First leg 43.54N 07.48W
Dandelion
Rick, Helen, Sue, John
Wed 20 Jul 2016 23:00
On a voyage of this magnitude, departure is never going to be a totally private thing.
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> At the commencement of previous maritime meanderings, we've tended to slip away quietly but this time the word was out. (This was largely our fault. On the basis that if you tell someone you're going to do a thing, (and tell them several times) then you will probably do your damnedest to do it.
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> Plus the fact that a week ago we'd invited a few friends for a drink in the Plough in order to say adieu. It would therefore be a trifle awkward if, after a couple of weeks, we were discovered swinging around the mooring.......'oh, the voyage? Ah yes, well........'
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> In the same vein, Cortez, when he reached the New World, burnt his boats. This was his way of showing commitment to whatever it was he was doing down there (perhaps an aggravated case.)
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> Anyway, with a full compliment (H & R joined up on Friday), the water tanks topped up, the rum barrel brimming and parrot food in abundance, at 1158 on Sunday 17th July, we slipped our Holes Hole mooring and headed slowly down stream waving and hooting to various shore parties - Mike Perkin with his Red Ensign, Liz Rowley waving manically (and perhaps a little wistfully). L and S on the WQBY pontoon and a group of well-wishes - Bob, Ann, Sarah and others - waving from the WQSC slip. All very moving and underlining of the fact that, for a time, we are leaving behind the life we have built for ourselves on the Bere peninsular.
> Stout hearts! As our loved ones dwindled into the distance behind us we turned our gaze resolutely forwards. South.
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> The Channel was at its Sunday best, very gently heaving under the bluest of skies and largely populated with returning weekenders, drifting home in an uncertain sea breeze. Behind us, the familiar coast merged into the far-distance, and we motored out, heading for the inshore Traffic Zone off Ushant. Dinner at seven and at 2200 the watches begin, marking the rhythm of any offshore passage.
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> The first minor hiccup of the voyage became apparent as night approached. We found that our AIS (a bit of techno-wizardry which amazingly enables us to not only detect another vessel but also to get its name, its size, its destination and, perhaps most critically, the nearest point of approach) has gone on unofficial holiday. We still have radar and four sets of Mark 1 eyeballs, but, if you have to, it's very nice to be able to call up a ship by name rather than, 'steamship in position.......this is Dandelion, have you bloody seen us?' Sure enough, as we reached the Lanes we were obliged to dodge round several errant merchantmen charging along as if they own the damn place.
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> We finally killed the donk at 0650 on Monday and hoisted very scrap of canvass available at a NE 3 that had turned up and hauled south at a stately, if not exactly mile-eating - 4.2 knots. Of course this was just a come-on and by 1300 we had the Yanmar fired up again and with the thick end of 500 miles to go, began looking at the fuel gauges. There was a brief discussion about heading for the Benodet river in Brittany (entirely delightful and rather tempting) and waiting for wind but in the end stouter hearts prevailed and having recalculated our range even without any help from the God of Wind we kept the bows pointing around 210 (a bit right of S).
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> It wasn't until 1115 on Tuesday, just after we'd cleared the continental shelf, that we found any breeze and (the Weather Gods clearly having forgotten us) it was a nice little NW3 which sent us along our course at a reasonable 5 knots with the clambering of the donk soon becoming a thing of the past.
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> Of course they couldn't leave well alone and by early afternoon cranked it round to WSW, wound it up to a F4 which (a) 'headed us* and (b) developed a nasty choppy little sea.
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> * it's technical but in the end means you can't go where you originally wanted to.
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> Sailing into a head sea - that is, with the line of waves coming towards you from the front of the boat (sorry about the jargon) - is a mug's game. Every second or third wave catches the boat awkwardly and the whole caboodle comes to a grinding juddering almost-stop, wallowing around before the press of canvass forces us forwards again. For those in their bunks it's a bit like having the brakes slammed on.
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> Dandelion is doesn't do well in these conditions. I suppose one might consider that a comfy sofa has no real place in a Formula 1 line up, but equally you wouldn't want to sit in the cockpit of a F1 car for days on end. If one takes the stripped-out, less-than-luxurious-but-points-like-a-witch nature of a modern racing boat then, by comparison, Dandelion IS the comfy sofa.
