Of the naming of things

Awaiting the tide, the slip at Lydney

Lovely being back on the lake, but pining for my old river. Been pouring through the sailing calendars for Lydney and Frampton respectively, comparing against the gigs I'm committed to and trying to work out when I can get out to play on Old Muddy again. As a general principle, I never sail on the estuary on the same day I have a gig in the evening, as there's always the small, small chance I might not make it back that same day.

The complication with balancing Lydney and Frampton is that I race a double-hander. So I can't just decide to up and shoot over to Lydney instead of racing at Frampton on any given day, as that would let my crew down. And Hels is not a lady to trifle with when it comes to her sailing.

Dad & Ondine, launching from Lydney

Of non-sailing days at Frampton, there are four. The first is Easter, but I've already promised that weekend to Nikki. The second is later in May, and I'm away with Dad and Ondine for a weekend in Fowey, Cornwall. The third is a weekend in July, but, if the stars align and I put the necessary effort into the preparation, I've got my 1st kyu grading; I've only been trying to work towards that for about the last three years, so it's pretty important to me. Finally, there is a weekend in September. This one might work; Lydney are planning a down-channel trip to Saint Pierre Pill, which lies on the far bank between the two bridges.

I've been wanting to sail down channel and pass under the Old Crossing for almost as long as I can remember. I think that one's a date to keep in the diary. I'll manage the negotiations with my wife a little closer to the time.

Dad, over Frampton Sands

Of other possible adventures out onto the river, there is a trip up to Brimms Pill planned for June, another up to Newnham for July and then finally an adventure planned to Frampton Pill in early September. Brimms and Newnham should be fine. I might have to trade my wife the Frampton trip for the St Pierre one though. That feels like the beginning of a campaign strategy to me.

Aboard Ondine, approaching The Noose

I'm always fascinated and amused by the names of things found on navigation charts.

Admiralty Chart 1166 River Severn Avonmouth to Sharpness and Hock Cliff, which of course is my particular neck of the woods, is especially great, and part of the afore mentioned pining for the river bit has included a fair amount of idle browsing of the chart.

Evocative names abound: The Shoots, Whirls End, Milkmaid Rock, Leary Rock, Hen and Chickens, Slime Road, Pighole Pill, The Paddock, Fairtide Rock, The Royal Drift. And, of course, The Noose.

Settled to await the morning tide, nearby to Bullo Pill

Traffic on the river above Avonmouth is very, very sparse, and above Sharpness, almost non-existent. It wasn't always so, however. For centuries, trows used to ply their way uptide all the way to Gloucester until the building of the canal, and the canal was a major thoroughfare for shipping and trade up until the railways all but killed it. Places like Frampton, Newnham and Lydney were significant ports in their own right. In 1778, a vessel of 600 tons was built and launched from Newnham.

Makes you wonder what ghosts of a story might be hidden behind each of these names.

Footnote: A moment's trawling through Google brought me to an interesting site about the history of the Severn: www.severntales.co.uk

I love the Internet for precisely things like this. The pictures of the grain barges that ploughed between Sharpness and Tewkesbury in the 80's are particularly evocative for me. Dad kept a 27' motor cruiser on the river back then called Paddler, based at Tewkesbury Marina but as often moored outside our house on Alney Island just upstream from Westgate Bridge at Gloucester.  As a kid, he'd set me loose in Paddler's tender up at Tewkesbury and meet me at the end of the day back in Gloucester, or the other way around. The river narrows considerably below the upper parting on the final approaches to Gloucester. Meeting the CHASELEY or TIRLEY in the cut was quite the experience and a very early, very keen grounding in that moral of the IRPCS, "Might is right".

Those were some grand old summers to grow up with.

Tender to Paddler, yours sincerely & early freedom

Times they are a changin'

Been mulling over the results of Sunday's racing, and in particular, the
changed format for the Club Championship races, of which Sunday was the
first.

Traditionally, the Championship races have always followed the format of
three races of about an hour each over the course of the day. Races of
around an hour in length are fairly typical for our kind of boats. The
Race Committee, in their infinite wisdom, decided this year to spice
things up a bit by changing the format to six races of half the length
each, run in three pairs back to back.

I don't know why. Some things just are.

I tend to be fairly change resistant. I get bored with routine, but I am
fond of the comfort of the familiar. This is a contradiction that's
plagued me all of my life. So whilst I instinctively rebel against the
idea of changing the race format, my inclination is to suck it and see
and know better than to trust my first instincts. Change for the sake of
change is not good. But the greater peril is always stagnation.

My first thought is that in changing it to six handicapped races, we've
lost my favourite kind of mixed-class racing, the pursuit. Then again, I
sail one of the comparatively faster boats on our water, so in any
pursuit I get to do the chasing. I'm not fond of being chased, that's
just a game you play not to loose rather than a game played to win. It's
not the same.

