Two Bridges

Although it is now fast receding into the dim, distant past, a good weekend was definitely had.

photo: ann gribble

On Friday evening we went over to Dad's for supper. As it was my birthday it was supposed to be a whole family thing, but although my daughter joined us, both the boys were stuffed up with some kind of fluey bug and feeling too sorry for themselves, so in an act of selfless A* class parenting we left them at home with money to order pizza and took one of the dogs with us instead.  Anyway, no harm, no foul: it meant more food for us at Dad's and I'm sure the boys enjoyed their pizza, so a win all round.

I spent all Saturday on the lake at Frampton instructing. We had an odd number of students, and so through a combination of crafty timing and hanging around at the back as pairs of students were matched up with an instructor, I took the last man. Which meant there was more room in the boat (Gull dinghies are not really designed for the usual two adult students and an instructor, even one so svelte as I) and Anders, my student, got loads of time on the helm and, essentially, a day's worth of personal sailing tuition. The sun shone for most of it, and the wind was fresh, gusty, but quite manageable. One of the other Gulls capsized in one such squally gust, and another lost a student overboard which was unfortunate but amusing. I think all was taken in the right spirit and we'll see everybody again same time next week for another go.

Anders himself was a pleasure to sail with and did great. By the end of the day we were tacking seamlessly, and beating upwind close-hauled with a level of wind awareness that normally takes weeks to instil.

photo: ann gribble

Sunday, the forecast was for a moderate, occasionally fresh breeze out of the south, veering into the afternoon and possibly fading a little. High water at Portishead was 1633 so we planned a 1400 lock-out with the intention of following the tide up under the two bridges to Beachley, if we could get that far.

Ben was still gripped in the throes of plague and pestilence, so we left him at home, but my Aunty Ann joined us for the trip. She'd not sailed aboard a yacht before, but had been out in a dinghy with me on the lake some years ago, and is a robust type, into skiing and scuba diving, so undaunted by the idea of accompanying us out into the Bristol Channel, despite the stories Dad had told her. She's also a very keen photographer.

photo: ann gribble

Locking out was straight forward as usual, but with the tide still early on the flood, the muddy bank protecting the Portishead Hole was still partly proud, so Dad kept a course close to the pier as we nosed out towards the King Road. Tidying lines on the bow, I did my best to keep an eye out for fishermen, but despite every effort, failed to see the man, the rod or his line stretched unhelpfully across our channel until it was too late to do anything but take the hit. I moved off the bow to take shelter behind the mast as the fishing line bent around the furled head sail, and hook and weight pulled up out of the water, twanged off the push-pit guardrail and, line snapping, pinged out into the water ahead of us.

photo: ann gribble

The fisherman on the pier wall behind us, in the company of his fellow anglers, clung on to his rod and glowered at us as he and the breakwater disappeared into our wake.

Nobody was hurt, and this time, I managed to dodge getting hooked, so it could've been a lot worse. Frustrating though. We had nowhere else to go without risking a grounding, and no way of seeing him until  we were too close to stop, even if he had been in the least bit inclined pull his line in and out of the way. Or perhaps we were as much of a surprise to him as he was to us, and I'm being unfair?

photo: ann gribble

Anyway, the initial drama now done, the first hour up to the bridge that followed became a sedate affair.  Saturday's enthusiasm spent, the sun of the previous day had given up and so Sunday's sky was a dull, grey overcast. Happily though, the weather wasn't too cold. The wind was an initial disappointment. When it's running with the tide you always expect it to be a little dampened, but although there was a slight breeze when we first set sail and quit the engine, within ten minutes what little there was had died to just barely enough of a whisper to keep steerage; the genoa frequently sagged, the main slatted under the weight of the sheet, and our speed through the water didn't even register on the dial.

photo: ann gribble

Speed over the ground as we entered the Shoots still topped close to five knots from the tide, so we hung with it. The slight sea state meant that the tiller, sans auto helm as we hadn't had time to change the socket to fit the new Tiller Pilot, needed little attention. The transom-hung rudder of the little yacht  rests central in such conditions as long as the sails are vaguely balanced. Dad brewed tea, and offered us up a veritable picnic of olives, humus, crackers and ham sandwiches that we enjoyed in the cockpit under the gloaming sky as we drifted up-channel towards the first bridge.

I have to say I don't get this kind of catering laid on when it's just him and me aboard.

The plotter was suggesting we'd only get halfway up towards the second before the tide turned on us.

photo: ann gribble

We passed beneath the Severn Crossing after a little more than an hour out. The wind began to fill a little and our pace picked up. We waved to a ketch rigged yacht departing the moorings in St Pierre Pill, pushing down channel against the flood tide in the direction of Portishead, and hardened up around the beacon marking Old Man's Head to lay the Old Severn Bridge ahead of us. The wind backed as it continued to fill in, until we were beating along close-hauled, now in some doubt as to whether we could clear Chapel Rock to make the Bridge without having to tack.

Our course lifted as we passed the mouth of the Wye, and it became obvious we'd clear the rock, but only just. We passed another yacht coming down under sail on a broad reach, waving and passing close enough to exchange a few friendly words as we crossed. Ahead, through the bridge, I could see a dappling of small white sails against the far and distant east bank; Thornbury Sailing Club's racing fleet out enjoying themselves on the tide.

photo: ann gribble

As the Bridge passed overhead, I tacked and bore away, turning back on ourselves to pass back beneath again and run with the now just ebbing tide back the way we'd come.

The return was uneventful, the wind on our port beam for most of the stretch back between the bridges. As we rounded Old Man's Head again though, it veered and stiffened against the now fast ebbing tide, setting us close hauled on a beat to pass back beneath the Severn Crossing. There was a moment of doubt as to whether or not we could lay the gap without tacking, our course over ground on the plotter suggesting our beat was going to see us graze the right hand footing, but we held our nerve. Water prefers to run around rather than through solid objects, and the tidal race lifted us, as I'd hoped, past the mammoth footing with a few boat-lengths to spare.

photo: ann gribble

The wind continued to fill, but the sea state stayed slight. The little yacht heeled over, close hauled, to just past twenty degrees, skipping along through the water touching 5 knots at times, her crew of three braced comfortably in her cockpit enjoying the ride. Although bereft of an auto-helm, I was pleased with how balanced she felt pushing up-wind through smooth water. As long as I timed it between the gusts, leaving the helm for a minute or two to tweak the genoa caused no problem other than an occasional, and not unfairly testy, "You could just ask me to do that" from Dad.

We locked back in to Portishead still with plenty of tide beneath us, a little over four and a half hours and 18 miles of sailing behind us.