposto Marina awaiting two things, delivery of a new drive belt for my Autopilot, and a break in the weather. The latter is about getting up to Messina as the Northward stream begins for the ten mile transit of the Strait. Timing is critical: if I miss the tide I've got to hole up somewhere for 12 hours until the next one. It's an 8 hour passage from here at 5 knots but if the wind's against me I'll have to wait here until it's not. So I've calculated 4 departure slots starting at 4am tomorrow. From Messina I plan to sail between the Aeolian Islands then turn west for Cagliari in Southern Sardinia, total passage time 70 hours.<br />
Meanwhile I’ve been cleaning and repairing, re-stowing sails, and generally pottering about finding little jobs to do - there's always something to do on a boat, never a dull moment.<br />
Riposto is a bleak little town, continually overcast, raining, sometimes heavily in thunderstorms, and the permanent dust haze from Mt Etna. I saw its jagged peak for the first time last night just before sunset, a great plume of smoke rising up from it, looking broody and malevolent, and a halo of thin cloud in a perfect ring around the cone. Now it's hidden once more by a blanket of thick grey clouds.<br />
The place has its strong points though. There's a nice little fish restaurant nearby where you can choose your victim and say how you want it prepared. Surprisingly inexpensive as well. I also found an unprepossessing taverna where they keep bringing out free food with your beer - lovely little plates of cheeses, hams and bread nonchalantly but tastefully prepared as only the Italians can.<br />
No apologies for such a mundane log entry after the excitement of the previous one, I'm enjoying the quietude. Next entry will be posted from Cagliari, (hopefully).<br />
<br />
9th Sept<br />
1100<br />
This morning finds me berthed in Marsamemi, a delightful little marina, cheap and informal, and with all the facilities inclusive - a rarity in Italy by all past accounts.<br />
Once again I've been plagued by awful, unseasonable weather. Departed Riposto noon yesterday into a brisk northerly, and headed south, having decided that Messina was definitely a no go, and wanting to get out of the infernal rain that seems endemic to that place. So headed merrily for Malta with a nice following breeze that sent me rattling along on a ballooning genny. Then, two hours out, the Weather Gods spoke. Thunder and lighting, the works; winds gusting 40+ from the east (I'd hoped for a bit of easterly but hell fire, not like that! Be careful what you wish for, eh?) seas piling up and tipping my little boat sideways into gaping troughs, cold rain and whipping spray driving horizontally under the Bimini. Pretty soon I was dithering in my shorts and t-shirt, but unwilling in these conditions to risk diving below for my foulies.<br />
Nothing like that was in any of the forecasts. So, hoping it was but a localised storm, I motored into it at low revs to drive through and out the other side.<br />
Wrong!<br />
After two hours ploughing into ferocious seas I realised this was no mere passing squall. So I made the dreadful turn across the sea (by now quite trustful of Island Spirit's seaworthiness) and ran downwind, heading almost due west - toward land some 15 miles ahead. I was hoping for a timely change in wind direction. Monstrous walls of water piling up behind can look and feel scary in a small boat - I'm sure most of you – those who were matelots - remember how impressive it can seem from the quarterdeck of a frigate - but quite safe if you stay on course.<br />
Thankfully, after another two hours, the wind backed southerly and although it now put the heavy rollers on my port quarter, at least I was headed in the right direction.<br />
Because the storm looked to be prolonged, I decided it prudent to run for shelter and slipped (illegally) into the great naval harbour of Augusta. By now it was almost dark and I glided quietly past the moored warships and tankers to a little ship graveyard at the top end. I dropped anchor in 4 metres. It was calm here and 20 metres of chain was enough to hold her. Thankful to change out of wet clothes and cook a hot meal, I then threw myself into my bunk and slept until midnight.<br />
Refreshed and feeling buoyant I crept unchallenged back out between the destroyers (and an aircraft carrier by god!) and headed south once more. The wind had dropped but the storm had left the sea heavy, confused, and sickeningly uncomfortable.<br />
Eventually I made the passage here, on the south-easterly corner of Sicily, in a shade under ten hours.<br />