I also think that by doubling the number of races and halving the
duration, we've introduced a significant random element. The start is
always the most stressful part of the race, with lots of drama, close
boat on boat manoeuvring and everybody on top of each other, all
competing for the same space on the water. The only other point that has
an equivalent amount of stress and aggression comes a few minutes later,
after the gun, when all those boats get to the windward mark around the
same time.

Any start at club level is always a lottery in itself. It's all very
well knowing the rules yourself, but you can guarantee that about half
the other boats on the water will only have the vaguest acquaintance with
how those rules apply specifically to the start, and of that half, a
small minority will inevitably attempt to apply their ignorance with a
high degree of opinionated aggression.

Of the five races we sailed on Sunday, we had one brilliant start, one
mediocre, and a couple of middling ones. And one which should have been
fine, except we got rammed by a Laser barging in on us from windward,
reaching in from well above the layline at speed at into a gap between
ourselves and the inner distance marker that simply didn't exist.

I'm generally a nice person, and don't like hating. But whilst we were
busy trying to untangle ourselves whilst the rest of the fleet sailed
away, he snarled "Well, at least that spoiled your race as well" with
such acrimony that it was patently obvious that he thought we'd rammed
him on purpose. I have to confess, much as I like the man off the water,
it did make my blood boil. And the thing that I think really gets me is
that, from his comment, I'm pretty sure he has no idea what it was he
did wrong, and just assumed I was being hyper aggressive with my racing
in not giving him space. I had no space to give him.

He did ruin our race for us, but we had a discard. And, obviously, we
still beat him.

So starting is always a bit of a lottery. And if you get a poor start
(leaving aside the completely ambushed start that became our discard) it
can take most of the rest of the race to recover from it. Of course, if
they've cut the race time down by half, it stands to reason that you're
simply not going to recover.

On the other hand, as my faithful crew Hels pointed out to me after the
ambush, if the race is turning into a disaster, you've only got a short
while left to endure it before it finishes and you can wipe the slate
clean and start again.

There are some more positives as well. Our habit is typically to do well
for the first half and then struggle to hold onto the advantage we've
won as the race wears on; all the little mistakes begin to pile up and
our concentration begins to wane. So by limiting the race to 30 minutes,
in many ways they make it easier on us.

And it makes the racing closer. For example, across a full hour we have
to beat a Solo by a couple of minutes to actually beat them after the
time has been adjusted on handicap. Across half an hour, we've only got
to beat them by a little less than a minute.

I'm not sure this is entirely fair on the Solos or other slower boats,
but then I don't sail a Solo.

On balance, I think I definitely prefer the full hour format. On the
other hand, five half hour races over the course of our first day back
on the water (we didn't sail the sixth) was quite good fun and there was
a broad range of conditions across the day to play with.

Next Sunday we're back to the traditional Spring format: two races of a
full hour each in the afternoon, a pursuit and then a general handicap.
Really looking forward to it.

Meantime, the clocks have leapt forward with daylight saving so we've got
an extra hour of light in the evening. The sky is blue, the weather is
warming, and today is my birthday.

It's all good.

Marvin

Just picked up this lovely lad from a couple of animal welfare officers, Angela and Rebecca. They picked him up as a stray and have gone above and beyond in trying to find somebody to take him from the pound to save him from the inevitable.

He's very skinny, understandably nervous, but a lovely, gentle lad.

We're currently at a service station outside Newbury, now heading to Yeovil to deliver him to his new foster home. If he fits in, there is a good chance they'll keep him.

Makes a nice change to the usual Monday in the office.

Liberty and relief

Finally back on the water yesterday. I can't say how good it felt to be under sail again.

Managed a credible 7th place out of 28 (21 qualifying) so quite pleased. Conditions went from light to reasonably frisky back to light again over the day, with the wind veering through almost 180 degrees.

The blue sails to our leeward in the photo above is another Enterprise, crewed by my friend Phil Kirk and his son Alex.

It was, at eighteen months, Alex's first race. He managed the toy cars in the cockpit, and his dad managed the boat. They beat us soundly, taking 3rd overall.

Not Phil's usual performance, he normally beats everybody, but a good first showing for his crew, I think.

Phil is planning to circumnavigate the UK in a Wayfarer at the end of May with his friend, Jeremy Warren. They want to manage it within 60 days, which would set a new record for the boat. The current best is 78 days.

The plan is to launch from Weymouth and head clockwise, taking it in a series of 200 mile legs, each of which should involve about three days and nights at sea.

I think they're in for quite the adventure. I'm almost jealous. Almost.

Their webpage:

www.xtreamdinghycruising.com

Digger

Pack instinct

Not an especially great photo, but this is the mob that greets me
whenever I come home. Even if my wife or whatever offspring are still in
residence (two out of three at the moment) fail to notice my return
because Dad coming home's just part of the daily routine, this lot know
the second my car pulls up on the drive, and are unfailing and,
sometimes, overbearing in the enthusiasm of their greeting.

