In the morning, we motored out of the harbour and turned left, heading for Lantic Bay. Not far from Fowey, it was somewhere we'd been told about by many, but never visited. No matter how pretty the bay, without the attractions of a pub there always seemed more appealing destinations. Dad doesn't do just sitting quietly and relaxing in the sun very gracefully. However, with the near Mediterranean temperatures we'd been graced with this year, for the first time in my living memory I quite fancied a dip in British waters, so I'd picked up a mask and snorkel in Fowey the previous day, and had brought my wetsuit along with us.
Lantic Bay was gorgeous. Although not far from Polruan, neighbouring Fowey, it's quite a cliff-side trek to reach it by land, so despite the weather the bay was very quiet. We anchored a little off the shore in about six foot of water, I squirmed into my wetsuit, strapped the mask on, and tumbled over the side. Despite the heat of the day, the waters of the bay were limb numbingly cold. We spent a couple of hours there, me in and out of the water, Dad chilling out of the sun beneath an umbrella. We did learn an interesting lesson though.
Having never capsized Ondine, I've never had cause to climb in over her side, and compared to the boats I normally sail, the Lugger has quite a bit of freeboard and stability. First time, I had no trouble at all, vaulting back in over the side like a performing seal. Second time was not so energetic or graceful. By the third time, with my cold-sapped limbs now almost numb, I couldn't do it midships, and had to move to the stern where the freeboard was a little lower.
A boarding ladder would be a good investment. Not so much for me, though perhaps unprepared and in the colder end of the year, I might, if I ever took an inadvertent tumble over, be quite grateful for one, but for Dad should he ever have need to climb back aboard whilst afloat.
Swimming from a boat was a treat I haven't enjoyed since my childhood in Kuwait. Will definitely do it again. But next time, I'm leaving my sailing wetsuit behind, and bringing my 5mm O'Neil with long sleeves. And a pair of neoprene socks. I am not a cold-water creature, however acclimatised to these temperate shores I may think I might have become.
About an hour or so after the tide started to come back in, we hauled anchor and headed back to the harbour mouth. With no wind, the attractions of pottering around outside the harbour were few, but with an early evening high tide expected, exploring up river was the obvious choice. Sailing upriver beyond Penmarlam has, for me, limited appeal. I'd never been past the parting above Golant. The steep, high, wooded banks of the river are primeval and picturesque, but play havoc with any kind of wind, with spells of total calm interspersed with huge, unpredictable gusts coming at you from almost any direction and with no warning. In a small, agile boat like a Moth, this can be quite good fun. In a Drascombe Lugger it is, quite frankly, just a little but scary.
So the attractions of sailing out in the bay, versus motoring up river usually leave, for me, no contest. But with no wind out there, the attractions of the river, for once, trumped.
There is no water at Golant until about three hours before high tide. Our mechanical depth sounder (like all things in a small boat, multi-function: it also acts as a centreboard when under sail) thumped into the expected sandbanks just below the village. We raised the rudder up, killed the outboard and pulled that up, then with all the delicates duly protected, raised the centreboard and guided Ondine over the sandbanks with the tide, using the oars as poles to direct her.
On the Golant side of the river there was no more than a couple of inches of water, so we pushed over to the far side, found enough of a channel to float, and with a gentle, valley-funnelled breeze behind us, sailed up channel on the jib, steering with an oar set in a rowlock on the transom. A man working on the hull of his tide-beached boat waved then turned to watch appreciatively as we slid gracefully upriver in no more than eight inches of water, and then nearing the parting, a solitary fisherman now increasing our audience to a crowd of two, we hit another sandbank, pirouetted in the pull of the tide and stopped, effectively, ingloriously beached.
I furled the jib, shipped the oar, got out and started pulling. Dad rode aboard Ondine like a scene from the African Queen, sans leeches. Of course, that would make me Bogart and Dad Hepburn, so the metaphor swiftly crumbled to closer scrutiny.
The right hand parting led to Lerryn and The Ship Inn, our intended destination. Dad seemed a little sceptical of there being any water in the branch yet, but I'd seen a suggested channel when I'd checked the chart, so remained optimistic as I heaved and struggled against the sand and wind, now unhelpfully backed around to blow into my face. Over the sandbanks at the convergence of the parting, my efforts were rewarded by about a foot or so of water, pushing steadily upriver, winding its way between the mudflats nestled beneath the steep, wooded banks. The scene was bucolic; dragonflies prancing in the air, the only noise fish rolling and turning in the rising water or the rustle of a slight breeze playing amongst the trees.
The breeze, when it filled in, remained predictably on the nose, and we were leery of using the outboard in such muddy shallows. Even if we didn't snag the prop, there was a risk of clogging the cooling intake. So we just directed Ondine with the oars, and let the tide carry her. The afternoon was beautific in its tranquillity.
On the last approach to Lerryn we were overhauled by three small ribs packed with yaughties from the harbour. Noisy but good natured, they were quite bemused that we'd beaten them up river on the tide. They mentioned they'd spotted us when we passed their pontoon earlier in the morning on the way out to the bay. Funny how a Drascombe rarely goes unnoticed.
We moored just alongside the slip at Lerryn and enjoyed a beer, then in my case, a couple of pints of Sharp's Cornish Pilsner. It was absolutely delicious.
The tide was just about to turn as we headed back, the river now full of water, the sandbanks and mudflats of earlier a distant memory.
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