Calstar: Saturday 2nd Fowey to Plymouth

Saturday 2^nd June: Fowey to Plymouth

(22.3 miles, 6 hours 10 minutes under way)

High water Plymouth on Saturday morning was 0842. The forecast was for a steady F3 from south of southwest, no rain and, hopefully, no more fog.

Having experienced trying to make way in light winds once the tide turned foul on Thursday, I had no wish to repeat it, so had Dad up bright eyed and bushy-tailed at 0430 to made ready to cast off as close to 0500 as we could get it. We’d make what breakfast we could from tea and the granola bars in the ship’s stores once we were underway.

Grey skies, no fog but instead reasonable visibility as we cast off at 0510 and made our way down the river under engine and main, through the harbour and out into the open sea, regretfully leaving the fleshpots of Fowey behind us. Within half an hour we were clear of the harbour entrance and we set full sail and silenced the engine. The promised wind filled the sails, but was cantankerous in direction, more south of southeast that south of southwest; we initially found ourselves close hauled on port tack and heading off shore before tacking on to starboard and setting a close hauled course for distant Rame Head.

Navigation from Fowey back to Plymouth is terribly simple. Don’t hit Udder Rock on your way to pretty Polperro, avoid Looe Island as you pass the handsome town of Looe, then cross the expanse of Whitsand Bay to round Rame Head and finally turn left and enter the shelter of the Sound, taking care not to get run over by anything bigger that might want to enter at the same time as you.

Little more than an hour after casting off we passed Udder Rock to port, our course now loosened off to a close reach. The sea was slight, the brightening sky melodramatic, the shore to our north shrouded in shadow. By 0720 we were abeam of Looe, the favourable tide just beginning to get a grip of us. The little yacht was heeled happily to about 10 degrees, Dad and I both enjoying the best sail of the week so as Nikki finally awoke and emerged from below to join us.

0830, and the wind increased as the day brightened, the sun beginning to break valiantly out from behind the clouds. Touching more than 4 knots through the water at times, the gusts were tipping us over to 20 degrees now, and the boat’s track through the water was slouching off to leeward, and at risk of not clearing the headland of Rame Head. I pulled a roll into the headsail for the sake of the women and children on board. 

I jest; Nik is far more chilled than I ever am aboard, and Dad only ever gets anxious when the boat tips so far over that things start flying about below. In any case, the roll in the headsail cost us half a knot in boat speed, but stiffened the little yacht up nicely. Biting properly into the water, we lost the leeway and our course lifted, once more taking us easily clear of the approaching headland.

At 0928, making just under 5 knots over the ground with the assistance of a fair tide, we rounded Rame Head. The sky was blue over the water, but low cloud was still dramatically shrouding the shore as we turned Penlee Point and ran into the Sound through the Western Entrance forty-five minutes later. 

The Sound was a busy place Saturday morning, with powerboats nipping too and fro, a fleet of juniors training with their Toppers in Jennycliff Bay, and numerous yachts milling about, including an not insubstantial fleet of racing yachts preparing for the start of a race from Plymouth to Fowey. I switched the VHF to 39a so I could keep track of what they were up to. Their start line stretched out from the end of the Mount Batten Breakwater, straight across our direct path back to the marina.

At 1045 we started the engine and dropped our sails. Rather than negotiating our way through the milling yachts on their startline, we went out and around the pin end of their line to keep well clear, as much for Dad’s sake as their own.

By 1120 we were home, back alongside Calstar’s berth in Queen Anne’s Battery.

Just over six hours underway, but a good hour of that spent mulling about in the Sound avoiding other boats and yacht race start lines. Just over an hour of that was under power, but for the first time this week, only whilst departing or arriving; the rest of the passage was under sail. A little over 22 nautical miles covered.

The final sail of our week away, the weather had certainly saved the best for last.