The pretty face at the bottom with the bronze eyebrows is Lilly. At
almost three, she's the only one that's not a rescue; she's KC
registered with a proper pedigree and everything. But we don't hold that
against her. We brought her as a pup from a reputable breeder known to
our family, before we'd got involved in this whole rescue thing. I think
she'll probably be the last non-rescue dog we ever have. In fact, I know
she will. She's very much a "daddy's girl" and I love her to bits.

I should make honourable mention of her mum, Jazz; I've written about
her here before. She was beautiful, and only with us briefly, but I
still miss her terribly. Loosing Jazz so suddenly and unexpectedly was
the single catalyst that threw us into our initial involvement with the
Rescue.

The big black beast above Lilly is Buster. At eleven, he's the old man
of the group. He was our first "failed foster". Old at nine years when
he came into rescue, and with an unfortunate habit of nipping bums, the
Rescue wasn't sure they could find somebody to foster him, let alone
ever find him a forever home. I fell in love with his size and his
presence, and his big, silly, toothy grin and, after he nipped my
backside the once in greeting and then promised never to do it again,
agreed we'd foster him.

The agreement came as the conclusion to a long evening's coffee and
conversation one night in Bidford where I'd tried to explain to my wife
Nikki and the Rescue's chairman Linda how, whilst I greatly admired her
work and wished her well, we were personally terribly unsuited to this
fostering lark. Truth be told, I always knew he'd be coming to stay. We
were once again back to our normal state, a two dog household.

I thought it would stop there. But no, I was obviously wrong.

Over on the far left is Boo. He came to us on October 26th, not
coincidently my youngest son's birthday, and is our only non-GSD. He's
just shy of two years old now, and is an affectionate, clever, agile
little rogue quite capable of holding his own in our boisterous
household. On that weekend, a year ago last October, the Rescue was
supposed to be meeting a transport and picking him up along with a small
group of other pups from a place called South Mimms, a little north of
London. Linda was supposed to be collecting them but damaged her foot a
day or two before and was unable to drive. Nobody else volunteered and
when it became evident nobody would and things were growing desperate,
we stepped forward.

I think, in retrospect, this was the tipping point of the escalation of
our involvement with the Rescue, and what led us to here.

By the time we'd driven from South Mimms to the Rescue's base in
Bideford, this little blonde ball of fluff and cuteness had broken free
of the others and climbed over onto the back-seat and into Sam's lap.
Sam had given up his birthday to trek the width of the country with us
to help the Rescue out. He decided that Boo was his price for doing so.
Suddenly we were, for the first time, a three dog household.

The handsome black and tan over on the far right is Jack. He's ball
crazy, which is something I find irresistible in a dog. About fourteen
months old, he was born in the Rescue, our having taken his mum in and
discovering she was expecting pups. Once the pups were whelped, he came
to us to foster. Truth be told, the whole thing had the inevitability of
watching a train wreck in slow motion. In this case it was my wife, Nik,
who went all gooey-eyed at the mention of puppies, and I was powerless
to turn the locomotive aside.

But like I said, Jack plays a mean game of ball. That, to my mind,
forgives everything.

Finally, the chap led out languorously on the floor there is our Bear.
He came to us as an emergency foster. The typical scenario, out of time
at the pound and about to be put to sleep unless they could find
somebody to take him. He'd been picked up as a stray in the Coventry
area, microchip traced back to rented accommodation that said they knew
nothing about him, and that was that.

He stank, his lovely fancy coat was filthy, unspeakably begrimed, matted
and tangled. He was terribly baffled and confused and just so, so sad;
almost but not quiet defeated from his protracted time in the pound. His
age was unknown but elderly; cloudy eyes, old teeth and stiff in his
joints. Homing old dogs is often hard, so the Rescue initially
considered putting him into permanent foster.

He cleaned up well. The coat took a lot of work and the assistance of a
professional groomer. He settled seamlessly into our existing pack, and
within a week or two the inevitable happened, and I caved in to (this
time my daughter's) pressure and said he could stay. One more didn't
seem to make much difference by that point.

Cards on table, I never wanted to get into this fostering game, I was
very aware of the risks. I have "over-commitment issues" with almost
everything I do. Nik's argument was "You have your sailing, why can't I
have my own interest" which is fine and fair, except I don't expect
Nikki to sail my boats for me. But it is what it is, and I wouldn't be
without any of them.

After Bear though, I did draw a line. It was clear that if we didn't
start rehoming the dogs we took into foster, we were either going to
have to stop taking them or were going to have to move the kids out to
make more room. Truth be told, that line should've been two dogs ago,
but the idea of life without Jack or Bear is patently ridiculous.

