That year we decided for the
three week summer cruise that we
would not go north of
Ardnamurchan. We would go up to
Tobermory and then investigate
Loch Sunnart with leisurely
sailing. We would anchor in
different little bays, moving on
when we felt like it, staying
put if we liked the place or the
pub – or both. Generally
relaxing in that way so special
to sailing. Not our usual
bashing on to a set destination
regardless.
But the heavenly
powers can have a warped sense
of humour.
The 29 foot Rhodes Ranger
MILLIBAR sailed quickly up the
sound of Mull in superb
weather. Moderate southwesterly
winds with a sprinkling of
summer cumulus. Just the right
amount of heel to get full
advantage from hull length and
white water bubbled merrily from
the stem. The weather forecast
couldn’t have been better and
helped lay the trap. The usual
three Twenties crew of 63-43-23
year-olds began thinking that
this was great travelling
weather.
We picked up a mooring
at Tobermory, had a meal and
went ashore to see if the
Mishnish and Macdonald Arms were
still in good condition. They were - and lulled by the
pleasant surroundings and a pint
or two, the three of us decided
to take advantage of weather and
forecast and head up to Portree
in Skye. We could do Loch
Sunnart next year.
First light in the morning we
were off. Breakfast in the
cockpit with a warming sun and
Loch Sunnart was left to
starboard. We settled down
passage making to Portree. It
was a great sail. Got the tide
right through the Kyle of Loch
Alsh –though at the neck we were
a wee bit early – and Fergus our
Nr 3 on the helm, had a wee bit
of a sensation going through the
disturbed water.. We didn’t warn
him – just sat there and watched
his face as he suddenly had to
contend with the hull being
gripped and pulled one way while
he felt a lot of pressure on the
tiller wanting to go the other
way. He called us nasty names
for not warning him. Our
skipper told him it was all in
the cause of experience.
Half an hour before
arriving at Portree we had a
strong gust from the hills on
Skye- and Fergus happened to be
on the helm again. We
three-quarter broached and
Fergus’s face was again a
picture. I grabbed the tiller
and squared her up telling Nr 3
that if it happened again just
to let everything go and the
boat would look after herself.
Just then an almighty gust came
hurtling down from the Portree
hills. I called out –‘ Watch --
and see what happens.’. I let go
of tiller and mainsheet. All I
heard in reply was a fast fading
burst of vile profanity. There
he was hanging grimly on to the
fully extended boom, his feet
about a foot off the water. The
gust past and both the skipper
and I asked him what he was
doing out there. . He told
us – still hanging on like mad
and interjecting every second
word with an ‘F’ or ‘B’ word,
that he had been listening and
watching me when the gust
struck.
The boom flew over –he ducked
and held out his arms to protect
his head and ended up as he
still was. We hauled the boom
and Fergus in. I asked him if
he had got the idea now? I was
told that it was going to cost
me pints till we arrived home –
which I thought was a bit steep.
We picked up a mooring
in Portree by 2000 and were
ashore by 2100.
The weather was still
perfect and the forecast holding
good. The heavenly trap was
well and truly set.
We sat that night in a
Portree hostelry experiencing
that ebullient feeling that you
get from having had a great sail
in almost perfect conditions.
Looking into his Carlsberg
Special the skipper murmured –‘
The way the forecast is we could
head up to Stornoway tomorrow.’
So, we left Portree at
0600 on a cracking highland
morning . There was very little
wind so we started the engine
and motor sailed up the Sound of
Raasay. When the north end of
Skye was on our port quarter a
slight increase in wind strength
allowed us to stop the engine
and let sail power quietly drive
us on.
We were treated to see
the Royal Yacht Britannia
heading towards us with the
Royal Standard streaming out.
We wondered which Royal was on
board. As Britannia passed
quite close, our question was
answered when the Queen Mum
appeared on the top deck, leaned
over the rail and gave us a
wave. That added to the trip.
We were tied up in
Stornoway and having coffee and
bickies by 1700 and well pleased
with ourselves.
The door to the divine
trap had closed.
That evening the sky
took on a less settled look with
cirrus advancing slowly from the
west . The forecast remained
the same. We checked with the
Coastguard but they had no
up-date of any imminent change.
