Tag Archives: sailing

“Did you say Mexico?”

Posted on by
Reply

Staring at the departure board at Euston station last week, I had a sinking feeling we weren’t going to make our flight to Greece. Delayed and cancelled flashed up on more and more trains, and even more worryingly, our train wasn’t even listed.

“Due to the extremely hot weather, some of our trains are not in the right location and also some of our staff… we’re doing our best though,” said the station announcer. However sorry they were it wasn’t going to help us get to Birmingham International for our plane, that was likely to be leaving as scheduled in a few hours time. We both looked at our watches and sighed, saying one of those prayers.. “if you could just help us get a train, please!”

Suddenly one of the Birmingham-bound trains was ready and a hoard of would-be passengers streamed forward. We joined the throng, hoping our tickets would be valid and dragging our cases behind us.

On board the guard showed her sense of humour, mixing up the wording on her announcements and making everyone smile. Later she chatted to us as we prepared to get off, helping us manoeuvre a pushchair to get our bags to the door.

“Where are you off to? Did you say Mexico?!”

We chuckled and I touched my straw hat, while she told us her dream was to go travelling in a few years, when she’d had enough of Avanti and network rail.

Stepping aboard another Greek ferry later that day, felt like a bit of a miracle after the day’s train and plane delays. The ferry was actually earlier than scheduled so we were lucky to catch it. Even more amazing was that I could walk without limping after almost falling through the ceiling a couple of days earlier as I’d attempted to tidy tools in our son’s loft extension!

Now a week on, the boat is rocking gently in the most delightful bay, framed by chalky cliffs with turquoise water lapping at the beach.

Since leaving Skopolos last week, we’ve enjoyed some beautiful anchorages on islands we’ve never heard of. Pine trees and olive groves flow down to the water and bleating goats and buzzing cicadas provide the soundtrack day and night.

I’m loving taking time on this mini sailing adventure around the Sporades islands. We’re here for a few weeks and that means we can take our time, sit longer over a frappe in a cafe by the quay, spend time forging new friendships with fellow sailors, decide to stay an extra night and try another restaurant just because we can. Today “time” is on our side and it feels good to slow things down for now.

I’m also loving meeting new people! Within a day of arriving in Greece we met a couple from Cornwall who’d sailed their boat all the way here some years ago. Then we met them again at an anchorage and again at a little port town (we’re not your stalkers – honestly!). We also met another couple from Plymouth! Suddenly it feels like a small world and the other night all six of us exchanged stories and laughter at a local fish restaurant. However much peace I crave, you can’t beat forging new friendships – it’s the best!

On the other hand international relations were under strain an hour or so ago, when a neighbouring yacht ‘politely’ asked us to move our anchor. We ‘politely’ declined, on the grounds that it wasn’t necessary. Half an hour later we waved “au revoir” as they decided to move and the French skipper showed us his bottom! Fair enough – perhaps he was rather hot…

All at sea

Posted on by
4

Have you ever been in one of those crisis moments when you say to yourself, we’ll look back on this tomorrow and think, ‘what a great adventure that was…’?

That was 24 hours ago…*

“I’ll just do it then, shall I?” It was one of those questions I didn’t need to ask, because there weren’t any other options left.
“Boom!”
Another huge waved crashed across the bows of the boat which were immediately rising to the crest of a second wave. I had butterflies in my stomach as I turned to inch my way along the deck, the lines of my safety harness scraping along the tape secured to the boat.
‘Be brave’ was the only thing I could think.
Half way along the deck I sat down gripping the metal stays with one hand as I unfastened and refastened the clip to the next set of tapes. My body was tense and my fingers trembled, mainly with cold. Up ahead at the bows the next wave was pounding down showering me with spray and I kept low edging my way towards the ‘pointy end’…

It had already been quite a day at sea. We’d set off, just the two of us, at 6am to catch the tidal stream. Daybreak sails are some of my favourite. As the sky begins to lighten and sun’s rays are soft and golden, full of unspoken promises of what lies ahead. The wind had been a bit stronger than forecast and we’d made good progress hoping to push through to Dartmouth – our final destination. But after a change in wind direction and with the tide turned against us, we decided to divert to Salcombe till later in the afternoon when the tides would be in our favour.

