Cruise to Alderney - The Return Passage
Tuesday 6th July
I was so tired, I could have slept anywhere. As it was, the wind increased overnight, and by early morning it was blowing straight into the harbour. Something must have warned me things were not quite right. A glance under the side of the tent revealed "Phillida" was drifting towards some rocks. It was high water, and because the anchor warp had been too short for the rise of tide it had broken out. I quickly unfastened most of the tent and secured it forward, so as to be able to start the engine. As we drifted toward the shore, the water became shallow and the anchor started to drag. I hoped it would take a hold again, but unknown to me it had collected a knot of weed. This had the effect of reducing boat speed until we came within an arm's length of a mooring buoy, which I grabbed, then attach its line to the bow cleat.
When the wind comes from the north east at Braye there is virtually no protection for boats in the harbour. They are wholly reliant upon stout moorings. Therefore I was glad for the security of the buoy. As the morning wore on, the wind freshened, making it impossible to get ashore by means of my small Prout folding dinghy. Just before lunch, the owner of the mooring paid me a visit in his open motor launch. He wanted to know if I needed any assistance and gave me permission to use his mooring for as long as I wanted it. Because he was the Royal Cruising Association's Port Representative, he told me it was his pleasure to welcome visiting yachtsmen.
Although it was July, the wind was bitterly cold, so I kept the tent up as a windbreak. To prevent undue loss of body heat I had to wear a couple of sweaters, a bobble hat and my Klepper anorak. Needless to say, being on the boat while she snatched against the mooring, rolled and bobbed for 24 hours, was a most uncomfortable experience. A lot of my time was spent trying to lie on an inflatable mattress, although staying put was an acrobatic feat in itself. Listening to the radio helped pass a few hours, but the weather forecast confirmed I would have to suffer purgatory until the next morning.
Wednesday 7th July
On awaking I was relieved to find the weather had taken a turn for the better. The early morning sun shone brightly, and to benefit from its warmth I removed the tent before preparing breakfast. The smell of fried eggs and bacon caused me to salivate in preparation for the feast. Porridge, toast and marmalade completed the meal, which was sloshed down with lubricating hot tea. Shortly after washing the dishes and utensils I was visited again by the kindly RCA representative who told me where I could find freshwater, the post office and Lloyds bank.
I really looked forward to exploring the Island, and to that purpose I prepared a packed lunch. The day turned out to be a scorcher. Although I wore shorts and a t-shirt, the sweat pored off me as I slowly climbed the narrow road towards the hamlet of St Annes. There I could make a phone call to my wife and withdraw some money from the bank.
Having visited the bank, I next went to the post office, and there wrote the usual picture postcards to family and friends. I spent the rest of the day exploring the island. Very noticeable were the substantial fortresses built by imported slave labour during the war under the tyranny of the German occupying force. It's not pleasant to dwell on that period when many people suffered and died while constructing the fortifications. At the end of the war German troops and British soldiers cleared up the island and prepared houses for re-habitation. Many miles of barbed wire and thousands of mines were removed; therefore I was able to walk freely around a significant portion of the island and while doing so I saw some enchanting cliff scenery.
I returned to "Phillida" late that afternoon to cook an early 'evening' meal. After I had eaten I rowed ashore to phone my wife. It was quite an emotional moment when I heard her voice - because I missed her so much. Being on ones own and not able to instantly share with her was something that needed addressing on my part. I was doubly shocked when she told me I was required to attend an interview the following Wednesday for a teaching job in Edinburgh. That meant I had to make the return passage soon - while the weather system was favourable. Needless to say, I was excited at the possibility of a new career as a lecturer in the History of Painting, which, in the event, did not materialize.
My priority was a good night's sleep in preparation for the return crossing of the Channel.
Thursday 8th July
Making a departure from a harbour is always easier than finding and entering it. A good almanac will provide all the information needed for doing either activity safely. Reeds Nautical Almanac, known as 'The Yachtsman's Bible', will have up-to-date pilotage notes giving details of port signals, buoys, lights, tidal ranges and timings of high and low water. Most importantly, it will describe hazards to navigation such as the underwater extension of the breakwater at Braye. Maintenance of this submerged 500 metre section was abandoned in 1872; thereafter it gradually collapsed, leaving a mound of stones and rubble. At low tide this hazard lurks 3 or 4 metres below the surface. When the ebb gathers momentum you can guarantee there will be surface turbulence above the obstruction, making it a place to be avoided, especially in bad weather.