Having accumulated numerous problems with my electronics systems (including my AIS, for those who've been following my progress) I've got the Raymarine engineer coming this afternoon. I may hole up in this pleasant spot for a few days until there's a real break in the weather.<br />
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<br />
1600<br />
Engiineer fixed my nav gear (damn fool in Greece had protected a heavily loaded switch with a 3A instead of a 16A fuze), and weather looking good for a Saturday morning departure for Malta - a ten hour passage all being well.<br />
<br />
A strange sound illusion in Marsamemi marina: I remember shortly after tying up here, becoming aware of the background noise, mainly of children at play: laughing and calling out, the occasional intrusion of an adult voice, and the odd dark bark. It sounded a truly lively and vibrant place. However when walking along the tethered pontoons to shore I saw hardly anyone about, and certainly no children. The only dog I saw was a tired and mangy old collie at the yacht club that looked like a good bark might finish him.<br />
At the time I gave this anomaly little thought, only really becoming aware of the disembodied human sounds down in the saloon. When they persisted unabated into the night however, I remarked vaguely to myself how late the children stayed up here. On waking up at 3 am to find the voices still going at the same level I knew something was wrong with my mind's interpretation of these noises. In a flash, realised I had been subconsciously fooled by the creaking, squealing, groaning and grouching of rubber shockers between the pontoons. Once this connection was established, of course, the illusion disappeared<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Valetta</td></tr>
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<br />
Sunday 13th Sept: Malta.<br />
Sitting in a shady park in Central Valetta, having walked up from Msida Creek, were I berthed last night.<br />
Left Marsamemi at 6am yesterday for what turned out to be a pleasantly uneventful passage, the first half under full sail running before a lively breeze that pulled us along at a clipping 6 knots. As predicted by PocketGrib, the wind veered to the east by lunchtime and slipped back to a mere breath, but with engine to assist, managed to keep up speed to make evening ETA. By teatime it had backed again and we positively creamed along for the last four hours, berthing stern to at the marina at 8pm, having had some difficulty finding a berth and nobody answering my radio calls.<br />
Had a fine dinner of fresh sea bass at the yacht club, washed down with a couple of beers, then hit the sack.<br />
The old town of Valetta is cleaner and more developed than I remember it, but still retains its uniquely eclectic culture. Nostalgic to hear once again the babble of that odd mixture of Italian and Arabic, and meet people of innate friendliness and charm.<br />
Off now to circumnavigate the walls and take a look down a Grand Harbour, to complete my trip down memory lane.<br />
Will sail early evening, after calling at the fuel barge, and head for Pantelleria. Weather forecast looks good for a few days, and if I don't need to stop I'll carry on directly to Cagliari (Southern Sardinia). Haven't done my nav plan yet but it should take 3-4 days.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fort St Angelo, Grand Harbour. Where I passed for Leading Seaman '73</td></tr>
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<br />
13th September, Sunday evening.<br />
915 35 58.9N 14 26.1E <br />
After taking on diesel at the fuel barge, finally passed out of Marsamxett Harbour. Now motor-sailing along north coast against a stampede of yachts, motor cruisers and miscellaneous pleasure craft returning to harbour after their joyful day frolicking on the water.<br />
<br />
2100 36 01.3N 14 22.8E<br />
Calm and peaceful once more now the day trippers are safely curled round their g&t's. Making 5.6 kts as we rumble self-righteously past the festivities and fireworks in St Julian's Bay.<br />
<br />
2350 36 11.2N 14 03.1E<br />
With 10 kts of SE wind, at last I can kill the engine. Now, as Gozo's bright lights and star bursts fade into the distance, I haul my bed out into the cockpit and get comfy for the night. My phone wakes me up every 20 minutes to look for ships that might be passing too close. The ones with AIS will trigger an alarm if they enter my half mile safety zone, but some of the fishing vessels out here don't even show lights, let alone AIS.<br />