Always expect the unexpected in sailing. As we attempted to furl the genoa (pull in the sail at the front which wraps around a wire) the rope snapped. It wasn’t an easy fix, so sadly, we found ourselves returning to where we’d come from – more than three hours sail west. Four hours later, furling line temporarily fixed with a bit of help, we headed back to sea. We’d made reasonable time and decided to try and make Dartmouth that evening. The voyage took us through the notorious Start Point where the sea can be quite rough. Neither of us had sailed there before. We’d got into big waves about an hour earlier, but now they were getting higher and there were white horse breaking all around us.

We were more than two or three miles off shore, as we began to round the light house, and watched the blue curve of Start Bay emerge in the distance. 

“I don’t think we can make it…we’re going to have to turn back.”
It was one of those moments. You could call it mutiny.
Waves were breaking across the front of the boat. The sun would be setting in an hour. The wind was coming from where we needed to go. We’d been sailing pretty much non stop for more than 12 hours. But there was one other option… to me this was better than going back again.

This involved one of us going to the front of the pitching boat to fix the tangled line and help wind in the sail by hand. Meanwhile, the other steered the boat through the waves while juggling two other ropes to enable the awkward sail to be safely pulled in. We’d planned to be in calmer waters for this procedure, but we couldn’t risk the furling line breaking again.

So, there I was, kneeling at the front of the boat on the biggest and scariest white water roller coaster ride ever. In between each fresh wave, which broke across me, I attempted to untangle the rope, while the stressed skipper shouted instructions above the waves. Apart from being scared of slipping in, the biggest problem was my bobble hat which insisted on sliding down over my eyes. I thought the rope was untangled and then saw it wasn’t. As I gripped the metal stanchion to steady myself while the boat slammed down onto yet another wave, I did think, ‘Hopefully, we’ll be laughing about all this tomorrow.’

The best thing about moments like that may not be the moments themselves, but it’s the contrast of looking back and being glad you got through it.

An hour or so later as our little boat nudged its way between the rocks and the castle guarding the entrance to Dartmouth, the sun was beginning to sink behind the hills. A mooring buoy was beckoning and the boom of a canon up above at the Naval College signalled that the day was over. 

We both sighed and smiled. What a day it had been! Some 88 nautical miles travelled since first light. Now the dangers were past, we were in calm waters and a safe harbour for the night. There is no better feeling. And it’s one of the many reasons why I love sailing.

*at the time of writing

The ghost of Thorney Island

Posted on by
3

I’m not afraid of ghosts. These past few weeks I’ve been living with a very lovable one and I don’t think he’ll disappear until all the boxes are packed and the removal van chugs off down the road.

It’s three years since we arrived to live on Thorney Island, in the heart of Chichester Harbour. I never expected to become so attached to this place, but it has a way of seeping into your soul. I’ll miss the rattle of the halyards from the boat yard, the whirr of planes overhead, even the noisy chatter from the squirrels.

Most of all I’ll miss the shoreline; its rhythmic beauty as the tide slides in and out, alternately masking and revealing the bright green grass and muddy banks that lie beneath. I’ll miss my walks to the beach, watching white sails glide past the fields and breathing in those big skies that stretch right out to the Isle of Wight. I’ll definitely miss the swimming at all heights of tide and in all temperatures – including Christmas Day – knowing a hot shower awaits just around the corner. I’ll also miss the serenity and the sound of nothing but birdsong, most of the time.

Today, as I wander through the empty rooms of magnolia walls and beige carpets, merging into one, it feels as if our time here has been sucked up with the final hoover. There is barely a sign that our family, and particularly our cat, ever lived here.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw him around every corner. I heard the rattle of the cat flap – even when it had been removed. I heard his meowing chatter as he arrived in from a night of hunting and saw his face at the window peering in. It has been like living with a ghost – the ghost of Simba past.

