Calstar: Eddystone

It was a good weekend. Sure, the conspiratorial weather forecast for Sunday and Monday derailed our original plans, but Saturday was as gorgeous as promised.

Bright sunshine, blue skies and a fresh breeze coming into the land from south of south east, the local forecast was F3 gusting 4, more in the west, and expected to build into the afternoon. Wanting to do something more than just sail around the Sound again, I considered sailing out to Looe to the west, but with east in the wind, didn't fancy a long, uncomfortable beat against the tide to get home again once we got there.

The Eddystone Rock is a reef that lies about eight nautical miles off Rame Head (the headland that shelters the western side of Plymouth Sound) and is marked with a significant and quite distinctive lighthouse. Charmed by the thought of leaving the land behind us for a while, Dad and I settled for a trip out to see it.

We cast off a little before low water at 1030 in bright sunshine and a lively breeze. Clearing the Mountbatten breakwater, we had the sails up within ten minutes of dropping our lines, a cautious first reef in the main and a full genoa. The wind was a lively F3 from the south east and the little yacht felt very lively as we fetched across the Sound towards the Western Entrance.

The sun was warm, even if the sky was a little hazy, and for the first time this year we were sailing without our waterproofs on. Twenty minutes later we left the Sound via the Western Entrance, and hardened up on to a tight reach to lay Eddystone, some ten miles distant, and very much still lost out of sight within the hazed horizon.

The tidal flow runs east until HW-3, when it reverses to the west after a period of slack, so for the run out we enjoyed the lift of having the tide on our lee bow. By 1142 we were six and a half miles out, covering 6kn  over the ground, so close enough to hull speed, with a first reef in the main still and now a single roll in the genoa.

As the land fell away astern, much of the other yacht traffic that had surrounded us during our departure disappeared behind. We were briefly overhauled by a J80 with a crew of three, before they tacked off to the east. They seem to be quite popular little pocket racers, there were a few at Portishead and Penarth, and there are a number in QAB. They do look like fun. I like the accommodation and comfort of the Westerly, and really do enjoy just cruising from harbour to harbour in her with Dad and Nik.

But were it not for the regular fix I get on the lake with my Enterprise, I'd really miss racing. The 8m J/80 looks like exactly the sort of little keel boat I'd love to race with. The other one that appealed to me was the 7m Hunter Sonata; Ben and I crewed a race on one in Falmouth a couple of years ago.

Over the next hour, the wind and sea gradually built and the sky greyed over. Chilled, I conceded to the fact that it was still early spring and pulled my waterproofs on for their extra warmth. At 1245, the Eddystone lying abreast of our port beam, we tacked and started back.

Aside from the whole "slack water" thing that I've mentioned previously, there is another aspect to sailing here that is markedly different to sailing in the Bristol Channel. Tacking angle. Making passage from Portishead to Penarth on the ebb into the inevitable south westerly with 7 knots of tidal flow running with you, the tacking angle of a Westerly Griffon is a miraculous 20 to 30 degrees or so, as your course is measured over the ground.

In the English Channel, without the help of a Bristol Channel tide, the tacking angle of a bilge-keeled Westerly Griffon really isn't that.

We'd been set on a close reach to get out here, so I'd half expected anything from a beam to a broad reach would take us back, and was in fact nervous about sailing too high in case the run home became too much of a downwind, genoa smothering slap for comfort.

As it turned out, once we'd tacked through the wind, to lay the Western Entrance and not get caught having to beat back up into wind to get around Rame Head, I had to set the little yacht hard over on a close hauled beat. Cracking off just a point or two added a respectable knot to the boat speed, so I settled for slightly less height to our course in the hope that the wind would lift closer in to shore.

By 1253 I'd put a second roll into the genoa. We were still covering just shy of 6kn over the ground, a little less now through the water as the tide started to turn against us, and Calstar was taking a lot of spray over her bows, soaking her sails and the coach-roof, but she's a very dry, comfortable boat if you're in her deep, sheltered cockpit. Even with the genoa rolled down, she was still hard over and sloughing off to leeward in the bigger gusts, so I gave in to the inevitable and put the second reef into the main. It knocked half a knot off our boat speed through the water, but our speed over the ground hardly dropped, the reduction in leeway we gained by stiffening her up with reduced sail must've more than compensated for the loss of actual speed.

For the first hour of the trip back, the wind was cold, the sky grey and visibility murky; no more than four of five miles at best. It didn't rain, but a lively sea on Calstar's starboard shoulder slapped lots of foaming spray over her. We remained sheltered within her deep cockpit however, and didn't even feel the need to pull the spray-hood up, although I did slid the companionway hatch shut.

