Unstoppable

Voor Nederlands, klik hier.

I wake with a start from a short, coma-like sleep. Banging, clattering, and a boat behaving in a very peculiar way. I wriggle out of my bunk in record time and look outside. On either side of the cockpit, tall and steep waves rise towards the sky. Between them stands Jonas, seemingly unmoved, one hand on the tiller, steering as though he’s out for a leisurely Sunday sail. My flotation suit is drifting around the cockpit, washed there by a breaker that came aboard. The scrap of sail we’ve left up to steady the boat is flogging wildly because the traveller has come loose. The sleep that had overtaken me only moments ago has suddenly disappeared without a trace.

I’m not dreaming: I’m on my way to Ireland to deliver Mallard, a 1970 Sparkman & Stephens 34. We left Delfzijl almost four days ago, and because the wind was favourable and the boat seemed every bit as eager as we were, we’ve covered a lot of ground. But now our good run has come to an end, and we’re sailing—somewhat against our wishes—right through the Portland Race.

How we met

The boat we’re sailing—a well-known Sparkman & Stephens design—had been for sale for quite some time. After growing tired of stealing longing glances at the photos in the advert, I went to have a look in Delfzijl. She was a beautiful little yacht, lovingly maintained and equipped by Lukas, her proud second owner. But oddly enough, seeing her in person cured me of my infatuation. Mallard had been built and fitted out with great care and attention as a racing yacht, and that simply didn’t fit my plans.

Fortunately, a few months later a more suitable buyer came along, someone with exactly the right ambitions. Now all that remained was to get the boat to her new berth in Cork, Ireland. And because Lukas remembered that I also do deliveries, I still got the chance to sail her. “Careful with those S&S’s”, a sailor friend warns me, “they are seriously addictive”. Naturally, I do not listen.

Passage planning

So as spring slowly gets under way, I find myself with my nose buried in the Reeds Nautical Almanac, pilot books and tidal atlases, putting together a passage plan. Traffic separation schemes, tidal streams, reporting requirements, suitable harbours and ports of refuge, wind farms, visa requirements, decision points—I gather everything I can find into a document that’s beginning to resemble a book. Making it up as you go along is great fun when you’re sailing your own boat and time is on your side. In this case, though, it isn’t an option.

Meanwhile, Lukas takes care of preparing the boat. The crew is quickly arranged as well. Jonas, who proved his worth on an earlier delivery, is immediately enthusiastic and his friend Örjan, another solid Swedish sailor, is eager to join us as well.

Once the planning, the boat and the crew are all ready, we first wait for a spell of strong north-westerlies to pass over the North Sea. The Dutch weather service has issued an orange warning: not exactly the weather window we’re looking for. Fortunately, it soon blows through, and a gentle south-westerly announces our departure.

Into the North Sea

We cast off and head out to sea with the ebb beneath us. The sails go up and the boat races north. My eyes drift across the chart. Meeuwenstaart, Dukegat, Fischerbalje… She knows the way, after twenty years in these waters.

We motor-sail past the Wadden Islands until the wind shifts to the north and we can finally switch off the engine. Evening falls. I squeeze myself into the quarter berth and drift off to sleep with ease. The boat is making good progress, my crew knows what they’re doing, and the rhythm of the sea takes over. Sleeping – eating – steering: there isn’t much more than that basic three-quarter rhythm, and because of that, it’s all we need. Once we’ve passed Texel, we turn to starboard and set course for Dover.

England Ahoy

It doesn’t blow hard—except when suddenly it does. Every now and then a squall comes through with 25 knots of wind. It’s good practice in reefing and shaking reefs out again, and it gives us something to do while the Low Lands gradually disappear beyond the horizon. Just after we’ve hoisted the mainsail fully again for the umpteenth time, the tack suddenly ends up somewhere it has no business being. We soon realise that the gooseneck fitting has come loose from the mast. Within seconds Jonas and Örjan are on deck. Before long everything is back where it belongs, held together by an emergency repair with the roll of wire from that one drawer every boat has and every sailor knows.

After a long slalom between merchant ships, wind farms and traffic separation schemes, the British Coastguard announces the Shipping Forecast, loud and clear on Channel 16. We’re in England!

Fair tide, foul tide

We leave Ramsgate to starboard and head for the East Goodwin lightship, which has marked the eastern edge of the Goodwin Sands since 1795—albeit in various physical incarnations. Our timing for Dover is actually wrong: we’re too early, simply because the boat is in the mood to sail fast. But a change in the weather is on its way, bringing south-westerlies that will soon be against us. So we carry on with the tide firmly against us: after all, we aren’t here to stop.

We round the corner and follow England’s south coast. The next decision point is Brighton, and it seems sensible to get some rest there. But however many times I work it out, the tides simply don’t line up. We’d arrive at four in the morning, at low water springs, and the harbour entrance is silted up. And just as we would be safely inside, the wind would turn favourable again for carrying on west.