Jpeg

Simba was the Cypriot cat who arrived without warning in our garden in Cyprus one morning, and who for the past five years has been a big part of our family. None of us are keen on cats and yet he found his way into our hearts and it was very painful to see him waste away over the last few months and eventually succumb to his illness.

Simba was a character. He accompanied us on walks beside the sea, he scared off spaniels beside the sailing club with his massive mane spread out and back arched high, he stalked squirrels, caught mice, sunbathed on the decking and was the longest cat living when he stretched out on the settee. He was also very beautiful and loved to cuddle up close, nestling into your neck on a cold winter’s night. He was known as the ‘Lion Cat’ by our neighbours – knick-named for his fantastic mane and lion colouring.

Now it really is goodbye Simba and farewell Thorney Island. The two will stay together and when we return, as I’m sure we will, we’ll pause by his favourite pine scratching tree and remember our time here with one member of the family who is sorely missed, but not forgotten.

 

 

sea addict

Posted on by
Reply

I have to confess. I’m addicted. I can’t go a day without it and I’m afraid I may get a little shaky if I don’t see it. I didn’t realise it could be so addictive or I’d have been a bit more careful. Photographs don’t do it justice – they don’t capture the smells and sounds that make it such a wonderful ‘drug’.

I never imagined moving to live beside the sea would be so delicious and leave me craving for a sight of it every day. This afternoon I ‘ran’ to the beach (not the kind of running you do when being chased by hungry lions – just the kind that keeps pace with a slow cyclist). I knew it was going to be beautiful when I noticed golden blades of grass casting sharp shadows on the sand in the dunes. A bright white sun was starting to slide towards the horizon across the channel lighting up the ripples in the muddy coloured sand as the rays danced across the water. There were shallow dark pools on the wide expanse of empty beach. In the distance a solitary sailing boat bobbed mid channel and high up in the distance a flock of migrating birds swooped and swirled in a cloud, before disappearing out to sea.

IMG_4243

This is a special place. The only sounds were some strange sea bird noises and what I think might have been baying seals on the sandbanks. This afternoon it was as quiet as a nature reserve. I had the beach to myself. The light was unreal in a golden ethereal way. It felt like it was going to be the kind of night for smugglers to pull up their boats and haul their contraband up the beach…the kind of night for stories and secrets to be shared around a fire on the cool sand while the waves creep closer.

IMG_4244IMG_4231

I’m not sure how or why I’ve developed this addiction to ‘see the sea’ over the past few weeks. I could also describe it as a love affair because no matter what the state of the water – dark and stormy, grey and choppy or calm and blue – I can’t help but love the view. I even love it when the tide is out and messy dark green sea plants are left exposed, with the channel a remote blue strip beneath the boats. There is a reassuring rhythm to the tides. I’ve been waking up trying to remember what state the tide will be at – we can’t go far around here without noticing if it’s in or out. Now we’ve stuck a tide chart up in the kitchen and most days someone checks out the tide times and heights.

The sea here gives me a sense of space and freedom as its wide-open skies wrap around the island. It’s a sea of possibilities. A reminder that there are so many stories out there as people set sail or launch into open water – a lone fisherman inspecting his nets, an anxious sailor battling against a retreating tide, or a man on a motorboat heading into the deep. It’s a place of inspiration too. There are mysteries here to unravel and stories to be told… even crimes to be solved. I’m going to indulge my addiction for now. After all it’s not expensive or unhealthy and I have a suspicion the sea has something to tell me. And most of all – we live here…

IMG_4229IMG_4241

the end of summer?

Posted on by
1

Today feels like coming towards the end of a very long summer holiday and the approach of September has a ‘back to school’ aura about it. The sand between my toes and now collecting in corners on the floor of the car is a tell tale sign of days spent at the beach. Damp towels, sandy snorkel masks and a striped beach bag in need of repair will soon be packed or thrown away, having served us for over two years.