Calstar: Monday 31st Falmouth to Fowey

Thursday 31^st May: Falmouth to Fowey

(28.8 miles, 9 hours 38 minutes under way)

The plan was to retrace our steps back to Plymouth, stopping over one last day in Fowey for a final catch up with a few of our British Moth friends who had lingered for the rest of the week after the previous weekend’s racing in the harbour. Then sail direct back from Fowey to Plymouth on Saturday. I had toyed with the idea of stopping over in the Yealm on Saturday night, but the weather for Sunday was, at that point, looking marginal, and needing to be back at work for Monday, we didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

We’d enjoyed a relatively lazy start for the sail down, but now had to work back east, so ideally needed to be underway three hours before high water to avoid the tide turning foul on us.

High water Plymouth was 0737, the forecast F3 from the south-east. There was a case for starting a 0400, but I balanced that against the sun not being up, the joy of dodging lobster pots in the dark and opted for a 0530  start instead. My reasoning was that if we could make Dodman Point before the tide turned foul, its effect on us should be minimal across St Austell’s Bay.

Early hours Thursday morning my alarm went off briefly and I was up, rousing Dad from his bunk for a change. It's normally the other way around, but leaving late on the tide, the need to get of promptly got me swiftly out of my bunk.

We left Nik asleep below and set about readying the boat for departure. Outside, the morning light was thick with fog. I toyed briefly with the idea of delaying our departure, but even having lost my Garmin watch on our first day in Falmouth, we still had at least three different GPS chart plotters aboard, the VHF and an app on both mine and Dad's phones that received AIS data.

The forecast was for a F3 from the south-east and warm sunshine across the morning, so my feeling was the fog wouldn't take long to clear and we'd be too close in to be in the way of any shipping.

We cast off at 0530 and picked our way gingerly through the mooring field and out into open water. A small fishing boat passed us close astern off our starboard quarter, barely visible through the gloaming murk.

We motor-sailed for the next 45 minutes under the mainsail until we passed St Anthony’s Head and left the Falmouth and the Carrick Roads behind. Out into open water, visibility lifted a little, but not much, but the wind filled in. We unfurled the genoa and stilled the engine. The little yacht leaned to the wind and began to sail happily through the grey, murky light.

With the engine now quiet, and nothing to disturb the silence except the chuckle of Calstar's bow-wave, I felt much happier knowing that the sound of anything out there approaching us wouldn't now be covered by our own engine noise. We stood out to sea close-hauled on port for a short while before tacking over to starboard on what, if we were lucky, would be the layline for the still distant headland of Dodman Point.

Although there was more wind than I, perhaps naively, would've expected given the fog, it was still relatively light, and under full sail we weren't making more than about three knots through the water. A fair tide was still helping us along our way however.

It was a strangely timeless experience, with no reference to land. The morning dragged out, the fog not lifting, our eyes aching from the continual lookout needed for lobster pot markers. Unlike the waters around Plymouth where they very often seem to be marked with not much more than an empty bottle and a trail of floating nylon line, out here they almost always seem to be clearly flagged with a buoy, six foot of thin mast and a pennant, but despite that, in this murk they would suddenly loom out of the fog like ghostly apparitions, inevitably directly in Calstar's path, so required continual, eye-aching vigilance to avoid any unfortunate tangles.

Mid morning the wind eased a little but lifted, veering enough to make me thing for a brief while we'd clear the headland easily. It only lasted a short while however, and now it was obvious we wouldn't make it, we tacked onto port and stood out from land.

I could hear engine noise. Coming from somewhere off our starboard beam. Amazing how the attention focuses in such moments.

Dad spotted her first. An ethereal shape emerging from the gloom. A yacht no more than a hundred meters away, under engine and main, moving gently through the water, but heading directly for us. She was under power, we were sailing, so theoretically she was the give way vessel and I was obliged to hold my course.

But there is always that brief moment when you wonder how much attention the other boat is paying.