Wings of Wight

We’re not here to stop, and so we crack on. The wind eases and shifts a little, so we use the engine during the watches when the tide is against us. Once it turns in our favour, we can just about lay our course to the west under sail alone. I calculate that if we keep the speed up, we’ll reach the Isle of Wight just as the tide turns in our favour. Mallard glides gracefully through the water. With the sails properly trimmed she steers herself. Are we taking her to Ireland, or is she taking us?

On the afternoon of the third day, during Jonas’ watch, we sail—or rather fly—past the Isle of Wight at ten knots. A fresh north-north-westerly Force 5 combined with the spring tide gives our duck wings, and leaves broad grins on our beaks. A whole skein of yachts is heading in the same direction. We’ve now been underway for more than three days, with 400 miles in our wake. Well over halfway. With a bit of luck—and a bit of perseverance—this weather window should take us as far as Falmouth. At least, that’s what I think at the time.

Turning tide

As the tide
turns, it’s time for another decision. The obvious place to stop would be the anchorage off Swanage. But the holding there is questionable, and it’s blowing hard. The nearest harbour means quite a detour. Besides, tomorrow the wind will be from a more favourable direction.

Perhaps they’re just excuses. Perhaps it’s my hybris that’s at the helm. “Falmouth,” keeps echoing through my head. In mountaineering they call it summit fever: becoming so fixated on your destination that you lose sight of the risks and
the conditions around you.

Pushing through

We don’t stop. Instead, we tack and sail into the night, heading south. Beating to windward demands concentration, and with both wind and tide against us we make painfully little progress. I’m relieved when Jonas comes to take over my watch and we can tack again, back towards the land.

Only, with the sails now out to starboard, “back towards the land” turns out to mean back towards the Isle of Wight. Jonas is pragmatic and starts the engine. We’re not here to stop—but we’re not here to drift back east, either. So Jonas and Örjan motor-sail north-west during their watches, grinding away against wind and tide. Twelve hours earlier we’d felt invincible. Now I can feel our spirits beginning to sink.

When I relieve Örjan about five hours later, I’m cured of my summit fever. My sights are now firmly set on Dartmouth, some forty miles west from where we are. We’re passing close to Portland Bill, and I spread out the tidal atlas. The tide is just about to turn, and I’d hoped we’d be able to make good progress to windward.

It’s a disappointment. I tack several times, trim the sails until I’m blue in the face, but I simply can’t make any ground to the west. We need more sail, but that comes at the expense of comfort on board. And my crew still has a long way to go.

Backing down

It’s only when Jonas sticks his head through the companionway and asks how things are going that I realise how I’m doing myself. Frustrated, but above all tired, cold and hungry. Jonas makes me some sandwiches while listening patiently to my grumbling. “Can’t we put into a harbour?” he suggests. I look towards Portland Bill, which seems determined not to let us pass. Beyond it lies Portland Harbour, sheltered from every wind—once you’re inside.

The approach, however, is treacherous. These waters are safely navigable only around slack water. Outside that brief window, the Portland Race takes over: a stretch of wild water whipped into steep, chaotic seas where opposing tidal streams collide off the headland.

With the diagrams from the tidal atlas still fresh in my mind, I decide that now, at last, it is time to stop. Jonas takes the helm and I crawl into my bunk. I feel like a weary zombie, and by the time we enter the harbour I need to be in much better shape than I am now. My head has barely touched the pillow before I sink into a kind of coma…

…until I wake with a start to a boiling sea I’d much rather have avoided.

Portland Race

What the Reeds
describes as a slight race is, in reality, still something of a white-water course. Jonas’s calm demeanour—he tells me later—is just as much an act as my own cheerful, carefree response. The only person on board who remains genuinely relaxed amid all this violence is Örjan, snoring away in his bunk as though nothing at all is happening.

It would have been better to wake him. In these notorious waters, having two people on deck is no luxury. Better still would have been to avoid these notorious waters altogether, just as we’d originally planned. But Mallard seems simply unfazed: she shakes her feathers to rid herself of the water and moves on. Boats like her are built to resist bigger challenges.

As the sun rises we enter Portland Harbour. We’re given a berth on the visitors’ pontoon, and after a well-earned breakfast in the watery morning sunshine, it’s time to rest. A hot shower, some sleep, tidying up the boat, fish and chips ashore. We’ve covered good distance, but that last stretch was a tough one. Now it’s time to rest and take stock. What went well? What should I have done differently? And what does the next leg look like?

