RETURN TO GUERNSEY
A solo sailor battles back injury, seasickness and engine problems on a 330-mile journey
Anchored alone in Baltimore after taking part in a bruising Jester Challenge with a ripped mainsail, and an old back injury reawakened whilst anchoring, I knew I must reach safety within 24 hours; so, at 0215 I pointed Pippin’s bows for the moon, which hung conveniently over Baltimore’s entrance. Lot’s somewhat misplaced wife, now a pillar of stone for she had disobeyed the Angel and looked back when fleeing Sodom, slept atop her dark headland, as I set course for Crosshaven, 54 miles east.
It was a limp sort of morning: the ensign hung limp, the Irish flags hung limp, the wind hung limp and I hung limp. Only the sea was alive, rolling lazily in from the Atlantic. Pippin motor-sailed past Galley and Kinsale Heads and around lunchtime, on the turn of the tide, I entered the narrow entrance to Cork Harbour and swung the Frances 34 Pilothouse into the River Owenabue, bound for the Royal Cork Yacht Club at Crosshaven. It’s a tight narrow turn, requiring care to avoid a very public and prolonged exposure on a mud bank.
Next day, overcome with back pain, I hobbled off to Crosshaven village returning like a squirrel with full swag bag, naturally minus essential milk. But hey! This was Ireland, where people smile and actually open their mouths to say hello, even if I can’t often understand what comes out. Fortunately, the yacht club bar lady was the sort I would happily have in my platoon as logistics officer – indeed she could have sorted the Duke of Wellington’s Army, never mind two litres of milk at no charge.
Crosshaven is the sort of place where you get sorted with a smile and so Dick turned up with Big Barry to remove Pippin’s main sail for surgery, and
I winced as he lugged it onto his shoulder and strode off, promising to return soon. No big deal, except this was race week and every sail maker in the area was flat out. Dick, a sprightly septuagenarian who had been coaxed out of retirement, soon brought it back, complete with a beefy Irish rugby player to refit it; all I had to do was get in the way and make tea.
MID-CHANNEL ENGINE WOES
The weekend swept wetly in and I listened to an early morning symphony of Irish rain loud on the cabin roof. It darkened my mood for the curtailment of my sailing plans had hit me hard, though the sight of two achingly pretty little otters helped. Known in Irish as madra uisce, which delightfully means water dog, they’re famously elusive and supposedly assisted Saint Brendan in his journey.
One evening, half-a-ton of beefcake and testosterone gathered aboard the rod-rigged black racer next door. By comparison, Pippin looked like Mrs Tiggywinkle, but we didn’t care; we were content with each other and anyway, I doubt they had rhubarb crumble and custard aboard. After much competitive bicep flexing and discussion of girlfriends, all eyes turned increasingly impatiently to the shoreline. At 2045, the girls finally arrived fashionably late, all giggles and smiles, completely oblivious to the urgency of departure. Ten minutes later they were gone to a race week somewhere up the coast; I wondered if they knew a gale was marching towards them.
After eight days, sore and bored, I began passage planning. The art of knowing roughly where you are going, how and when, is but an intention and at 5 knots with 100 miles or more to sail, you tell your loved ones you’ll be home no time soon.
Two days later I left on a dying ebb tide into a blustery morning through the narrow Cork channel out to sea, pushing Pippin hard into a very short chop and northwesterly-west-northwesterly 16-25 knot winds, livelier than forecast. It was uncomfortably rough for smaller boats, as shallow seas so often are, so I paused in the shelter of a bay to reef before turning south, through big waves in from the Atlantic. Pippin just laughed, rolling and diving comfortably and charging for Land’s End 160 miles away at 6.5 knots.
During the day the sea became more confused, though it was business as usual for Hercule the Hydrovane and I decided to make for Guernsey if
I managed enough sleep, or Penzance if not. There was little traffic and I tucked a second reef in before dark to reduce nighttime deck work, as I often do; Pippin hardly slowed and her motion became a little easier. My radar alarm sounded twice before dawn but I slept little because of the motion, though I rested comfortably. By daybreak the wind was down to 16 knots, so I shook out the reefs, tacking east into the Cornish sea, crossing just north of the Scillies’ Traffic Separation Scheme.