She drew closer, and I recognised her as a neighbour from the Yacht Haven pontoon. Originally out of Plymouth, like us he'd mentioned he'd be heading back to Plymouth today via Fowey. Not much wind to do anything with if I decided I had to get out of his way after all; I stood by the engine's ignition, just in case. Dad was getting twitchy.

Then it came. She made a definite, distinct alteration to port. A cheery wave as they passed clear astern. Her engine noise chugged gently into the murk, leaving us with silence once again. A short while later I tacked back onto starboard and stood in to the headland again, hoping for an opportunistic lift that would let me clear it.

The sound of a horn. The definite, ominous rumble of something big, seemingly somewhere ahead, in the overfalls between us and the headland, and not where I'd expected anything big to be. The engine noise getting louder, another blast of the horn.

Dad got his iPhone out, and checking the AIS confirmed that a vessel called "Cannis" was between us and the headland, moving our way. Regular blasts of the fog horn. I recognised Cannis as one of the tugs based in Fowey, usually berthed up by Penmarlam. Happy we knew where she was, we tacked off again to stay well clear of her path.

Nearing 1100, the fog began to lift, giving us little glimpses of the headland. The wind also failed, and the tide began to run foul. A friend of ours, a member of the Moth Fleet called Mark, affectionately known, and for reasons I've never completely understood, by the nick-name "New Boy", had said he'd sail his Topper 14 out to Cannis Rock to meet us when we came in. I'd received a text message from him a little earlier asking for an ETA. He'd been out by the rock since 0900 playing with his dinghy.

Conscious that our ETA was slipping ever further in to the distant future as the wind failed, I kicked the engine into life to compensate for the failing wind and get us around the headland and back into St Austell's Bay. Half an hour later and with 20 miles under the keel since leaving Falmouth, we passed Gwineas Rock, clearly visible in the near distance, visibility much improved.

Within twenty minutes, the wind filled in nicely again, so we cut the engine and sailed through the warm hazy light towards Gribben Head and its outlying Cannis Rock on the other side of the bay. New Boy reported he'd sailed someway further into the bay, and was near to a beach that, from his description, sounded like Parr Sands.

A single-handed Moth sailor, the Topper 14 was a new boat for him, and the first time he'd had an asymmetric to play with. You can cover an awful lot of ground going downwind with an asymmetric. It's a bit like sledging, at least as I remember it as a kid. Great fun going down, but as New Boy was to discover that morning, an awful lot of work getting beating back up to the top again.

There was now a steady procession of yachts sailing out of Fowey and in the direction of Falmouth, doubly fortunate in that, for them, the lifting visibility corresponded with a fair westering tide.

We reached Cannis Rock at 1242, and then loitered for about an hour watching New Boy and his crew Olga beat painfully back up out of the bay to join us. "Let's have a beer then!" he called, half jokingly, so I passed him over the last can of Korev out of the ship's supplies to share with his crew as we both sailed back into Fowey harbour.

It may well have been a long morning waiting for us, and a long hard beat to payback the miles downwind they blasted away on the asymmetric, but both New Boy and Olga had massive smiles on their faces.

At 1430 we moored up alongside the Berril's Yard pontoon.

Spot on for nine hours under way, just under two and a half hours with the engine, just shy of 29 nautical miles covered to bring us safe back to Fowey.

Calstar: Monday 28th Fowey to Falmouth

Monday 28^th May: Fowey to Falmouth 

(22.6 miles, 4 hours 38 minutes under way)

Having spent the weekend in Fowey with old friends from the British Moth fleet, we made plans for Monday to leave them and move further west down the coast to Falmouth.

High water Plymouth was 0543, so that made for a relaxed start to the day, casting off from Berrill’s Yard pontoon in Fowey at 0922 and heading out of the harbour under engine and main across a sun speckled, lazy sea that faded seamlessly at times into an azure sky.