The following morning there was
that ‘something’ about the sky.
We phoned the Weather Centre and
they told us that there was a
small low to the west but
nothing of any note. We still
didn’t like the look of the
sky. Cirrus was taking up a
chunk more of the sky and was
coming in at more than 45
degrees.
We decided to get some
stores aboard including food and
then make for East Loch Tarbert
on Harris as a start to getting
home while we could. There was
this strong feeling that someone
up above had been crooking their
finger to us, encouraging us on
till we got to Stornoway and now
was saying – ‘Got you – now you
will have fun getting back.’
We arrived in East
Loch Tarbert after a hard sail
with the wind on the nose and a
lumpy old sea. The forecast
hadn’t changed very much. We
left Harris early the next
morning intending to make for
the island of Canna. We
experienced progressively
heavier weather. Neist Point of
the west coast of Skye refused
to get any closer. We turned
with difficulty to head for Loch
Dunvegan. Our skipper told us
that was the first time in the
sixteen years he had had the
boat that he had been pooped.
Nr 3 told him that was no
consolation at all –as we
certainly had been ‘so-and so’
well pooped now.
We sailed into the
false Loch Dunvegan and battled
our way out and round the corner
and into Loch Dunvegan proper
looking forward to some shelter
but instead got accelerated
winds howling off the hills. We
finally anchored in comparative
quiet at 2300 with damaged main
and jib sails and two broken
battens. Our conscientious
Fergus told us that if we would
get something together to eat,
he would start sewing the ripped
sails.
We ate and took turns
at sewing through the night. A
local joiner spent some time
making new battens for us –and
charged us £2 and would not hear
of taking our offer for more.
The rest of the trip
back to Fairlie via Canna ,Loch
Aline, and Crinan was hard,
wet- - it never stopped pouring
with rain – and the wind was
against us all the time. The
inside of the boat ran with
water despite good head cloth.
Everything became sodden
including our oilies. The
weather folk never did change
their forecast.
We really did feel that we had
been lured on and were the butt
of a celestial joke.
The day after we
arrived home I met Fergus, our
Nr 3, and said –‘ Like me, I
suppose a hot bath was the best
thing since sliced bread ‘
‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘
that was good but the greatest
thing of all was dry toilet
paper.’
Harbour Stow.
It was a Friends Weekend on
Taikoo when adults who donate to
Ocean Youth Club were given the
opportunity to sail.
It was late Spring,
the weather was fine so most of
us were in shorts. We were
approaching our port for the
night and my watch was engaged
in stowing the mainsail. I was
instructing them in how to do a
good harbour stow. They had got
to the stage of having the big
heavy sail pulled out to form a
long, deep bag and were folding
the rest of the sail into the
bag. That went fairly
successfully with me
‘encouraging’ them to do their
best.
When the sail was
lying tidy along the boom it was
time to get the lashing on to
secure the large, tightly folded
sail to the boom. I was
explaining to the watch, who
were standing under the boom,
how to feed the lashing through
the foot of the sail and around
the sail – then working from
forward to aft. To direct the
operation better, I stood up on
the side of the coachroof facing
outboard and leaning over sail
and boom.
One of the watch, a
rather reserved woman of about
35, shouted rather peevishly
that she couldn’t get the
lashing through. I leaned
further over the boom and told
her just to take the free end
and feed it up and through the
gap between the sail and boom,
then catch the end and pull it
through, then pass it on to the
next
person in line, who in turn
would do the same and then pass
it on the her again as she moved
further along. Simply explained
–‘I thought.’.
At last she managed to
get the line through and I
shouted “ Good – now throw your
hand up and throw the end
over.” Her first attempt was a
weak effort. I shouted over to
her – “Put some effort into it.
Get your hand up and throw with
some weight behind it.” I think
she got annoyed at me – and
shouted back through gritted
teeth –“ I am trying you know.”
With that she really threw her
hand up, I felt it travel up
inside the leg of my shorts and
I experienced that sickening,
excruciating pain, that only men
can experience and I ended up on
the deck at her feet. In reply
to her query about what had
happened to me, I told her that
I had slipped.
After I had partially
recovered, we managed to get the
sail stowed reasonably well but
I may have lost some of my
earlier enthusiasm.
