We did it. We moved our home port so that we're a day closer to blue water. Calstar is now officially a Penarth boat.
The forecast for Sunday was a little bit frightening; F5 gusting 7 with no real let up or apology as the day itself drew closer. From the east north-east however, which is usually a horrid direction for sailing out of Portishead, but meant that a delivery to Cardiff would be downwind and downtide all the way, so once we were out, F7 on a run under a scrap of headsail didn't seem all too intimidating. At least until we got to Cardiff, at which point the Wrach Channel and entrance to the Barrage would become a lee shore.
We don't normally leave port if there's a 6 in the forecast. A 7 is usually a definite no go if it can possibly be avoided.
Dad was super keyed up to go however, not exactly blase about the risks or naive about the conditions we're be expecting, but boisterous in his confidence. If I was going to call it because of the forecast, it was going to be entirely my call.
He almost changed his mind when the lock gates opened to let us out of Portishead a little after 0830. As we'd left her berth, I'd noted to myself the last time I'd been underway through the marina and could hear the wind actually howling through the rigging of the many surrounding boats had been the day of the Holmes Race in 2015. I'd glanced over the quay wall when we'd arrived to confirm what I'd expected to see so it was no surprise for me, but I'm not sure Dad had quite understood why Portishead was such an uncomfortable place in a north-easterly until those lock gates opened, the sea pushed in and the little boat started to heave up and down before we'd even left the lock's pontoon.
I'd meant to video the surf breaking over our foredeck as we left the shelter of the breakwater, but as I braced myself against the mast and steadied the camera, Dad yelled for me, a definite edge of panic in his voice. As we'd left the lock and started to motor into the teeth of the wind, it had got under the lowered spray hood and blow it partially up, effectively blinding Dad at the helm. Which, in view of what it was he was going to have to motor through in a few moments might, in hindsight, have been a favour.
The problem realised, it took me mere moments to lash the hood back down using the tail end of the kicker, then we hit the surf.
It wasn't exactly huge, but it was very short, very sharp and very violent; rank upon rank of foaming, silt-laden chop pushing into the small bay between the Portishead Breakwater and Battery Point and turning the area in to a maelstrom. Dad stood braced at the helm, one hand clinging to the guard rail, the other on the tiller, and throttled through the worst of it. Once we'd pushed out to Firefly, the breakers were behind us, so we picked a spot of relatively flat water to turn downwind, let out three-quarters of the headsail, and stilled the engine.
Once under sail and moving with the elements rather than against them, everything calmed down. We left the mainsail stowed away. Under the jib alone the little yacht was pulling a steady 4 knots through the water. A sympathetic ebb tide pushed our ground-speed up to a happy 8. We became suddenly aware once again that the sun was shining and the sky was blue. It was a glorious day, as long as you didn't have to fight it.
Mobile technology is a marvellous thing. We lack any sort of windspeed indicator aboard Calstar so generally have to guess at the conditions the old fashioned way. However, Bristol VTS have a weather station online, and periodically checking with them showed the wind holding at a reasonably steady 26 knots astern throughout the trip down. Top end of a F6; about what was promised. One of those days when you're reminded that gentlemen don't sail upwind, and grateful that, for once and for this time around at least, it was a one way trip, so we wouldn't have to either.
Closing on the Cardiff shore as the clock edged along towards 1100 became, as expected, a rolling, uncomfortable affair. With the sail furled on the final approach to enter the Wrach Channel and the engine back on, Dad was once again back on the helm and, whilst not exactly comfortable or happy was his usual steady hand. I'd left an extra hour's contingency on our arrival time, so as we were two hours before bottom of tide the mud-banks of the Wrach were still quite submerged and gave us minimal shelter as we turned beam on to the rolling sea and crabbed our way down the channel, wind and waves all conspiring to encourage us into the embrace of the lee shore to port.
We entered without mishap or any undue delay, locking into the Barrage and the tranquillity of Cardiff Bay beyond at 1115. A journey of 3 hours and 45 minutes including the locking times and 17 nautical miles.
The car journey home, for once, almost took longer. My brother picked us up in Cardiff and gave us a lift back to collect Dad's car in Portishead. Then we discovered the M5 motorway was closed to the north, leaving us having to wind a path home through the side roads and villages, toe to tail with seemingly every other poor unfortunate in existence also trying to make the same journey as us.
We finally got back to Dad's for about 1700, around about another journey of 3 hours and 45 minutes (as opposed to the hour and half it should've taken).
It has to be said that those 3 hours and 45 in a car stretch out interminably longer than they do when you're aboard a boat.
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