Crossing St Austell’s Bay was a relaxed affair. Never enough whisper of a wind to even tease us with the idea of stilling the engine, we ticked along with the mainsail set for comfort and the 20hp diesel turning a not uncomfortable 2000 rpm, pushing around 4kn through the water (the boat’s log under-reads by about a knot) and assisted by a fair tide and slight sea. Every so often another yacht would pass, or be passed by us, none with any more ambition to sail, all motor-sailing under main alone.

We passed Gwineas Rock at 1050, and rounded Dodman Point half an hour later, with just over 10 miles now behind us.

We passed a sunfish basking lethargically on the still water’s surface. It hardly noted our passing as we slipped past with it about a boat length off our port beam. The tips of its fins lifted and dropped from the water, giving a miniature impression of a couple of sharks circling. Dad and I have seen similar a couple of times off Ilfracombe, but this was the first time Nik had seen anything like it and she was quite intrigued.

We passed another Westerly, this one bigger than us, too far out for me to make out the class initials on her sail, drifting in a valiant attempt to sail. They kept it up for a good twenty minutes as we came up astern, passed and then moved on ahead, but then they too capitulated to the weather of the day, furled their headsail and started to motor-sail with the rest of us.

At 1232 a couple of kids voices cracked over channel 16 on the VHF, shouting “Help, help! We’re going down!”. The Coastguard’s response was immediate; “Children’s voices on Channel 16, do you require assistance, over?”. The message was repeated at frequent intervals over the next ten minutes or so, the lady’s voice remaining professional throughout, but slowly developing an edge to it that could’ve cut glass. Finally, she finished with a “No response received, out” and silence resumed beneath the rumble of our engine.

Forty minutes later Nik suddenly chirped up “Dolphin!” with delight in her voice, pointing excitedly out over the bow.

A solitary creature, she crossed our bows from port to starboard, a sleek form sliding in a graceful arch out of the water and back as she crossed, minding her own business and probably more intent on finding lunch than paying any attention to us. Having crossed our bow, she turned and slipped past us within a boat length or two to disappear astern.

At 1329 we rounded St Anthony’s Head and entered the Carrick Roads. Dad took the helm, I lowered the main, and then guided him in through the mooring fields of Falmouth’s Inner Harbour to bring him, without mishap, alongside the outer pontoon of Falmouth Yacht Haven.

photo: westerly owner's association

We made the boat fast, went ashore to report to the marina office, and then on up to one of the three harbour side pubs to find a shaded seat overlooking the harbour, and lunch.

Just over four and a half hours under way and, remarkably similar to the leg from Plymouth to Fowey, just under 23 nautical miles covered.

Calstar: Friday 25th Plymouth to Fowey

Friday 25th May 2018: Plymouth to Fowey 

(22.8 miles, 5 hours 39 minutes under way)

At this end of the English Channel the tidal flow turns west three hours after high water in Plymouth (Devonport). On the morning of Friday 25th, high water was at 0240 local time, so with the next ten days off work, we headed down to the boat Thursday night with the intention of leaving around 0600.

Mid way between neaps and springs, there’s less than a knot of flow in it, so hard to take seriously after the Bristol Channel, but if your average cruising speed is 4kn, then 1kn of favourable flow is an hour of ground covered over a four hour passage.

Dad and I cast off from our berth at Queen Anne’s Battery at 0625 on Friday morning, Nik still sleeping below. The sun had been up an hour or so, but was mostly covered by broken cloud. It made for a pretty light, and it wasn’t cold, but there wasn’t much wind. Clear of the marina, we raised the main and motor-sailed across the Sound, making for the Western Entrance.

Ever the optimist, about half way across the Sound we cut the engine and tried to sail. I think the apparent wind a boat under power generates makes it hard to judge a sailing wind, but it soon became obvious I was being over optimistic, and as our speed through the water dropped below a knot, we furled the headsail and kicked the engine back to life. The twin villages of Cawsand and Kingsand slipped past off our starboard beam.

Fifteen minutes later, out of the Sound and off Penlee Point the wind seemed to build again, and again, to Dad’s amusement, I stilled the engine and tried to sail. Eight minutes later, drifting, we had the engine back on.

