Rants & Musings, Why We Go Sailing
Index
It Was A Very Good Year
Running Away With Home
Departures & Arrivals
Life is a Voyage
Back on Board
Gone Sailing
The Journey is the Reward
Puke Therapy
Messing Around in Boats
It Was A Very Good Year (Colin Speedie, 01/2010)
When you cast your mind back at the end of a season, what do you remember from it? Memory being selective as time passes, the bad stuff tends to get filed under futile, and the good just keeps coming into focus.
Sailing to Scalpay
For us 2009 was a great year, with only a few bad moments—busting our prop in Cork, dragging a mooring in Strangford Lough, days stuck in Carlingford as the wind howled by—are all that spring to mind on the downside. But they pale into insignificance compared to the good times.
Great times with family and friends, although not too much (!) as Lou and I love sailing with just the two of us. Wonderful wildlife encounters, too; always a vital part of our cruising enjoyment.
South-west Ireland was lovely and the people great, and we only wished we’d had more time to explore, but Scotland called. And from the moment we arrived north of the border to the day we left, the weather treated us as well as it ever can up there. Long northern days in beautiful sunshine, and always with enough wind—the sailing conditions were as near perfect as possible. Lovely quiet anchorages, too, with only the birds and seals for company.
And beautiful nights of astonishing clarity, made night sailing a pleasure. After a lumpy passage down the Irish Sea, the wind picked up as we approached Lands End in the early hours, with both of us on watch just in case of the need to avoid fishing vessels or shipping. As we altered course for Lizard Point, Lou was able to head for bed, leaving me to settle down and enjoy the night. In the lee of the land the wind dropped light, then began to gently fill in over the smooth, sheltered water. And it gradually increased to a sailable strength and shifted around to the north, allowing us to harden up and lay the course—perfectly—and how often does that happen?
With the Windpilot in charge, we were able to sail inside the shipping, and enjoy a spectacular display of stars in a night sky as clear as gin, with Pèlerin charging on, absolutely in the groove. As day broke we ghosted past the Lizard in a dying breeze, but the warmth of the sun made up for the lack of speed, as the new flood tide lifted us up to Falmouth. What a great sail.
2009 really allowed us to get to know our boat well, and we’re grateful for that. This winter is allowing us to work on a few changes we think will make her even better, and which we’ll hopefully share with you as they happen. We feel we have the right boat for us, and that’s the main thing.
If there was a slight tinge of regret for us, it was that Scotland has for many years been our stamping ground, and this may well have been the last time we’ll see it from the deck of our boat for a while. But we left having seen it at its best, and that’s how we’ll remember it. And the highlands and islands will still be there when we return.
We hope that 2010 is just as good, not only for us, but for you too, and
we’ll look forward to posting more regularly as our plans unfold, and maybe
even seeing you out there. Happy New Year!
Back to Index
Running Away With Home (John, 12/2009)
Phyllis and I recently prepared for and executed a two-month trip that included 11 flights and a month on a sailboat wintering over in Greenland. Since we were traveling on some small aircraft, all of our combined checked baggage had to total less than 40kg, together with two small 8kg carry-on bags. Included in this 40kg was cold weather gear, cross country ski gear, and a full photography kit.
This
ordeal reminded us both of what a wonderful way to travel a voyaging sailboat
is. We call cruising "running
away with home": We get to go to interesting places but everything
we need is on our boat and we don't have to go though packing hell, never
mind get subjected to the indignities of modern air travel.
Back to Index
Departures & Arrivals (Colin Speedie, 06/2009)
There is nothing quite like the final moment of departure at the start of a long cruise or voyage. A strong mixture of anticipation and apprehension, it generally follows a stressful period, with all of the usual last minute glitches and hassles, however careful your planning and preparation. Then there are the goodbyes to friends and loved ones which can tend to cast a sombre mood over the proceedings, with thoughts of the many months it may be before we see them again.
Far better we feel to make a short trip before setting off on the long haul, just to settle into the rhythm a little, especially if it puts you in a better position to step off from. And off Cornwall we have the perfect place in the Isles of Scilly.