Pitstop Portland

Because the wind only continues to build, and a deep low moves across the Irish Sea, our stop in Portland turns into three days. We make a few repairs and replace the fuel filter. We improve the emergency repair to the gooseneck fitting with parts from that one chandlery every harbour has and every sailor knows. When I casually mention that the old manual bilge pump has stopped working, Örjan disappears into the cockpit locker without a word. Half an hour later, that problem has been solved as well.

Standing on the beach at Weymouth, I let my gaze wander over a sea that looks deceptively calm and, for the twenty-fifth time that day, wonder whether staying here really was the right decision. Back in the harbour, though, an angry westerly sends the halyards clanging against the masts. Just as well. We didn’t stop here for nothing.

Moving on

Eventually, right on cue, the wind eases late on Wednesday afternoon. We time our departure so that we’ll catch the ebb as soon as we’re past the Shambles, because we’ve decided not to take on the Portland Race a second time—and certainly not in the dark. I’ve learnt my lesson.

Before long we’ve slipped back into our familiar three-quarter rhythm. A lovely south-easterly springs up and carries us west under full sail. By Thursday evening we’re running goose-winged, with the headsail poled out, while the wind continues to freshen. That’s because we’ve swapped the jib for the big genoa. Sail changes like that always seem to make the wind pick up.

Running before the wind

Keeping the boat square before the wind takes concentration, but we’re making good progress, and I’m enjoying myself. The men are asleep, the sun is slowly making its way west, and every now and then a pod of dolphins comes over to investigate. Sooner or later we’ll have to gybe to get round Land’s End instead of onto it, but I keep putting it off. Just a little longer charging along like this, gaining some ground on the high-pressure system that’s creeping in from the east, threatening to leave us becalmed. We can sort the sail plan out properly at the next watch change.

“Shouldn’t we gybe?” I suddenly hear from the companionway. “Yes, in a minute, once you’re awake,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the wind indicator. “But I am awake, aren’t I?” says Jonas. “Same!” Örjan chimes in. A few moments later they’re both on deck. As if by magic, the dolphins return as well, almost as though they’ve come to cheer us on. When we adjust the sails for the night, they can no longer contain their enthusiasm. They leap clear of the water in great arcs, tumbling around the boat as though they’re celebrating the decision with us. Slowly, the sun disappears behind Land’s End.

Irish Sea

Early the next morning we cross the Land’s End TSS. Once the westernmost tip of England has disappeared into the distance, a gentle south-westerly blows away the low cloud. Without any further fuss, it carries us all the way across. No calm. No approaching high-pressure system. The barometer remains so steady that I begin to wonder whether it’s broken. In the early morning light of the third day, I make out a dark smudge on the horizon. Ireland!

Slaloming between ships entering and leaving the harbour, we make our way into Cork Harbour. It’s a glorious Saturday morning, and sailing boats of every shape and size dart past us on both sides. We keep to port and head for Crosshaven, admiring the remarkable variety of classic and not-so-classic yachts. Just don’t forget to steer accurately. Running aground with the harbour in sight is always a pity.

Welcome home

The Royal Cork Yacht Club isn’t just another marina. It’s the first—and the oldest—yacht club in the world, founded in 1720. Yachting had only just crossed the North Sea from the Netherlands to England. Today, we’re bringing a little Dutch boat, in line with tradition.

Kieran, the new owner, is standing on the last pontoon, waving both arms enthusiastically. He’s been eagerly awaiting our arrival because the racing season is already well underway. He’s well in his seventies, but it hasn’t diminished his competitive spirit in the slightest. He chose Mallard because of her excellent sailing qualities, her well-thought-out rig and her extensive sail wardrobe. The fact that there’s an identical boat in the harbour with a habit of winning races probably has something to do with it as well…

The moment the lines are made fast, a steady stream of family members and sailing friends comes to inspect Kieran’s new boat. Heads nod approvingly. Curious glances are cast below. Someone gives the coachroof an appreciative pat. I see confirmed what I’d already suspected: Mallard has found herself a proper new home.

The Royal Cork Yacht Club is the oldest yacht club in the world, founded in 1720. At the time, yachting had only recently crossed over from England, where it had become the latest craze among the country’s aristocracy.

In 1660, during his exile in the Netherlands, King Charles II of England, Ireland, and Scotland was presented with a pleasure yacht called Mary. Light, fast, and elegant, she was built purely for the enjoyment of sailing. The Dutch had already been indulging in this pastime for years. During their Golden Age, they had amassed immense wealth through the trading fleets of the Dutch East India Company (VOC), and many prosperous merchants—whose fortunes seemed to overflow from their grand canal houses—spent their money on building yachts for private use.

When Charles took Mary back to England after the Restoration, the idea quickly caught on. Before long, yachting had become a fashionable obsession among the English nobility. As so often, trends from London soon spread across the Irish Sea, and in 1720 the Water Club of the Harbour of Cork was established. It became the world’s first yacht club—and it still exists today as the Royal Cork Yacht Club.