<br />
14th September<br />
0743 36 25.2N 13 24.3E<br />
Started engine to charge batteries and keep up my desired average of 5 kts.<br />
<br />
0910 36 27.4N 13 15.3E<br />
Engine off, silent sailing once again. I seem to have developed gremlins in my electrics: Chartplotter keeps powering down - very annoying. Tried switching off everything else, but makes no difference. Think I've got a loose connection or a stray earth in the jumble of wiring behind my control panel. A job for harbour methinks.<br />
<br />
1057 36 30.9N 13 05.0E<br />
Decided to head directly to Sardinia while the winds are favourable, giving Pantelleria a miss - looked pretty uninspiring from the Pilot anyway. I'm estimating arrival at Cagliari noon on Wednesday.<br />
<br />
1445 36 43.1N 12 46.7E.<br />
Sailing a boat like this involves long periods of inactivity, staring out at the sea and sky or reading a book, punctuated by episodes of frenetic activity and seriously hard work. One such episode just occurred and readers might be interest in a detailed account it.<br />
All morning I've be under full sail clipping along nicely before a fine breeze. However, and as expected, as we approach the narrows between Tunisia and Sicily the wind is squeezed through the gap, causing it to increase significantly. Also, the sea, which has been relatively calm up to now, has started to pile up ahead of these winds, making it quite lumpy. So before it got any worse I needed to douse my main and carry on running before the wind on genoa only. This is necessary in any strong following wind to ease the strain on the steering system.<br />
First I prepare myself: boat shoes, life jacket, harness and gloves. Next I throw my bed and anything not needed down below and tidy up the cockpit. I then start the engine, give it some forward revs, and furl in the genoa. This latter is extremely hard work for one person, heaving in on one rope while keeping some weight on the other to stop it running away and snarling up. I now have to drop the spray hood and pull to the companionway hatch to give me a free run up and down the coach roof.<br />
Next, I set the autopilot to turn into wind, and while this is happening, haul in the mainsail. Once into wind I release the main halyard: this tends drop the sail into a snotty heap, so before this happens I run up the side deck and onto the coach roof to gather the sail into the lazy bag, remembering to clip my harness onto a shroud. Stowing the sail in these choppy conditions is the most strenuous of activities, and after it was done I set the Autopilot to turn back downwind, then sat in the cockpit blowing and panting and drinking great draughts of water.<br />
Once recovered I ran out the genoa once more and killed the engine.<br />
And that's how we are now, making a leisurely 4 kts which I'm hoping will improve over the next few hours. I can almost hear the autopilot thanking me for not having to work so hard.<br />
Finally, a note on personal safety. When I used to cruise with other people I would run nonchalantly around the deck in all but the worst conditions with never a thought, barefoot, no harness, no life jacket. As long as there someone to see you fall overboard. On these long passages I've had plenty of time to wonder what it would be like to get knocked overboard by that unexpected goffer. Even with a life jacket my chances of survival would be slim indeed - how would anybody ever know that the yacht sailing away into the blue had lost its only occupant? It would be bad enough dangling over the side at the end of a harness, trying to pull myself aboard as the boat creams along at five knots. So now, whatever the urgency, I always think of myself first.<br />
<br />
September 15th<br />
1155 37 50.8N 11 07.7E<br />
As the afternoon wore on, and as notified by a gale warning on VHF, the wind continued to strengthen, occasioning another reef on the genny. Before long I was planing and lunging along at a gut-wrenching 9 knots with great white-topped walls heaving up behind and flooding the dingy - hauled it up a bit more and sat on the transom baling it out for 20 minutes. Every so often the boat gave a might slew to windward, then lurched far over to leeward as she recovered downwind. But even though it felt quite alarming at times, my trust in her proved well-founded and she dealt with it handsomely enough.<br />
<br />
1700 38 14.4N 10 43.5E<br />
After 3 hours the gale started to moderate, and although the sea had fetched up dramatically, the sailing became a little less sporty, and I gave her more sail for better headway in the relentless barrage of following seas.<br />