A tiny group of 48 islands and rocks lying just over 20 miles from Lands End, the islands have a number of advantages for the sailor. Whether bound north or south they give a little additional westing, always useful with our prevailing winds, and they also allow a clean departure, in that there are no tidal gates to dictate the time of raising anchor. Finally, they are beautiful, remote and oceanic—and whilst the swell and the surrounding sea leave you in no doubt that you are out in the Atlantic, in the right weather they are the perfect place to unwind.
So we were delighted to have a settled forecast with light easterly winds that would allow us to make a brief stop-off in the islands on our way north. We left Falmouth on a glorious day, making most of the distance under our new asymmetric spinnaker, feeling the tensions slowly slip away before making our first arrival in the loveliest of all the anchorages at St. Helens Pool in the north of the islands. There we sat and watched the sun go down in the peace and quiet of an island evening with only two other yachts for company—a magical first night.
I have made the crossing between Cornwall and Ireland on many occasions, generally heading to Scotland via the Irish Sea. But on all occasions it was for work, with the associated deadlines, and we either didn’t have the time, or didn’t have the forecast to go around the West of Ireland. Besides, there is little pleasure in blasting around such a magnificent cruising ground. It’s far better to take your time to explore and enjoy the flavour of the place and the people, and not just to rush by. Much better to slow down and cover a smaller area in more depth, we feel.
So with this in mind we decided to make the crossing out to the southwest corner of Ireland, for a short cruise before departing for Scotland. The only time I had been to the area previously was during a Fastnet Race, when we rounded the rock on a sunlit day in a big ocean swell. Just off on our starboard side lay Cape Clear, and beyond it the hills and islands of Ireland, and it looked just fabulous. I remember thinking that it would be far better to turn to starboard and head in to Baltimore or Schull and see the place, than turn to port round the Rock and head back to Plymouth—I knew that moment that my racing days were over. Ever since then it has been an ambition to go back and put that error right, and so we felt that it would therefore make a really fitting addition to our cruising itinerary to make this our first real landfall of the season.
And what a crossing it was, with hardly any traffic, and a moonlit, then starlit night. The wind came and went from the east, but we were able to keep sailing in generally the right direction, before sighting Galley Head and entering the lovely little harbour at Glandore the following day, and then sleep.
So far, so
very good. The stop-off in the Isles of Scilly had allowed us to draw breath
and relax for the crossing, and the crossing had resulted in an arrival
in a beautiful part of the world, with so much to look forward to in visiting
this part of Ireland. Cruising isn’t racing, and in getting the initial
departure and arrival right we can help to establish the mood of a cruise,
and slow ourselves down to the right pace to savour every moment of it.
Back to Index
Life is a Voyage* (Phyllis, 03/2009)
We received a question a while ago that got us both thinking: “Why did you start cruising, why do you keep cruising, and how long will you keep doing it?”
The first part of the question is easy to answer: Our sailing life has been a natural progression from trips during work vacations, to six-month expeditions, to finally quitting our land-based jobs and moving aboard full-time (in 1996).
The complicated part of the question to answer is why we keep cruising. It’s complicated because we’ve come to realize that what we do on Morgan’s Cloud isn’t actually cruising. Let me explain.
I think most people, if asked to define cruising, would say it is sailing from place to place, either around the world or north and south with the seasons.
It was nine years ago when John and I accepted that we don’t like being constantly on the move. We realized this after sailing something like 12,000 miles in 15 months (from Newfoundland to Bermuda, down to the Caribbean, back up to Greenland, and across to the UK). By the time we finally washed up in London, we felt isolated, exhausted, and bored. So now, between voyages, we stay in one place for four to six months of the year, which gives us a chance to put down roots somewhere, even if only for a short time.
We like variety in the places we stop. Above, Tromsø, Norway. Below, Green Turtle Cay, Bahamas.