At 0738 we cleared Rame Head to starboard, still motor-sailing, the engine turning over a relaxed 1600 rpm. Dad was whistling; he does this often, little snatches of tune repeated and occasionally, unconsciously varied. I can normally recognise them, but this time around I had no idea. At 0744 the wind built back up, veering off our nose and setting our starboard bow. Engine off, headsail back out, we were sailing again.

It was a good wind, under the circumstances, under full sail carrying us over the ground at just over 4 knots. It held for twenty minutes, but then, by 0805, it faded again. We turned once more to the trusty old engine.

I sometimes think it would be nice to just drift and follow the wind and tide, whether the passage took an hour or a day. I’m happiest when we’re under way, and am never in a particular rush to get anywhere. For me sailing is, most definitely, all about the journey, not the destination. In the Bristol Channel we always seemed chained to the ETA on our GPS, constrained by the extreme tides and the need to make the various gates in time.

Actually, free now of the tyranny of the Bristol Channel tide, I’m still chained to the ETA. For me, sailing is a reward in itself, all about the journey, the destination just a consequence owed in payment for the pleasure. For the rest of Calstar’s crew however, it is not the journey, but the destination. The journey is a means to an end, and although everybody is more comfortable when Calstar is under sail, if there isn’t enough wind to get you there in good time, the engine is an acceptable, even necessary compromise.

I don’t mind. It is a compromise I make for the pleasure of their company. I wouldn’t even suggest my philosophy regarding the subject is in any way superior to theirs; I sail, I understand what’s happening when the canvas draws our little yacht along. The boat sings to me. Nik and Dad don’t sail, they can appreciate the beauty, elegance and freedom of how the boat moves through the wind and water under sail, but they don’t understand what’s happening, have little interest or patience to learn, and are therefore deaf to this song. Sailing is a compromise they make for the pleasure of my company. And I’m flattered.

At 0935 we passed the Cornish town of Looe, and a little over half an hour later, the pretty little harbour village of Polperro. The wind stayed very light, the sun was warm and hazy, and Dad had finally stopped whistling. 

We continued to motor-sail, three and a half hours into our journey and 16 miles now behind us. Everything until now between here and Plymouth had been new water to us, but Dad and I had sailed our old Drascombe Lugger “Ondine” from Fowey out to Polperro and back a couple of times in years past, so we were once again back on familiar ground.

Around 1100 I tried once more to still the engine and sail, but again the increased enthusiasm of the wind was a twenty minute wonder and we were then back under engine once more. To the east, just outside Fowey, Lantic Bay looked calm, quiet and inviting beneath the hazy blue sky, but we didn’t pause. Chained to the ETA and the crew keen to arrive in Fowey by sea, we pushed on. 

A call to the Fowey Harbour Master’s office on my mobile confirmed they were quite relaxed as to where we landed on arrival; they advised us to contact their harbour launch on the VHF if there was anything we needed help with, but to otherwise take our pick of any of the many available options when we arrived and then report into the Harbour Master’s office, or just contact the crew on the harbour launch afterwards at our leisure.

We landed alongside the pontoon off Town Quay in Fowey at 1204, just over five and a half hours underway and just shy of 23 nautical miles covered.

Fowey has been an almost annual pilgrimage for us over the last ten years or so, and many, many hours have been spent sailing in her harbour or just beyond, out to Gribben Head, Lantic Bay, or further to Polkerris or Polperro as the weather allowed. But this was the first time we’d arrived by sea.

And it felt very good to do so.

FOSSC: club racing

Last night. 

Wednesday evening Summer Class Series, Laser Fleet. 

Six Lasers in the race, so not a bad turnout. The Handicap and Solo fleets sailing their own races alongside ours added another dozen boats to the water, so the warm, sunny evening had its usual, pleasant and friendly Frampton buzz about it.