When departing for Exmouth, at ten in the morning, I made sure "Phillida" was well clear of the hazard. The wind pushed us along at two knots while I steered a true course of 330 degrees, and although visibility was limited to about a mile I was not apprehensive as I had been at start of the cruise.
A mile or so out 'Phillida' bounced through a bundle of breaking waves caused by a race, setting to the north east. After ten minutes of turbulence we were in smooth water again. Visibility improved as the sun broke through the haze. A large ship carrying a cargo of timber passed ahead; she was about a mile away while en route up Channel.
My boat looked pristine; her sheets were bleached by sea and sun; her decks were scrubbed, and all was shipshape. Her white sails captured the willing breeze as she slipped un-fussily over sparkling waters. Casquettes rocks, marked by their dutiful lighthouse, lay astern, and with the current bearing us away, those unrelenting daggers could cause us no harm. Another freighter, but much larger than her predecessor, cleared our bows with a safe margin, as she lumbered north eastwards, contently following a well-worn furrow.
Mid-morning, things couldn't have been better - wind speed was force 2 to 3, enabling a boat speed of 3 to 4 knots. Yet another freighter made her way up Channel.
Juggling a Marmite sandwich, while manually steering, became a fine art. 'Phillida' was at her maximum speed. A long undulating swell from the south west caused me to wonder if the weather would hold, and by mid-day not a flicker of wind could be felt. Perhaps it was the change of tide, but suddenly the sea became lumpy, and it was time to exit the area rapidly. I set my willing slave 'Sherpa' to work. He obliged in his cheerful noisy way, first coughing up puffs of blue smoke when the gear was engaged. Merrily we continued, but for a short while, because an obliging, perhaps jealous wind, filled our sails again.
Apart from a never ending convoy of ships, conditions were perfect. The early afternoon forecast confirmed an easterly wind between 3 and 4. I hove-to and bailed out unwanted bilge water. When on the move again I fortified myself with chunks of bread dunked in cold tomato soup. A bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk Chocolate and digestive biscuits complemented the main course.
My lack of vigilance almost resulted in 'Phillida' colliding with an old tree trunk, but fortune was on our side as she narrowly missed the hazard. Could this have been the very object she struck on the way to Alderney?
For some reason a synchronous rasping sound from the interior of the centreboard case caused me some concern, but as we trundled along, there was no evidence of anything amiss. I assumed the instigator was friction between the metal centreboard and its case - because of the boat's motion. Shortly after dismissing my fear, a floating wooden crate came into view, the sort used for the storage and transit of wine, but sadly, it contained only weed and crustaceans; so there was no chance of a quick profit through the generosity of Neptune.
As the sun moved ever nearer the horizon the wind decreased. The combination of wave action and minimal pressure on the sail caused the centreboard to irritatingly bang against its case. I solved the problem by stuffing a short piece of rope between the board and its case, while making sure I could retrieve it by pulling either end.
Well before nightfall I hove-to and cooked a tasty paella, which was eaten with great relish. It was to provide energy in readiness for a long night under a breathtaking, star-studded sky. While eating my meal I kept an eye on two ships, one going up Channel and the other down. I hoped 'Phillida' would be well clear of shipping before sunset.
The evening forecast predicted an easterly wind of force 3, becoming northerly 4. I didn't mind a northerly, because my worthy vessel performed well when beating, and the Devon coast would provide a lee.
Gradually the wind backed to the north east; therefore I set up my simple self-steering system. It was effected by lashing the tiller a little to windward, while the jib was slightly over-sheeted and the mainsail under-sheeted. Although this did not bring about optimum speed, my 'trick' often relieved me of the helm for half-an-hour or more, but wind speed and wind direction were critical in the process. Bringing about a state of equilibrium or balance through the setting of sails and fine rudder adjustments were the means of success - until the boat was knocked off course by an unkindly wave, or there was a change of wind direction, or wind strength.