As we closed with the shore, the murk receded to haze and the sun reappeared in the sky, easing the chill out of the wind as the land re-emerged from the haze. Still holding a point or two off of close-hauled to keep the boat speed up, our course lifted just enough to clear the headland and lay the western entrance and we re-entered the sound amidst a scattering of other yachts and fishing boats at 1445.

We held our course across the Sound back towards QAB, running parallel with a couple of other yachts and getting ducked by a big racer, close-hauled and screaming through the water on port with a full compliment of rail-monkeys hiking out on the windward guard-wire, the helmsman giving a cheerful wave as he ducked, scraping past our stern with about half a boat length to spare. Dad was below at the time so rather than worrying him by mentioning it, I took a photo to show him later.

We dropped sail at 1500, a little early but straying intentionally onto the conservative side, then gently motored in, dodging all the traffic going with, against and across us. It was an understandably popular day out on the water.

We slipped into our berth at 1524, just shy of 5 hours underway, most of that under sail, and 25.8 nautical miles of water having slipped between our keels since we'd set out that morning.

Conspiracy theory

It is as if there's a conspiracy against me.

Sunday has been looking rubbish all week, but Saturday looked nice, so I made arrangements to have Monday off work, theory being we could sail to Fowey on the Saturday, shelter there through Sunday, then come back to Plymouth on Monday.

And then, slowly as the week wore on, Sunday has stayed bad, but Monday has gradually got worse and worse until the point where it looks no better.

Saturday still looks nice though. So it looks like this weekend will be yet another potter around the Sound, too wary to go anywhere because we won't have time to get back.

The plan is to drive straight down to Plymouth after tonight's gig so we're there first thing tomorrow.

I am wondering what the English Channel looks like with 30 knots of onshore wind. Not as bad as the Bristol Channel, I suspect, but I still rather suspect I shouldn't drag Dad out into it unless there really is no other choice.

And there is always another choice.

Mismanaged

What she said: Can we go to Cabot Circus? Would it be okay if Lisa came with us?

What she should've said: I want to spend my birthday shopping with my best friend Lisa. Could you give us a lift to Cabot Circus and then come pick us up again when we're finished?

There is so much else I could've done today. Instead I've spent the day wandering aimless and alone around the streets of Bristol. They ditched me, not unreasonably, about five hours ago outside Dorothy Perkins. A day mismanaged and miscomunicated. I should've gone sailing. The gallantry of trying to spend some time with your wife on her birthday is clearly overstated.

I'm ranting on here because she'll never read it. I'm sat on a stone seat in the middle of a Bristol shopping mall, and in a minute I'm going to call Nik and say it's time to go home. It's her birthday, so I'm going to smile and pretend I've had a lovely time too.

Could've been worse. Could've been sat on a stone horse in a Bristol park with a seagull on my head.

Calstar: a weather-bound Easter

The original plan for Easter was to head down to the boat with Dad and Nik on my birthday weekend, head west in to Cornwall for the week and then head back at the end of Nik's birthday weekend. Work commitments originally put paid to that, as I couldn't afford the four days away from the office due to various projects in hand.

Still thought we'd make some good inroads into Cornwall across the four day Bank Holiday weekend we would have for Easter anyway, so I wasn't too sore. I'd be quite happy just to get as far as Fowey.

We were defeated by a combination of weather and wiring.

Friday would've been a good day to sail out, but the electrician Dad had been talking to about the birds-nest of wires as the foot of our mast had got waylaid, so instead of turning up to rewire the mast electrics first thing Friday morning, he wasn't able to get to us until last thing Friday afternoon.

And although he got the electrics sorted out, it turned out we had the wrong socket for the VHF aerial, and it was by then too late to go out and buy the right one.

So yes, Friday would've been a good day to sail, but instead we spent it kicking around Plymouth waiting for the wiring to be done. We did find the Plymouth Gin Distillery though. Nik had bought be a bottle for my birthday. Ironically, from her shop in Gloucester. Although the gift was much appreciated, I didn't bring it with me to the boat. Felt a bit like taking coal to Newcastle ......

Incidentally, I learnt that "Navy Strength" is 57% alcohol by volume, and distilled to that strength because it used to be kept safe the powder room and if, by chance or mishap, it got mixed with the gunpowder, at 57% the powder would still ignite.