I’ve just spent ten days aboard Calstar, loved every minute of our break, but was really, really looking forward to sailing the Laser again.

The air was light but moving; a north-easterly, so very shifty in both pressure and direction. Generally enough to “block to block” the mainsheet and hike upwind if you’re a lightweight like me, not quite enough to plane off-wind, except on very, very rare and brief occasions. Of the five other Lasers on the water, three of them have beaten me more than I’ve ever beaten them and can be uncatchable if they find their pace, so it was promising to be an entertaining race around a pretty simply figure of eight course.

I was especially pleased to see Mark out on the water. I’ve raced against his Laser often in my old Enterprise, he’s a good, if loud and boisterous sailor, and he’s nearly always beaten me. But he’s been away lately, so this was the first time I’d met him on the water since I’d got a Laser of my own.

It was a good start. I took advantage of a heavy bias and lots of space on a relatively long line to almost pull off the perfect port flyer. Almost. It was only spoiled by my mistiming the approach and having to slow down with a quick double tack to avoid crossing too early. The Laser is ever such a forgiving boat though, and accelerating off the line at the pin end I still managed to cross clear in front of the rest of the fleet who would otherwise all have had me on starboard.

The barracking started on that first leg to windward as I tacked onto port, clear ahead of Mark’s Laser, for a final approach to an unconventional starboard rounding of the Yellow windward mark (the windward mark is usually a port rounding, to encourage a safer, more organised starboard approach). He’d got a good start himself, on starboard but near to me at the favoured pin end, and I presume he had used the lift generated by the lee shore to our left and sailed a good first beat to catch up with me, undoubtedly also helped by my fumbling the port flyer. The rest of the fleet were all some way behind, making it quite safe to approach the starboard rounding on port.

“If you’re going to tack in my water YOU'D BETTER GET IT RIGHT!”

As I’d tacked ahead of him, he was at this point eating my dirty air to leeward and I imagine wasn’t especially pleased with the fact. It is the sort of thing he’d notice.

However, it wasn’t his water, it was mine and anyway, why would I want to tack? I’d intentionally sailed up to and tacked on the port lay-line. I rounded easily, going high to protect my wind; and because I’d come in too tight to the mark. I didn’t judge the lay-line that well and had to pinch to squeeze around, and was being pressured (if only slightly) by the barracking coming from astern and so was slow and wide with the bear away. But I’m going to claim it as tactical, and I intentionally remained high, delicately trying to balance the clear air gained against the interference of the wind-shadow from the trees on the windward shore. Mark followed, bearing away around the mark and then sailing deep for clearer air.

The wind fell to a lull on us about halfway down the very shifty reach cum run to the next mark at White, but a fresh gust filled back in further up the leg, leaving the two of us still little more than ghosting for the moment but bringing Rhonwen and John swiftly down the run to catch us up. A typical, fluky Frampton north-easterly, and so nothing much to sweat about. But the moaning and complaint from Mark’s boat a few boat-lengths to leeward of me was doubtless audible to everybody on the lake: “No, oh no!”, “What’s the point in sailing skilfully?”, “Just gets stripped away again!”, “Chance!”, “Pure luck!”, “No skill!”, etc, etc.

It's a fifty acre, tree-lined lake, the trees now in full, verdant leaf. There is always an element of lottery to racing at Frampton, much increased if the wind isn’t the prevailing south-westerly funnelling straight up the neighbouring Severn Estuary. But I’ve noticed despite that, if you don’t get things exactly right, you will always get beaten by somebody else who does. You’ve just got to grin and occasionally bear the vagaries of chance. This time she favours them, next time she’ll favour you.