At dusk I heated a can of oxtail soup and decanted it into a Thermos flask. I heard a ship, but saw no lights; then a long dark outline appeared; it was a naval vessel possibly engaged in night manoeuvres. Before turning off the Primus I made a strong mug of coffee - vigilance was needed - after all we would be entering a submarine exercise area.
Caffeine boosted, and having brushed my teeth, I felt ready for anything. Soon an enormous orange moon rose mysteriously from the sea. She weaved a magical, enchanting spell by casting wiggles and squiggles of interlaced light which reflected from the waves into my receptive mind. Her pathway over the sea to the cosmos was for the delight of an evening dreamer. So much for vigilance!
Suddenly shaken from my trance by the early night chill I scanned the horizon for dangers. There were none; instead all I could find was my friendly dancing moon. There was a profound silence as if no other being existed. Have you ever heard a silence such as this? Venus was shining brightly and every star was coloured as the rainbow, except those embalmed in the Milky Way. Ahead lay the Pole Star. He reminded me of John Masefield's poem, 'Sea-Fever', in which the Poet Laureate penned the lines, "I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by."
Enough for poetry! We weren't getting anywhere. 'Sherpa' was called into action. What a contrast - from perfect silence to cacophony - but what a good speed we made over a glassy sea. Ahead, a yacht on a reciprocal course, showed her red and white navigation lights, indicating she was motoring. Appropriately, I drew attention to 'Phillida' by shining my torch on her mainsail and we passed port to port. All was well.
Friday 9th July
An hour after midnight the wind returned, but, from the north. It allowed me to turn the engine off and sail a course of 310 degrees in the direction of Teignmouth. The wind backed a little, and as it did so, I saw what appeared to be lights fairly high up. Were they an illusion, or were they real? Closer investigation confirmed they were the road lights of Teignmouth, and further to the north the little resort of Dawlish lay hidden shrouded in mist.
A change of tack found us reaching along the coast at a fair old lick. I periodically sounded with the lead while trying to keep to the two fathom line; my purpose was to clear the Pole Sands at Dawlish Warren.
Soon after sunrise, all was revealed. The sands were deserted and I was privileged to witness a weird seascape of multi-filtered golden light, which in some places contrasted with the dark turquoise sea - this was reminiscent of Turner's masterpiece, 'The Fighting Temeraire'.
The tide was flooding, and at six o'clock we were beating up the fairway toward Exmouth Dock. When only a cable from the narrow entrance I downed the sails and quickly started the engine to avoid the current sweeping us over Shelly Bank. Soon, 'Phillida' was snugly berthed at the quay; sausages, bacon, and eggs frizzled in the frying pan. I soaked up the surplus fat with two slices of fried bread and downed the lot. This was a feast consumed with gusto - no other meal ever tasted so good!
It was a lovely sunny morning. In a moment of relaxation my eye focussed on some tiny crabs exploring bunches of bulbous weed which clung to the dockside as the tide rose; but it was time for action. Wasn't I supposed to visit Customs for pratique, since I had been to a 'foreign' land, and, shouldn't I look presentable at the end of a voyage?
Having fortified the invisible inner man, I gathered together my shaving gear, flannel and towel, in readiness for refreshing the visible outer man. A gent's toilet was sure to be near, and on the way I could look for the Customs Office and one of those lovely red phone boxes to let my wife know she was not a widow, nor were our daughters fatherless.
Renewed and sparkling clean, with teeth gleaming, set in a broad grin, I knocked on the Custom Office door. For a moment nothing happened; then slowly the door opened. A short, and rather thin, heavily bearded man reluctantly invited me into his office. After prevarications, claiming I did not need proof of arrival and a clean bill of health, he reluctantly produced a 'Certificate of "Pratique"' - the first of my very own, and which I treasure to this day. It was the reward of a 'trophy' upon the reward of an ambition achieved.
Such moments can never be repeated, but they remain, and are savoured in the mind-bank of cherished memories.
Bill
24.01.05
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Copyright 2001/5 Small Sailboats.