<br />
2005 38 19.0N 10 38.5E<br />
By 7 the worst was over and, having unreefed the genny, went below to cook my dinner (Spag-Bol) and ate it in the cockpit watching the sun go down behind gathering dark clouds. After dinner I hauled up my bed and got in a couple of hours, interrupted of course every 20 minutes to look for dangerous shipping, trimming the genny from time to time and checking my battery usage. This latter is a constant problem when sailing engine off, especially at night with nada from the solar panel. The fridge stays off, as that is by far the biggest consumer, but the Autopilot works extra hard in a following sea and is also a major drain. When the voltage drops to 12 I need to run the engine for a couple of hours, using precious fuel.<br />
<br />
16th September<br />
0500 38 47.3N 09 44.4E<br />
Awoke to a stiffening wind that had veered to the south. Lightning flashes ahead portended another patch of lively weather. Too much power now on the genny to reef in, so turned to windward to ease it enough to haul in.<br />
Now it shames me to say, that here I committed a stupid oversight that almost got me into serious trouble. I can only put it down to a tired brain, but I neglected to first start the engine and give the autopilot some headway to steer by. So of course, as soon as she pointed sufficiently to windward for the sail to lose power and start flogging, the way fell off instantly while I was fully occupied with the inhaul. Alerted to my error by the insistent beeping of the autopilot, I fired up the engine, but in my haste, forgot I'd left it in astern gear to stop the screw spinning. For a mad five minutes I scrambled around the cockpit trying to do everything at once while the poor genoa performed a magnificent attempt at beating itself to death.<br />
I eventually recovered her downwind, now shortened to two reefs, then sat down heaving and panting, and cursing my unforgivable stupidity. Another lesson learned the hard way. No more sleep now as I nursed us through yet another bout of insane Mediterranean weather.<br />
<br />
0715 38 52.8N 09 33.5E<br />
Wind moderated once more, 22 knots from the south. During the next two hours it dropped away to a whimper and boxed the compass, giving me plenty to do adjusting my sail plan.<br />
I had an explosion of flies in the saloon this morning, millions of the damn things swarming in great black clouds and invading the cockpit. Traced it down to a chicken breast that had festered in the thawed out freezer compartment of the fridge. With the chicken, to the fishes went a pile of moldering cheese slices and some slimy green salad. Bon Appetites.<br />
New rule: no more fresh meat or perishables to be carried. Need to revise my provisions list.<br />
<br />
0930 39 00.35N 09 23.4E<br />
Motor sailing with genny only. Hungry as hell after my morning labours, so had a double helping if Weetabix and a yoghurt while watching the mountains of Southern Sardinia looming out of the morning haze. Just 18 miles to go.<br />
<br />
1315 berthed stern to at Marina Sant Elmo, Cagliari.<br />
Leaving belowdecks to the flies I set to giving the decks a good scrub down with detergent and fresh water (the marinas' bow berthing hawsers, which spend their lives sitting on the bottom in the shitty silt, make an awful mess, and I hadn't even cleaned it from Malta.).<br />
I then got started in the marina's laundrette, seeing to three weeks of accumulated dhobying. While that was in progress I cleaned out the galley, washed out and disinfected the fridge, then walked 3 km to the local supermarket where I spent an hour trying to find Italian stuff that I would like to eat, but wouldn't cause another infestation in my part-time fridge.<br />
And bought a can of insecticide.<br />
Also found a tobacconist, so looked forward to my first roll up in three days.<br />
Later at the marina restaurant, having completed all my immediate tasks, I treated myself to marinated raw tuna and pears and a couple of deliciously cold beers, then turned in in my cabin for an uninterrupted seven hours.<br />
<br />
17th September.<br />
Had a quiet morning pottering around, airing bedding and foulies, and checking sails and equipment for the next leg. I plan to sail for the Balearics tomorrow morning, not sure yet which island/port - I'll do my nav plan this afternoon. With winds forecast north and north-easterly 5-20 knots for the next few days it should be a nice passage with plenty of good sailing.<br />