I hardened up around White onto a beat towards a port rounding on the next mark at Green-Yellow, predictably nestled just on the edge of the windward shore’s wind-shadow. Mark was still close on my stern until I tacked off, misjudging a shift, and he held his line, sailing out to the right whilst I took the left. Still with a respectful, if now reduced lead on the other two, we got to the next mark on top of an Enterprise at the back of the Handicap Fleet. Mark had gained and was now just ahead of me. The three of us bore away onto the reach down to the final leeward mark, Mark making yet more noise with demands as to what I should do and querulous questions as to why I was doing that and what I thought I was playing at as we turned, virtually on top of one another. As the wind filled in and the boats picked up speed, I sailed high and onto Mark’s wind, not with any hope or intention of overhauling him, but with half an eye on gaining an overlap at the next mark or, if he defended properly as he was bound to do, at least staying close enough in touch to have a fair chance of taking him back on the next beat.

The complaints were brash, immediate and loud: “DON’T SAIL WINDWARD OF ME!”, “I DIDN’T DO IT TO YOU!”, “NO!”, “OH NO, COME ON!”

The vocal cacophony was accompanied by aggressive luffing, which I’d expect from anybody I was racing against to prevent me sailing over them. I had no complaint at that, and he gave me plenty of room to stand clear. I’d have done exactly the same in his position, if only to make the point. But without the sound effects, and there does come a point where you’ve slowed both yourself and your competitor down so much and are both now so high off the rhumb line that everybody else just sails blissfully past you to leeward. In this case, the “everybody” was John, a quiet, relaxed smile on his face as he happily dropped both Mark and I into second and third place respectively. The Enterprise that had impeded us at the last mark followed him, clear ahead of us still but sailing his own race. Letting it get ahead was going to have further consequences shortly.

Meanwhile, I simply chuckled at the verbal torrent coming from the other boat, and actually laughed as I watched John glide by beneath us both. I’d like to think I’m generally a sympathetic, easy going soul, competitive yes but not, as a rule, aggressive. I certainly don’t take joy or amusement at another’s frustration. But there are occasional exceptions, and this race was proving to be one. Mark, I’m sorry, but yes, you were making it easy to laugh at you.

We both hardened up around the leeward mark, wide in, tight out and hiked hard onto the new beat. Mark was about a boat length ahead now, and just astern of the Enterprise.

Nobody racing an Enterprise in the Handicap Fleet is a new sailor. Even the newest crews are competent. But just because you’re a competent sailor, you are not necessarily a confident racer. We were catching up with the back markers of the handicap fleet. That’s not where you find either the most confident racers nor the most aggressive helms. We’re club racing, amongst mixed fleets with a wide range of abilities, confidence, ability and needs. We all have different things we’re look for and want to take from our racing. At the front of the fleet you’ve really got to acknowledge that and, allow for, accommodate and encourage the guys at the back.

Mark didn’t do that.

“NO! DON’T TACK!”, “YOU’RE TACKING!”, “NO!”, “YOU’RE TACKING IN MY WATER!”, “OH NO, COME ON!”

He could’ve luffed, he could’ve anticipated the inevitable, could’ve slowed briefly, squeezed astern of them and carried on with his race. Just shown a bit of patience and courtesy and been none the worse for it.

Instead he tacked with them, heading with them out to the right and away from the lift of the leeward bank he’d originally been after, pointing high into the wind, heeling to windward and lee-bowing them, all the while yelling “UP! UP! UP!” in an attempt to exert his rights over them, to slow them down and encourage them to tack off. They were to windward, and thus the give-way boat and obliged to stay clear, and “Up!” is racing short-hand for pointing this out to another racer. In any case, they carried on all the way over to the right, presumably feeling stressed, intimidated and utterly baffled as to why this aggressive, intimidating Laser sailor was sailing so close under their bow and continuously yelling at them to look up at the heavens?

I didn’t see much of Mark after that. Heard him a fair bit, always some way back, and at one point yelling “Protest!” at another Laser. I think John must’ve struck out for the right hand side of the course too early as well although momentarily preoccupied with Mark and the Enterprise I didn’t see for sure. But I held to the left, picking up the expected lift, and by the time I reached the windward mark at Yellow had clawed my original lead back and kept it through the remainder of the race, although John never once let up on the pressure and ultimately didn’t finish too far behind me in second place.

