Walking a watery tightrope

A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Tue 9 Aug 2011 14:44
40:08.74N
026:15.28W
 
Summer Song is back under way again after a rapid week exploring three Azores. We weighed up our options yesterday on a windy morning and decided that the discomfort of stronger winds and lumpy seas was outgunned by the big advantage of clearing the Azores high under sail and at speed.
 
Today finds us surfing along at about seven knots, heading directly for Poole. The pilots advise making a northerly detour to clear the islands and pick up the south westerly winds. But with the current favourable winds, we have no need to do this, cutting about 150 miles off our route. Satisfyingly, the rhumb line route between Horta and Poole runs 60 miles clear of Ushant and straight up the English Channel. It's a fine line, though. If we stray too far to the left, we'll find the wind and seas picking up uncomfortably and if we venture right, we'll find ourselves bobbing on a millpond in less than five knots of wind. So, we're doing the sailing equivalent of walking a tightrope.
 
Spirits were high yesterday as we manoeuvred out of the marina after lunch. We'd had an excellent farewell supper of wood-fire grilled fish in a Russian establishment in Horta with our Danish friends Sten and Rosemarie, before repairing to their boat Troldand for Portuguese aguardiente brandy. We'd promised them that they'd see us getting the sails up and switching off the engine before we left the shelter of the breakwater, and so we did, crashing round the outside of a cloud of Optimist dinghies that were struggling with heavy seas and winds up to 30 knots. Elise, a dinghy fanatic, watched them with envious green eyes. A day later, and eyes are still green, but more due to a poor night's sleep and the incessant pitching of the boat on two opposing wave directions.
 
As we threaded our way between a number of different Azores on our way out yesterday, Chris suddenly noticed water swilling above the bilge in the galley. Worryingly, it was salty. We ducked into the lee of Sao Jorge's cliffs to investigate and found, after eliminating the classics such as leaking seacocks or loose propellor seals, that the pipe draining water out of the cockpit had come off. Every time we rode down a wave with the back of the boat deep in the water, a hearty libation of seawater would gurgle into the stern locker, then down into the engine well. It was quickly fixed and we carried on, but there was a nervous half hour before we figured out the source of the problem.
 
Next, the Hydrovane (which steers us at a constant angle to the wind) started acting up. We weren't sure why until we noticed that the Hydrovane's red sail was butting the pole carrying the ensign on the stern rail every time we turned to starboard. The ancient sailcloth had ripped straight through, and we'd lost some steerage. I think Hydrovane make these things to give up after 12 months so you have to buy a new one. The Skipper wrapped layer after layer of clingfilm around the rip and finished the effect off with a flourish of gaffer tape, gaving it a jaunty, bandaged air.
 
Last but not least, our two fishing lines became desperately entangled, forcing Chris to spend an hour unpicking them. They're both a bit crinkly now, but since we haven't caught a fish in nearly four weeks, it probably doesn't matter much!
 
So, there has been plenty of excitement aboard, though we debated how much of it to report in the blog. Chris gave me a stern look and came down on the 'all censorship is wrong' side of the argument while Elise took a more pragmatic Scandinavian approach: "We fixed the problem so we should be proud of ourselves. We're sailing, not taking a road trip - it's a bit more extreme, so of course things will go wrong."
 
The crew is perky, then, as the sun is out and we've covered some 150 miles since midday yesterday - really good going for a 34 foot boat. Also, we're on the homeward leg, and it's hard not to spend time imagining reunions with family and friends as the boat slides into Poole Harbour. And hot baths... And pints of ale and beds that are level, and, and, and...