<br />
September 18th.<br />
1450 38 51.7N 08 50.1E<br />
Crossing the bottom of Sardinia for the last headland before setting course for Palma.<br />
Got away much later than intended due to a long detour to get fuel. Problem subsequently compounded by crap wind - currently motor sailing, battling into 10 knots, heavy swell, with a shortened main, and unable to use genny because I'm too high to windward. Only making 4.5 knots.<br />
Now I'm not generally in a hurry, but on this occasion I'm exercised by the need to get under the Lee of Minorca before the main Mistral gales sweep down from the north on Sunday. However, I'm expecting the wind to veer northwest this afternoon and should be able to get close hauled in a lively 15-20 knots, and finally kill the engine.<br />
<br />
1725 38 49.5N 08 35.5E<br />
Did I say it was going to get lively? Well it certainly has. Close reach in 25 knots with the port toe rail in the water most of the time. So much for my sausages for tea - hard enough hanging on, let alone going below to cook. Making about 5-6 knots with engine off - REALLY exciting sailing for the first time since Greece. Just hoping everything holds together. Seas moderate to rough, overcast with sunny patches. Adrenalin levels off the scale!<br />
<br />
2000 38 49.9N 08 21.6E<br />
Wind northerly, gusting 30 knots, sea bouncy and boisterous; suddenly went from lively to survival conditions.<br />
It's going to be a long night.<br />
<br />
2210 38 50.6N 08 04.8E<br />
Large merchant ship on starboard bow started to give me concern - half mile away and closing on a steady bearing. Got her name from AIS and called #16. After a shocked silence he agreed to turn to starboard and pass ahead of me. I thanked him for his courtesy and wished him a goodnight. Twat!<br />
Continued on a bouncy beam reach battered by determined knock-downers. By 0300, with nothing threatening on AIS and no chance of catching a wink in the exposed cockpit, I turned in below - in the saloon where I can cast the occasional sleepy eye at the nav station chart plotter.<br />
<br />
19th September<br />
0720 38 58.1N 06 54.6E.<br />
This morning seems a little less chaotic, but maybe that's just me growing inured to it. Iron grey battalions marching down from the north still knocking me sideways and drenching me from time to time. Scattered cirrostratus against a pale blue sky and the sun rising astern with an impudent glare.<br />
Need a dump but on a starboard tack in this much wind my heads seacock is above the waterline, so no way to flush. Just have to store up. I'd rather have it in me than festering in my sea toilet and possibly blocking it. Sorry to mention this but it's all part of the story.<br />
<br />
1552 39 02.0N 05 50.2E<br />
After a day of heavy beam seas and strong wind, the boat often reaching speeds in excess of 8 knots, the gale's ferocity has now moderated, and I'm sailing along nicely, though still through a cantankerous, white-capped swell. Kept nipping below to catch a few winks throughout the day and now feeling quite refreshed and cheerful. Not much else to report on what has been a restful and uneventful day.<br />
<br />
2105 39 05.0N 05 17.1E<br />
Still coasting along, lovely sailing, making 7 knots. Had some cold frankfurters, tomatoes and bread for dinner, then retired below to sleep in saloon, fully dressed ready for an expected wind shift.<br />
<br />
20th September<br />
0041 39 04.9N 04 51.1E<br />
Still on a beam reach and making 7 knots - wind has remained surprisingly steady. I can now detect a faint glow above the horizon on my starboard bow - the bright lights of holiday Minorca some 50 miles away.<br />
<br />
0745 39 05.1N 04 08.2E<br />
By 0630 the wind had dropped away, and as expected, gradually backed to the west - end of sailing this passage methinks. Engine on, genny furled; motoring the final 90 miles. Sea now calm with a long but comfortable residual swell.<br />
Replaced the Italian courtesy flag with the Spanish - feels like home already. Lost my piss bucket - what an idiot! Apart from the inconvenience (excuse the pun) I feel a mite sorrowful at its loss - I'd become quite attached to my little blue bucket.<br />
Had a dump though - hurrah!<br />
<br />
1420 39 11.7N 03 31.2E<br />
Back in the lively stuff. There was I, motoring along in near flat calm, having got out my cockpit bed and sat reading quietly in the sunshine, next minute ploughing into choppy seas with 18 knots against me. Best the motor could do was 1.5 knots. So, rolled out genny to 1 reef and bore away, killing the engine. Now doing 5 - 6 knots close hauled. Remember those mountains on my starboard bow? Well they're dead ahead now. If it stays like this I'll need to get close to shore then tack to port.<br />