I had a great evening’s racing. Even the stress of the first lap and a half when I was continuously tangled up with Mark’s Laser (and thus opinions, instructions, complaints and frustrations) was good fun, although I really couldn’t approve of how he treated the Enterprise. After they’d tacked and I passed astern of both, I yelled at the Ent to just laugh and otherwise ignore him, and they’re both experienced enough racers to have taken that advice in good heart and applied it accordingly. But that sort of behaviour with a true novice can discourage them from racing, or even sailing, for life. I know this because I’ve seen it happen with others.

Although in Mark’s defence I don’t for a second believe he’d actually behave like that with an actual newbie. He’s a good man, and I’ve only ever known him to be truly welcoming and supportive of beginners.

This isn't an attack on Mark, and although I can't help but colour some of the narrative with my opinion, I've tried to keep it purely observational. Although do keep in mind that it's my observation, and both my observation and recollection are prone to being flawed. I'm really just trying to describe a lovely night's sailing, because that's exactly what I had. And I like Mark. He is a friend and I can weigh all of the above in context with that friendship. So don't be too swift to skip to judgement.

A little bit of hazing at the front of the fleet is one thing. I do think context is everything though. There is a place for aggression, ruthless competition, vocal intimidation and blatant, brash assertiveness. But it’s not in local club racing. Although I can happily rise to it if I must. I have the armour of being able to laugh at myself, and a thick enough skin to enjoy the cut and thrust. I even draw amusement from the frustration it inevitably creates, whether my own or the competition’s. However, I don’t think the same is true of most other people on the water. It's exactly what a lot of non-racers believe they don't like about racing, exactly how they believe we all behave and one of the reasons they'll cite as to why they don't race. And I think the risk is that it poisons the atmosphere for most of us that do. And that’s regrettable.

More so because when you’re not racing Mark, you’re a lovely bloke. A good friend, a gifted sailor, an exceptionally generous, gregarious, humorous soul and always, without fail, a pleasure to be around. But we didn’t see much of that last night, and much as your antics may have clouded other folks’ time out on the water, I don’t think you enjoyed yourself much either.

Dun Ceinach

Home safe. Already missing being afloat, but it's lovely to see the dogs again. Google navigated us around a nasty delay on the motorway. Technology is incredible, even if it is trying to steal our collective soul. The nasty delay was caused by a crash. A caravan jack-knifed and another vehicle then colliding with it. I hope the lady they had to cut free is okay after her ordeal.

Some photos from early 2015, taken on a twilight walk up Haresfield Beacon with Lilly. Perhaps you can see why I love the place.

Although I say I'm already missing being afloat, I am already looking forward to having the chance to race my Laser again. The forecast is light all week, but much as I'd really fancy a blow, will take anything. Might even nip down the Club tomorrow evening after work to take the boat out and bash about the lake for an hour. Just to make sure everything still work ahead of Wednesday's race.

Maybe. It's nice having it as an option in any case.

Have decided to delay the decision on the watch. Have found an old Optimum Time watch that will serve for racing for the moment. Still want a new Quatix, but there are other priorities.

--

We stayed a few moments longer to gaze west from Dun Ceinach's ramparts. It was one of the most beautiful views in all Britain, a hawk's-eye view west across the Severn and deep into distant Siluria. We could see for miles and miles, and from this high place it looked so sunlit, green and beautiful. It was a place to fight for. 

- Enemy of God, second book of The Warlord Chronicles, Bernard Cornwall

Calstar: snapshots

Wouldn't ordinarily post pictures without using them as an excuse to ramble for a number of paragraphs.

But typing on a smartphone is tedious.

So five snaps from five different days over the last week, spent between Plymouth, Fowey and Falmouth in various proportions.

The weather has been varied, but generally kind.

Doubtless there will be ample opportunity for the habitual rambling later.

Still haven't decided about the watch.