Saturday first thing we hit the local chandleries to find the right socket for the VHF. Before we were done, the weather had closed in, unseasonably cold with heavy wind and rain; certainly not the sort of conditions you want to introduce your neophyte sailor of a wife to the joys of sailing the Cornish coast in.

In any case, it turned out that as well as needing to fit a pug to the bottom of the mast head antenna cable, the coachroof socket needed replacing, and once we'd removed that, it transpired that the run of cable from the roof socket to the VHF had rotted and had no slack left in it to cut out the rot, so had to be entirely replaced. Which involved removing a lot of panelling from inside the heads and main cabin and some fiddling wire stripping and soldering to fit the new sockets.

It kept us occupied for most of the day, but by the end of it the ship's radio was once more fully functional.

By Saturday night the rain had eased off so we braved a walk out of the marina to find supper at an an Asian street food restaurant called Suphas. A Saturday night on an Easter Bank Holiday Weekend, they were exceptionally busy and as usual we'd not thought ahead to book a table, but the owner took pity on us and just squeezed us in at the end of the evening's service.

Dad had crab and Nik and I both had sea bream. The collective opinion was that it was all utterly delicious. If a little bit on the messy side to deal with ......

There was a small break in the weather for my birthday on Sunday morning, before the forecast promised things would turn nasty again as yet another front moved through in the afternoon.

So we cast off early and went for a sail, eight miles over a couple of hours, out through the Eastern Entrance of the Breakwater then back in through the west. Extra interest was added by the need to dodge a big ship coming in with attendant pilot boat as we were exiting, but there really is plenty of room in the Sound.

The highlight was out beyond the breakwater when something plummeted from the sky and hit the water with a splash. A minute later a very smug looking gannet resurfaced, clearly having had its breakfast, and bobbed around for a moment or two on the building swell before taking to the sky again. I've never really seen one up close before, only distant, airborne and in silhouette; they really are quite graceful creatures, sleek white bodies with streamlined, black tipped wings.

It was an onshore south-southeasterly wind that built steadily through the morning. We were back alongside our berth a little after midday and on our way into town to look for lunch. The rain started quite literally as we left the Marina grounds, spotting at first then quickly developing into a heavy, constant downpour.

We constrained our wanderings to exploring a couple of pubs in the Barbican and fish and chips for lunch, before returning once more to the boat.

Saturday night we ate in the Marina restaurant again, the weather too wet to venture far. We had the place to ourselves.

By Monday morning the conditions were quite rotten. The rain had backed off, but the onshore wind, gusting to 40 knots out beyond the Breakwater, was pushing a nasty, uncomfortable chop into the marina. Although relatively sheltered behind the significant bulk of the wave screen, it's not like the old docks at Penarth or Portishead, and Calstar was snatching petulantly at her warps.

The solution was a belated birthday present by way of a couple of rubber snubbers from Dad, bought from Force 4, the on-site chandlrey, and rapidly becoming a more regular haunt for us than the pub. They made an immediate difference to the comfort of the boat as she rode in her berth. They've got handy plastic inserts that mean you don't need to thread the entire mooring line through them, making them very quick and easy to fit. Can't help but wonder how long it'll be before I drop one of the plastic inserts in however.

I wonder if they'll float? I doubt it somehow.

Having sorted out the mooring arrangements and made the little yacht as snug and as safe as we could, we capitulated to the weather and headed home.

The holiday traffic turned the two hour fifteen minute journey into a three and a half our slog, but to be fair, we've had worse trying to get home just from Cardiff on a bank holiday, so the journey times so far to and from Plymouth have really been quite tolerable.

Calstar: blue water deliverance

[Weds 4th April 2120hrs: apologies up front, this should've been finished and posted after I wrote most of it on the evening of 26th. Instead, it's languished in draft until I could remedy my evident laziness, lightly proof read it and click Publish. All of the following relates to Calstar's delivery to Plymouth, the weekend of Friday 23rd March. We've had another weekend down there since, which I should also get around to sharing. Anyway . . . . ]

Calstar is delivered to her new home.

I booked last Friday off work, not that these people aren't sublimely capable of picking a boat up in one place, and then delivering and refloating her in another without my supervision, but they did all seem to take an awful lot of organisation and coordination and anyway, we wanted to be there.

We'd planned to be at Penarth for when she got loaded onto the back of the truck at 0900 Friday morning, but received a message from the Marina that the truck had already arrived, loaded her and left on its way by end of day Thursday, so we headed directly down to Plymouth.