<br />
1738 39 18.9N 03 18.2E<br />
Well, I tacked alright, but not through choice, nor where I wanted to. The wind just dropped to nothing then started up again from the northwest. Suddenly the genny was backed and the autopilot gave up the ghost. Tried to reset genny to port but the lazy sheet snagged on a cleat - had to nip forward sharpish to clear it - crazy couple of minutes till we settled back on a fine starboard tack... Then the wind dropped to nothing again - becalmed. Swore, laughed, and started the engine.<br />
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1950 29 16.9N 03 09.1E<br />
Wind's now picked up again from the west - not much good for sailing but getting an extra knot or two from the shortened main Now, as darkness falls, I'm following the Majorcan cliffs south to the next headland before turning west into wind again - I'll be fortunate to make 2.5 knots. No hurry though. I should be in Palma in time for breakfast.<br />
Lots of shipping about so don't expect much sleep tonight.<br />
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23 September.(Passage Palma to Almeria.)<br />
Left marina at 1100, after delaying departure waiting for gale to abate. Sailed into a calm sunny day with barely enough breeze to keep the genoa filled. Tranquility reigns. The only disturbance is the AIS alarm constantly beeping as big ferries and cruise ships overtake. Expecting more wind as I clear the shadow of the bay to the east.<br />
Had a SECURETAY Broadcast on #72 to be on the lookout for terrorist activity in the area, to report any suspicious sighting to NATO, who apparently have "operations" in progress. Gave a UK phone number). They weren't specific about what "suspicious" might look like. I guess a boat full of armed hooligans might do it.<br />
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1325 39 25.1N 02 31.1E<br />
Woohoo! Wind suddenly picked up from NNW 15-20. Turned into it and got main up pretty damn sharpish, shorted to one reef. Now on close reach, stbd tack, and whipping along nicely. Now making 8 knots with full genoa (wanted to stop at first reef but she insisted on going all the way). Now a bit overpowered if I'm honest, but she seems to like it, and it's very exhilarating flying along like this. Probably the last posting for a while - its a bit wet for the phone.<br />
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1807 39 01.6N 02 09.3E<br />
Heavy northerly swell all afternoon accompanied stiff breeze knocking me around like a bag of coat hangers. Good exciting sailing though, so can't complain. Had to reef in the genny a bit to accommodate 20 knot gusts that were slewing us violently to leeward. Altered course ten to starboard to adjust for my considerable leeway.<br />
Ibiza now in sight to starboard. No terrorist activity so far - all very peaceful.<br />
In fact there's not much at all in sight, which brings me to a worrying observation. Since leaving Greece I've seen surprisingly little wildlife. No lolloping sunfish, no leaping bonitos, no flurries of flying fish; in fact very little flying at all, just the odd solitary petrel. And where the f*** are the dolphins?<br />
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1900 38 58.1N 02 05.4E<br />
Wind just veered astern and dropped to 10, leaving me saggy-sailed and wallowing in the persistent swell. Rigged my new preventer (my own rig that I put together in Palma-works well) to stop the boom swinging in light winds, and rolled out the genny to full fat. Managing 4 knots now, but started engine (out of gear) to charge batteries after an afternoon of heavy work for the autopilot.<br />
Sunset approaches: no shipping about, sky slightly overcast with alto cirrus above and fluffy pink cumulus to the east. Dinner tonight will be a modest affair of beans and sausages - too much violent movement for anything more elaborate.<br />
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2315 38 45.1N 01 50.0E<br />
Struck all sails just after dinner due to lack of any discernible wind. Found stowing the main particularly irksome in the swell, clinging onto the boom as she rocked and heaved like a demented stallion.<br />
All got a bit silly after that, with gusts of wind going every which way. Tried the genny a couple of times, but after a half-hearted attempt to fill, just hung there like a pair of wet underpants.<br />
