Calstar: a Sunday neap

The forecast for Sunday was changeable, wind swinging from west to east over the day with showers around lunch time, but sunshine promised in between, and no more than about 10 knots. I had to go down to the boat to fetch my sleeping bag and a torch for this coming week's camping at the Nationals, so it seemed a waste not to take advantage of the neap tide and take Calstar out for a sail up under the Bridge and back.

I put the idea to Dad when we went around to his on Thursday evening to wish him a happy 75th birthday. It was a bit of a family gathering, with my eldest son Ben and his Hannah coming up from Bristol to see him too. They're both teachers and now very much chilling out into their (I'm sure hard earned) summer holiday, so when Dad asked if they'd like to come along too, they both eagerly said yes.

Ben's a (seemingly lapsed these days due to other distractions) sailing instructor, so whilst he's not spent a lot of time sailing Calstar with us, has been out more than a few times and knew what to expect. Hannah has sailed with us once, for a couple of hours out of Plymouth.

As we cast off and entered the waiting 1130 lock, the thought occurred to me that if you're trying to persuade your son's better half about the joys of sailing, it's probably best to do it on a day when the forecast doesn't include "showers"

As the lock gates opened, it was clear that the wind had veered around into the north east much earlier than expected, and there was definitely more of it than the less than 10 knots promised. As we nudged out past the breakwater, we were met by a choppy, white-capped sea blown by a squally north easterly set hard against the flooding tide.

We turned into the wind and set the sails. Out of deference to our novice crew, I left a reef in the main and a couple of generous rolls in the headsail, then set the little boat close hauled on a northerly course across the estuary.

The rain eased, and then stopped. As we beat our way up channel towards the bridge on the last of the tide, the sun began to threaten. Hannah was well wrapped up against any threat of chill on what was quite a balmy day once it had dried out, and was clearly enjoying herself. Ben, ineffably lazy, left all the work to her whenever I called for hands to help with the tacking.

Going under the bridge is always a little bit of a thrill, even now despite having done it any number of times. Despite the treacherous, fast flowing current, it's a wide gap designed to carry the motorway over shipping destined for Sharpness, and we're only a little boat. But Dad unfailingly asks if we should have the engine running "just in case" and I unfailingly laugh. 

But it always reminds me a little bit of landing a glider. Gravity, or in the case of our little boat, the tide, is inexorable and the patch you're trying to hit (sorry, poor choice of words) be it landing field or gap in the bridge seems so incredulously small at a distance. And it stays worryingly small as you approach.

Until in the last minutes, by which point you are totally committed, it finally opens up, as you always knew in your head that it would even if your heart has been screaming "liar!" for the whole approach, and expands in welcome as you pass through. 

Up under the bridge we passed our neighbour on the Portishead pontoon, the yacht Zephyrus, looking very pretty under her cruising shoot as she made her way back down channel against the last flicker of the flooding tide.

photo courtesy of Zephyrus

We tacked beneath Charleston Rock, and as the tide turned, gybed and followed Zephyrus back down. Dad wryly noted that whilst we'd to date failed to circumnavigate both the Eddystone, Denny Island and Charleston on our various passages, we had, in the small circle I'd just described, now neatly circumnavigated a patch of submerged rocks called "The Dumplings"

The wind failed as the tide turned to run with it, and back down through the bridge and into the Lower Shoots we furled the headsail and started the engine. The sea was a flat calm, in complete contrast to the passage up a few short hours ago.

Portishead held the 1515 inbound lock a few minutes for us, where we joined our neighbours Zephyrus and locked back in. We uncharacteristically misjudged the final turn into our berth and had to back out and try again. Zephyrus's crew was by then there to both witness our inelegant boat handling (though as they kindly pointed out, we've all done it) and assist us in by taking a bowline.

Four and a half hours underway, a Bristol Channel classic range of conditions, and a lovely 16.1nm sail up under the bridge and back.

It was a lovely way to spend a Sunday.