So we started moving them on. Some were much harder than others, none
have been easy to part with, and there have been a few very, very near
misses that almost stayed. But no more failures. I've lost count of the
dogs we've fostered and rehomed, though if pushed could name them all,
tell you the story behind each, tell you which ones played ball, which
were particularly treat focused, who liked a tickle or a scratch and in
which particular, special spot. They stay with you even after they've
moved on, and that's one of the perks of the job.

We've currently got two in foster, a couple of pups; the lovely,
scrumptious baby Bella then, more recently, the slightly older Digger.
That's breaking my usual rule of no more than one foster at a time, but
Digger was the usual story: out of time, facing the needle, and we were
his last resort.

A familiar friend

My little jet-mantled friend is back outside my office window this morning to serenade my morning cup of tea one more time.

Will try and bring a better camera in tomorrow, just in case he makes a final visit before the weekend. These pixilated snaps are getting repetitive.

Whether the weather be fine . . .

. . . or whether the weather be not
Weather the weather whatever the weather
Whether we like it or not

We're sailing on Sunday. You can probably tell I'm getting excited. Keep
compulsively checking the forecast now Sunday's within the five day
range. It strikes me this is pretty normal behaviour for me and one of
the reasons I like Wednesdays.

Having been in the pits of landlocked dispair for a quarter of a year
now, I realise now I've lately drifted from the habit. It's funny how
adrift things can seem without certain reliable pivot points in life.
I'm not generally good at routine, I get quickly bored and distracted.
Yet despite that, I seem to subconsciously build little, invisible and
repetative habits out of all manner of things.

So five days out, the forecast is very subject to change. However, it
currently suggests F2 to F3 from the southeast. It's always as shifty as
hell on our lake whenever there's any east in it; too much land in the
way. Add to that the broken sunshine and warming weather, and it gets
even more flukey in both bearing and velocity.

It can be a bit on the frustrating side, but if you accept it for what
it is, and consider that everybody else on the water with you is beset
by the same challenge, it's actually quite good fun.

Bottom line, if the weather comes in on the light side, it could make
for an entertaining day and very much our racing weather. If it comes in
on the heavier side of the forecast, the Lasers will plane, whilst we
won't so much if at all, so we'll get decsiviely rolled by them.

That's assuming I can remember how to rig the boat after all this time.

[The forecasts are from two sources: The good old BBC and
www.xcweather.co.uk - the latter was actually designed for glider pilots
and other light aviation enthusiasts, but is pretty handy for the inland
puddle sailor as well]

A friend revisits

The blackbird is back this morning; same bush, a different song, but just as sweet.

Of course, still limited to the lens on my camera phone, so what this amounts to is another photo of a bush.....

I've been calling it a bush, but that's unfair. It's hawthorn, which is one of my favourite native trees. It does seem to have something else growing through it this year, a kind of ivy, though exactly what is beyond me to say.

Blackbird

There is a blackbird in the bush outside my office window singing his little heart out. The camera on my phone is far from man enough to catch him, so instead I'll content myself with these words and a picture of his bush.

Pretty little beast, with his mantle of jet black feathers and his honeybee yellow beak.

Petit captiaterraphobia: the cure

A gratuitous photo of Buffy, with my son Ben on helm and myself as crew.
Taken at the Enterprise Open at Frampton last October, a good day.

So looking forward to Sunday.

Ben comes home from Uni the weekend following, for his Easter break.
Looking forward to that as well. Will be good to be back out on the
water with him. Hopefully we can patch his own Ent, Penny, back together
enough to get him afloat!

Cold, salty tea

Spent Saturday morning playing with Thornbury's RIB out on the Severn. It's a brute of an old river, and akin to being thrown around in a churning mug of cold, salty tea, but I am rather find of it.

Conditions were fun. Cold, but with a brisk F5 slightly across the incoming eleven meters of spring tide. Weather was squally. Blue skies are sweet, but if I must be consigned to a powerboat, I think Saturday's weather was the more interesting.

It was mostly kind; dramatic skies, a rainbow and wind whipped waters. The worst of it held off until just after we'd landed and retired to the club house, and we didn't get the hail in any great measure until I was back home and walking Boo in the park.

Whilst I was away playing with powerboats at Thornbury, the sandbag elves were busy "debagging" the shore of Frampton lake. It's confirmed, the lake is once again open for business, and Sunday will see us once more afloat aboard our Enterprise "Buffy". Six races, in three pairs of back-to-back sets, starting at 11am. Given how rusty we all undoubtedly are, I suspect it's going to be exhausting mayhem.

I really can't wait!

A steady hand

The end of the rainbow

Traffic (a couple of Thornbury lads in their RS200)

Morning's fun over, returned to the slip

Tide well on the ebb, time to go walk the dogs