Now at last, as I settle down to some rest, we're silent once more, running before a healthy 10 knots and making 5 on genny alone. The lighthouse of Pta de Codolar casts it's bright loom fine on the starboard bow, and once past it, and I turn onto the new course, I can look forward to a proper sleep.<br />
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24th September<br />
1008 38 17.7N 01 00.9E<br />
Algerian basin, and not enough wind to tickle a gnats arse. Motoring at 4 kts with the genny furled and the main lolloping listlessly. The sea's almost flat calm with a gentle swell, and the sun's shining among a scattering of assorted clouds.<br />
Had a minor accident earlier this morning while hoisting the mains'l; knocked my full cup of tea over the cockpit bed. Removed and dhobied the cover, which is now pegged on the guardrail glowering at me in disgust.<br />
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1230 38 12.1N 00 49.7E<br />
An empty, windless sea, just me and my boat, the creaking and slapping of the mains'l, and the gurgling of the engine exhaust.<br />
I'll soon be passing the Greenwich Meridian - wonder if I'll notice the bump?<br />
A ship has appeared on AIS 8 miles ahead with a close CPA. Might have to slip a pair of shorts on. Meanwhile, back to my book: Telling Tales by Ann Cleeves - a Vera Stanhope tale, you know, from the TV series, Vera? A frumpy 50-something detective with a sharp mind and oodles of empathy. A bit different from my usual choice, but a good read, nonetheless.<br />
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1527 38 03.0N 00 35.2E<br />
Dolphins! Just a fleeting visit but a small pod leapt and cavorted around the boat for a few minutes before scooting on their way. I feel it was a sort of validation, an acceptance into their realm, and an event I've been anticipating since Greece.<br />
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1900 37 53.0N 00 20.1E<br />
Switched engine off, for the silence, but also to conserve fuel. Managing 3 kts with a slight following breeze. Cooked Linguini Ragu and ate peacefully in the cockpit watching the sun descend towards a crisp horizon.<br />
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Friday 25 September<br />
0226 37 35.1N 00 12.8W<br />
Just furled away the genny. Sea a gently oozing swell with that oily quality of a truly windless night. Sat a while watching a gibbous moon play peekaboo behind the forestay, and caught a movement to starboard. I have mammalian company once more, gliding gracefully in and out of the water with barely a ripple, their sleek shapes gleaming tungsten in the silver light.<br />
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0528 37 28.5N 00 25.3W<br />
Venus has just risen astern with spectacular brilliance, her glitter path illuminating my wake. And Orion, above my port quarter, is unusually prominent in his morning glory.<br />
Having given myself a good talking to I've now decided on Cartegena after all. With no prospect of a suitable wind in next 24 hours Almeria would just be a waste of fuel. Besides, despite strict rationing, I've run out of chockie biscuits. ETA around noon today. I'll wait there for more favourable sailing weather - I'm a sailboat, dammit, not a stinkpot.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9mF1jTtZEYlb7ZhSDR9xeet7DtyDMG5pSfuelVIIovCYZLOLDIYBfhACzIM_FUdue_bS5FAwmXh-klMcpisscKh4iYSTUMnjycIRGkvJItYDsF4SMMSDEKYcUyXhQZy_CZqwNeKXpnwBl/s1600/IMG_2216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9mF1jTtZEYlb7ZhSDR9xeet7DtyDMG5pSfuelVIIovCYZLOLDIYBfhACzIM_FUdue_bS5FAwmXh-klMcpisscKh4iYSTUMnjycIRGkvJItYDsF4SMMSDEKYcUyXhQZy_CZqwNeKXpnwBl/s320/IMG_2216.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cartagena Marina - Island Spirit is nearest boat on the right</td></tr>
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0817 37 29.9N 00 43.0W<br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">
Passing the long rocky outcrop east of Cartagena with a somewhat chilly morning onshore filling the main, pressing me briskly towards the port. It's been a mere two days passage but feels like longer because of the uneventful and unchallenging last 36 hours. Never thought I'd say it, but blow me a gale anytime.</span><br />
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Leave your comment below, <a href="http://mikerothery.blogspot.com.es/2015/09/log-of-island-spirit-final-leg-to.html">Then Click here for next episode</a>Mike Rotheryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05242426477085980609noreply@blogger.com3