Suddenly the engine, which was charging the batteries, died – its secondary filter clogged with crud inherited from a small garage in Spain the previous year. These lovely diesels don’t demand much from their boss; just clean oil and fresh diesel and they’ll run forever, but I had failed it. I had administered a killer dose of Grotamar 62 before the trip and had a new Racor filter with an electric pump for bleeding fitted; my engineer reckoned I was good to go, so I foolishly decided not to empty and clean the tank.
I had never changed a filter or bled a diesel engine before, and the boat’s motion was all over the place; lifting off the heavy engine box, accessing the secondary fuel filter under the navigator’s seat and trying to find the right spanners, which I knew I had somewhere, was tough for an old git with a bad back. I turned the top screw on the Racor, then the tap at the bottom to drain the clearly visible crud, took off the top and lifted out the old filter. In with the new, I topped up the Racor with diesel and replaced and tightened its top, being careful not to lose the O ring. Draped over the smelly hot diesel engine, whilst Pippin plunged and reared, I was violently sick fortunately into the cockpit – as I cracked open the two bleed nipples, and flicked on the electric pump. Pure fuel flowed in seconds and then the joy, oh the joy – followed by a celebratory vomit – as the engine coughed and ran as sweet as a nut. The skipper’s amazing brilliance was, of course, immodestly captured ad nauseam in the log.
Pippin just laughed, rolling and diving comfortably and charging for Land’s End 160 miles away at 6.5 knots
Motor-sailing past Longships Lighthouse and around Land’s End into lovely Mount’s Bay, the little engine’s oily purr soothed my stress but I needed sleep, so it was great to tie up in Penzance at 2145 after 35 hours averaging 5.3 knots. I left two days later at 0600, crossing Mount’s Bay towards the shadowy Lizard, lobster pot markers keeping me tense. It was a diamond morning as Pippin cantered across the bay, guided by inscrutable Hercule the Hydrovane. There is a magic in the soft quiet of sailing; the gurgling wake, creak of the boom, rasp of rope on wire – all sounds that make sailing special, particularly with tea and sunshine.
The wind teased and promised but never returned, so I motor-sailed heart in mouth, for I really, really did not want to breakdown in the shipping lanes. Fortunately, I am not a great worrier at sea and operate a rewards-based system for morale; time for Army-issue oatmeal digestives.
It wasn’t long until larger ships began to appear full and low in the water, dragging their fat bellies along and pushing aside walls of sea, the bridge wings sticking out like ears on long faces. They can seem static yet they cover a mile in three minutes, and it was no surprise to see 27 ships on the radar screen, most unseen by the eye despite the endless dirty brown bank of exhaust pollution. Apparently just 30 of the world’s biggest ships produce more sulphur emissions annually than all the cars everywhere. Their low revving 2-stroke diesels make 108,000hp, guzzling 1,660 gallons an hour of the cheapest, filthiest, high-sulphur
There is a magic in the soft quiet of sailing; the gurgling wake, creak of the boom, rasp of rope on wire
fuel, the thick residues left behind in refineries which nobody on land is allowed to use.
The English Channel was eerily calm as the sun set and the little Yanmar chuntered on, pushing Pippin’s bowsprit in the direction of Guernsey.
I seem to have magnetic powers of attraction for trawlers and it’s not easy to work out their direction at night, for their navigation lights are hidden by powerful deck illumination and they move so very slowly.
I took bearings on the approaching leviathans to check they would pass safely by, though I have developed a sixth sense after many crossings. There is no chance of sleep in the Channel, but a good book and strong coffee helped, as dawn broke pink over a pewter sea. Five miles off sleepy Les Hanois, feeding dolphins came, playing with Pippin’s puny wake as she puttered on down the south coast.
THE HOME STRAIT
Approaching Castle Cornet, I stopped to await the start of a powerboat race and the departure of the Condor Liberation ferry, before slipping through St. Peter Port’s pier heads, after 330 eventful miles. Unfortunately my engine problems were not yet solved.
My next trip returning from Dielette, having battled round Sark in very light winds, resulted in me being towed back to Guernsey and St Peter Port.
A clogged filter was to blame again. Luckily it has now been sorted, but I’ve learned to always have a dedicated set of spanners for bleeding next to the filter, and to never rely on fuel treatments or changing filters when diesel bug strikes. From now on I will always drain and clean the tank, change the filter and refill the tank with fresh diesel, remembering to keep spares close to hand.