Over the years we’ve also come to realize that cruising (a big part of which is boat maintenance) was not providing us with enough intellectual and creative stimulation. So much so that we were seriously thinking of moving off the boat and getting jobs when Herb McCormick at Cruising World encouraged us to write and take photographs. These are challenging and creative pursuits that not only give us a deeper appreciation of and connection to the places and people we visit, but also provide a wonderful contrast to boat maintenance chores, which we now look forward to as a break from the computer. Of course, the income generated helps too.
And yet, when we tell other cruisers that we have to get back to work (at present getting the 2009 Edition of the Norwegian Cruising Guide ready for publishing), the majority of them look at us pityingly before turning back to their fellow ‘retirees’.
We are not above taking some really nice walks once the working
day is done.
Now to the final part of the question: How long will we keep voyaging (a term I prefer to cruising, which has a sense of aimless drifting to it)? I would guess for as long as we have challenging and creative work that we can do while living aboard. Because there’s one thing I do know: We’re not retiring any time soon!
*Quote from Victor Hugo. Definition of ‘voyage’:
a long journey to a foreign or distant place, especially by sea (Free Online
Dictionary).
Back to Index
Back on Board (Phyllis, 07/2008)
Our last extended cruise ended in the fall of 2003 when John and I hauled Morgan’s Cloud in Maine so that we could spend the winter at our house in Bermuda. We had a big decision to make: If we wanted to refit Morgan’s Cloud and keep on cruising, the house would have to be sold. But the house was a little piece of paradise on the water in Bermuda—not something we could afford to replace if we decided later that we had made the wrong choice.
After much agonizing, we decided to continue cruising and so we sold the house in the spring of 2004, moved into a condo with John’s mom, and started in on what we thought would be a one year refit of Morgan’s Cloud.
It is now the spring of 2008 and we have finally moved back on the boat, three years later than we expected. As most of you know, refit woes weren’t the only thing slowing us down, though we had enough of those. Family illness was also big on our agenda.
I have to admit there were many times during the past three years when we questioned whether we would ever get back on the boat. Though two short cruises—one to Newfoundland in 2005 and one to Maine in 2007—kept the goal fresh in our minds, the main thing we needed was perseverance.
Phyllis looking down on Morgan's Cloud anchored at Valley Cove, Somes Sound, Maine.
So here we are, living on the boat and cruising Maine—the truck we bought for the refit up for sale, our cabin in Nova Scotia (welcome haven during the last three years) well looked after by friends—working out the kinks that always appear after a major refit. And looking forward so very much to the people we hope to meet, the friends we hope to see again, the places we want to revisit and the new places we want to explore.
The moral of this
story? Yes, we are ‘fortunate’ to go cruising but we aren’t ‘lucky’ (drives
me crazy when people say that!). We’ve made some difficult decisions,
given up some shore-based comforts, and worked very hard to make it happen.
You can too if you want.
Back to Index
Gone Sailing (John, 09/2007)
Three weeks ago we sailed away from our cottage in Nova Scotia where we had spent most of the summer while Morgan’s Cloud went round and round her mooring and we did boat chores in an effort to tie up the loose ends left over from our refit.
As we left the inlet bound west for Maine and a six week shake down cruise of the outer Bay of Fundy, a little voice in my head was saying “It has been so long since we were out there cruising, I wonder if I still like it? What if I miss long showers, flush toilets and the Internet? What if I get bored? What if I have forgotten how to cruise?” A horrible little voice calling into question the worth of thousands of hours of refit work over three winters.
But you know what? Cruising feels good. Damned good. Even better than I remembered. I’m having fun in so many ways: The joy of sailing a great boat and tweaking the rig to get the best out of her. Talking to interesting people like the offshore tuna/swordfish fishermen—think The Hungry Ocean and The Perfect Storm—and the retired lifeboat coxswain that we met at Clarks Harbour at the southwest corner of Nova Scotia. A fast overnight sail when the old teamwork between Phyllis and I came back. Walks on incredible deserted beaches at Cape Sable and Roque Island. Dinners with friends in our snug cabin. Nights spent at anchor in sheltered rock bound coves. Visits to offshore islands like Matinicus and Isle au Haut. Hikes on paths and bushwhacking through woods. Trying to capture it all by taking 1500 photographs.