Two hours and nineteen minutes, clear roads on a Friday morning, no traffic or any delays worth the mention. I don't imagine it'll always be this easy. But the journey went very smoothly, and we arrived in Plymouth to find Calstar there before us, patiently waiting for the crane to lift her from her cradle on the truck.

They weren't expecting us until the afternoon, so there was a good amount of hanging around, but they eventually managed to find us an earlier slot at 1300, just before low water made the slip untenable for a couple of hours.

Dad missed the launch. He'd gone to look for the riggers to organise the stepping of the mast and it all happened rather quick. Next thing I knew Calstar was alongside the pontoon and the Marina Berthing Master was saying we'd have to move her around to the mast crane quickly or we'd lose the water.

So I cast of and took her directly around there myself.

photo: thomas gregory (http://2wheels1keel.com)

I have to admit, whilst I suspect it probably alarmed Dad to have wandered back to the slip to find his beloved Calstar launched and apparently gone, I really enjoyed myself. I so rarely get the chance to manoeuvre Calstar under power in close quarters as Dad's always at the helm in those circumstances and I'm always jumping around with lines and fending off.

Needless to say, I delivered her to the mast crane without putting a single scratch into his lovely, freshly polished and shiny gel coat. A friend happened to be passing on the opposite side of the harbour as I did so and took the above photo of my as I was setting out the fenders. She does look very strange without a mast.

Although we got her to the mast crane in good time, the riggers didn't have anybody available until later in the day, so we waited patiently for a few hours until they turned up. At about the same time the rains came in, thick and hard.

John and Lucy of Allspars did a fine job of raising and rigging the mast, despite the drenching we all got. It took a couple of hours but went mostly without hitch. We had a bit of difficulty re-attaching the boom, as it turns out the outhaul has jumped off its roller and jammed, but managed to work around it, and with the outhaul jammed on, that's a job for another day.

By 1800 she was on her berth, all jobs for the day done. It was still raining hard, so we had supper in at the bar conveniently beneath the marina office, Chandlers. Fishcakes, washed down with a pint or two of Amstel. Really not much to complain about.

I'd originally hoped to sail Saturday, but we had odd jobs to finish up in the morning and by lunchtime the rain came back in, thick and heavy.

One of the jobs outstanding was to rewire the sockets at the foot of the mast.

Dad had the mast electrics replaced whilst she was on the hard in Penarth. New tricolour, anchor and steaming light, a new windex and VHF antenna, and new wires run down the mast. They didn't have time to rewire the plugs however, and with multiple lights running off three wires, the job proved a bit much for Dad and I to attempt.

So there is a birds nest of wires at the foot of the mast.

With the forecast suggesting there were 3m seas beyond the breakwater (and I could see them breaking over it around high tide earlier in the morning) I didn't really want to work around the birds nest in a lively sea, and didn't really want salt water flushing over the open sockets.

I suggested we go out for a potter in the Sound, but Dad declined, explaining that sailing about in the pouring rain was okay if we had somewhere to get to but if it was just sailing about for the sake of sailing, it wasn't what normal people considered to be "fun".

I''m not convinced we've ever been normal, but we are in danger of becoming fair weather sailors.

By the late afternoon, Dad had nodded off reading in his berth below decks, so I went shopping (at the local chandlery of course) and then retired to Chandlers to watch the comings and goings out on the water over a quiet pint and a book.

Dad woke a few hours later and we went to a local seafood restaurant for a fish and chip supper. And a number of glasses of whatever the house white wine was. I have to say, Carafes of wine are not as generous as I remember.

Sunday morning dawned dry and calm. Despite the lack of any electrics in the mast and the open sockets and birds nest on the coachroof, we decided to throw off our lines and poke our nose out into the Sound for a few hours before we headed home.

The sun was threatening to break through the overcast of the sky and catspaws of wind teased the surface of the water as we left the shelter of the Marine and headed out into the Sound. The wind was blowing directly off the shore, and once clear we hauled up the sails and turned on to a training run to take us out across the Sound towards the western entrance.

Blue water, as promised, if a little bit cold still for the time of year.

But it was a good first sail in new grounds. Out through the Western Entrance, then hardened up on to a reach and trotted across the tide and out to sea for a while, before turning to port, and then beating back in through the Eastern Entrance.

Just shy of four hours sailing and just over 14 miles covered. Other than the chill, the weather was perfect; warm sun and about 12 knots of wind, enough to tip the little yacht over and power her along but not enough to worry about bothering with a reef.

If we get a decent summer to compensate for the unusually late, nasty winter we've had, I can see we're going to really enjoy it here.

Actually, we're going to really enjoy it regardless.