It’s always sad feeling the summer come to an end. The past two years, although not a complete holiday, have felt more like a vacation than any other period of my life. Sitting watching the sun sink towards the horizon across the water tonight could hardly be more idyllic… as the sun sets on our time here. Even now there’s a warm breeze fluttering against my face while the sea is shimmering gold, and miniature waves lap with calming rhythm against the sand below us.

This week has been filled with ‘last times’ as we have revisited favourite haunts from cafes and umbrella lined bazaars in bustling Nicosia and the buzz of Kyrenia’s harbour at night to the remote wilderness of the Karpaz peninsular and its idyllic golden beaches.

IMG_1889IMG_1903IMG_1917

I don’t want to say goodbye to these places I’ve come to treasure and which are filled with happy memories of time spent with family and friends. Today we went to a different part of the beach and had a drink at a different cafe. This was partly for a change, but also on my part, I wanted to avoid the feeling of having to go somewhere knowing we’re not coming back any time soon. I decided I’d rather remember the last time there and hope we will return one day. I don’t like goodbyes.

Although we have been revisiting what I would call our ‘top spots’ on the island, we’ve also ventured out on a new experience.

On Friday we were guests on board an 80ft yacht with a Turkish captain and his mother. http://www.velayachting.com It was an unforgettable time from the moment we stepped aboard and removed our shoes to the fond farewells at the end of the day. Yacht ‘Vela’ was a treat. A beautiful old sailing boat with wood lined decks, neatly coiled ropes and relaxing navy cushions everywhere became our home for a few hours. A handful of us enjoyed a jaunt down the coast of northern Cyprus for the day stopping off at bays for swims and snorkelling along the way. This time it was a relief to know that while I lounged on a deck cushion the responsibility for dropping and picking up the anchor was someone else’s nightmare. It was a kind of treat not having to heave ropes or jump across jetties to secure lines, although one member of the party couldn’t resist lending a hand! I wasn’t even required to go below and rustle up rations as ‘Mama’, (we had been instructed to call her this), had already prepared a sumptuous feast of Turkish dishes spread out on the table when we returned from our swim.

IMG_1928 IMG_1931 IMG_1960

Meanwhile, Captain Serhat was doing his bit precariously barbecuing fish and lamb at the bows. Peaceful music tinkled all around and during the lunch we were serenaded by what sounded like snatches of an opera. It was a surreal yet lovely experience and Capt Serhat had some good banter with the other skipper on board, as they exchanged plenty of old sea tales. He also impressed us with a tight 360 manoeuvre below the castle walls… although someone kept muttering, “bow thrusters are cheating”. During the day there was ample time to watch the coast go by, muse on the identity of a flock of birds and natter with friends who had joined us, while we sipped strong Turkish coffee from miniature China cups. It was in fact a perfect finish to our Cyprus adventure as we sail into unchartered waters and life back in the UK.

IMG_1973IMG_1958

Last night was also topped off with a mini ‘night exercise’ along the beach. Having swum with turtles and seen their carefully marked nests on the beaches here, we were hoping to catch a glimpse of some baby turtles making their way to the sea by moonlight. Torches in hand we followed a path and steps onto the darkened beach where the crashing waves drowned out all other sounds. We were alone on the beach checking the sand for signs of mini turtles or broken shells, even the tell-tale pattern of fin prints in the soft sand. Although we saw a few of these and some scuttling mini crabs, there were no turtles in sight. Gradually a silvery moon appeared from behind a cloud and we took a break on a couple of empty sun loungers. Sometime later I woke with a start realising we had both fallen asleep. We’d probably slept through the turtle-hatching bonanza and missed everything. Either way it was too late, as we drove back along the cliff tops a little while later, I wondered why the light seemed bright in the car and realised the driver still had his head torch turned on, adding a third beam to the car headlights on the dirt track… time to call it a day. The quest for hatching turtles will have to wait for another summer – maybe on a return trip?