I love this stuff.
Back to Index
The Journey is the Reward (Phyllis, 08/2007)
Though John and I always feel totally disconnected with
our destination after flying somewhere, when sailing from place to place
on Morgan’s Cloud we feel like active participants in the small bit of
the world surrounding us.
The slower pace and lack of hustle and bustle out at sea allows us to see and smell more acutely and think much more clearly. After a few days at sea in our own little universe (Morgan’s Cloud and the surrounding waters), we start to live in the present instead of anticipating our arrival at our destination or thinking about where we just were. Zen Buddhism talks about ‘living in the moment’ and we both find this easiest to practice at sea.
As John often says, "Sailing
in your own boat isn’t just a way to get from Point A to Point B—the journey
is the reward".
Back to Index
Puke Therapy (John, 07/2007)
We are in the third year of a one year refit and up until two weeks ago it was getting to me—big time. As far as I was concerned, all marine equipment was junk and almost everyone in the marine business was a crook. Our boat seemed to be a collection of half finished projects and disappointing new gear; albeit with a few shining exceptions.
Last week a buddy from Bermuda and I (Phyllis drove our truck) sailed across the Gulf of Maine, around Cape Sable and on to Mahone Bay in Nova Scotia. For the first part of the trip the weather was a bit challenging but not really bad: a weak front, some thunder storms that we managed to avoid, and thick fog. The wind never got over 30 knots and was in the 20 to 25 knot range for most of the trip.
However, the Gulf of Maine is seriously tidal (due to the influence of the world record tides in the Bay of Fundy) and the resulting currents mixed with the wind greeted us with a confused sea as soon we cleared Penobscot Bay. Within three hours I had to change all my clothes, due to the biggest and most unexpected ducking I have taken from a wave since I gave up ocean racing, and we were both seriously and extravagantly sea sick.
I’m not talking a little green here. I’m talking a full on barf-fest with multiple trips to the rail, sometimes with a full mouth as we struggled not to blow lunch below or into the cockpit. I won the truly gross award, despite my buddy’s best efforts to top me, by liberally spraying the dodger as I struggled at the mast to crank in a reef.
Now, after the trip, I look around Morgan’s Cloud and see a boat that is faster, easier to sail, more comfortable and safer than she was before the refit. Quite simply she is an even better boat than she has ever been. Sure there are many things left to do but they are mostly trivial, and now I can see that.
Would I have experienced this change in attitude if we had had an
easy broad reach on a moonlit night? I suspect not. I’m not sure why that
is. Maybe it’s just that it feels so good when you stop puking. Or maybe
it’s because there comes a time in a refit when you just have to get out
there and bang around a bit to regain your perspective.
Back to Index
Messing Around in Boats (John, 06/2007)
Yesterday I spent a couple of hours in our neighbour's Boston Whaler sounding out the inlet in Nova Scotia our cabin is on and then carefully positioning a plastic bottle anchored by a rock as a marker for the barge that will drop our new mooring.
Getting to the Whaler required using a very small and tippy round bottom rowing dinghy. As I accomplished this task with all the grace of an elephant on roller-skates it struck me that part of my clumsiness might have something to do with it being the first time I had been on the water since leaving the Superyacht Vivid, which I had been guide/navigator on for a trip to Greenland, in August of last year. Ten months without getting afloat is a personal record for me since getting my first boat, a rowing dinghy, at age eight and way too long.
After about two hours of happily swinging a lead line, dragging the marker around to get it positioned just right and covering myself in mud and salt water, Phyllis brought lunch to our wharf, which we ate in the Whaler, drifting around with the engine off. As we munched sandwiches and contemplated my handiwork, she commented “you look so happy and relaxed back on the water”. She is right. “There's nothing . . . absolutely nothing . . . half so much worth doing as simply messing around in boats”*.
I shall try to remember that tomorrow when we return to Maine and the seemingly unending refit.
*Kenneth
Grahame, The Wind in the Willows (River Rat to Mole)
Back to Index