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> However, by way of squaring the books, a few Fin Whales came along to visit, blowing just 50 metres from us. How assured they look, so languid their movement. No hurry, no fuss, a truly glorious creature completely at home in an element where we are the visitors.
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> Fishing reared its head today. The mate and R (forming the fishing team) soon had their gear over the side. One on the port side of the cockpit, one on the starboard. The results were predictable. Sue suddenly calls out, 'I've got a hell of a pull of my line'. R says, 'same here'. Let me assure you (before you start digging for a cold Sauvignon) this wasn't down to both of them, simultaneously (and miraculously) catching something worth eating. No no, its down to them fouling each other's paravane thingies which trundle along about 3 boat-lengths astern and which then have to be hauled in (and in so-doing create the worlds biggest ever line tangle right in our own cockpit). In the meantime a couple of gannets have spotted Sue's lure - a completely unrealistic rubbery octopus - and before you can say, 'look, it's not real, you won't like it, just leave the f**king thing alone', they dive on it.
> Anyone seen a gannet dive close up? No? Well it's pretty spectacular thing. Having spotted a potential lunch, they tip over into a no-messing full-on power dive, wings partially folded, then, at the very moment of impact they fold them fully back (and probably close their eyes as well - I know I would) - by which point at they're going at a hell of a pace.
> Anyway no real harm done except the Mate lost her gear (I.e the rubbery octopus) from which I can only deduce that somewhere up in N Biscay there's a sad old gannet flying around in desperate need of a good dose of ex-lax. (Scant reward when you look at the effort that goes into that bloody dive.)
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> The weather gods kept the nasty head-sea, close-hauled conditions going all through Tuesday and such was the motion of the vessel that supper was curtailed, everyone who was off-watch dispersing to their berths for an early night.
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> And the crash-bash style of our progress didn't change much throughout Wednesday either but the dreary grey cloud sheet that had been with us for the last couple of days evaporated as the pressure rose and we were all alone in a sparking blue bit of the North Atlantic watching far-off whale-blows in the hope that they might come closer (but not too close, hey!). How easy it would have been to track those creatures when whaling was the thing up here. Their blows are absolutely huge and hang in the air like misty clouds for 10 or 15 seconds. Plenty of time to be spotted and for the dreaded shout to go up, 'thar she blows'.
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> Wednesday 1800. We're still being headed - the wind's backed to just S of W so all we can do is about 200. This won't clear Finisterre (that's the Spanish one) so we're looking at alternatives. In so doing I notice from the Plotter that slap-bang on our amended track there's a large yellow buoy (described as the Major Float Light). Given that it's anchored in 1300' of water is must be a thing of some substance. I imagine it's used for research but whatever, we don't want to run into it if, for no other reason, that our Spanish is not yet equal to the phrase, 'look, I'm terribly sorry, but I've just gone and sunk your big yellow research buoy'.
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> Thursday 0415. Well, in the end, we plumped for Cedeira, a gorgeous Ria right on the NW corner of Spain. Even to push into here we had to prick the Yanmar back into life, given that the wind had backed to something S of W. Bloody weather gods.
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> Of course, nothing is straightforward in this game and sure enough, just as yours truly was drifting off for an off-watch nap, a call came down, 'Skipper, there's a bit of fog'.
> Oh joy. When I reached the deck H was explaining that the lighthouse had, 'suddenly gone out', but, weirdly, the almost-full moon still hung over us in its rightful spot.
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> Actually this isn't an unknown condition in these parts. The Spanish, not perhaps initially cottoning on to this phenomenon, built all their lighthouses right on the hilltops. Once they were all complete (and there are dozens of them, just here in Galicia) there may have been a moment of sad realisation when someone mentioned, 'look, these lighthouses, great idea and everything but the snag is that more often than not they're wreathed in fog/mist/cloud and invisible to seafarers'.
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> Anyway, whilst a nighttime approach in fog isn't ideal, with the radar and plotter-thingy, we felt our way in without too much angst and as we entered the Ria, the fog clearing (praise the Lord) as anchorage opened to port and with the lights of Cedeira helping to highlight other vessels, we dropped the hook in the beautifully calm anchorage.
> And so we're in Spain. First leg complete. A dram was in order.
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> Love the Skipper
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