What a night! We decided that we were far too excited to anchor in local waters and that it would be fun to see how our new navigational equipment would stand up to a nights sail across the puzzle of sand banks that stoond between us and Ramsgate on the south east corner of our country. The dark skies remained full of rain, the night set in and our new global positioning system (GPS) shed the only light available into our cockpit. The only other lights were the navigational bouys and marks which in effect created a runway which to follow, safely weaving us around the dangers which lurk beneath. We were lucky that the tide was in our favour and we used this to our advantage as we gained an extra knot or two of speed. It’s kind of like a conveyer belt; the tide moves as it comes in and out and so adds speed to you if you are going in the same direction, or can slow you down (to a virtual stand still or even backwards if you are unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time).
Whilst Pete was on the helm, fully kitted up with his foul weather gear on, hood pulled down with only his eyes peering through, I went below to check on things. On lifting the cover to inspect the bilge (the bottom of the boat where our pumps are located to get rid of any water that might enter the boat), I noticed there was some water swilling around. Not much and to be fair we had noticed this several times before but each time we thought that we had found the leak it seemed to return from somewhere else! After sponging it dry I checked again ten minutes later only to find it wet again. I repeated the sponge routine out thinking it might just be backwash but as quick as I was sucking it up, it filled up again! We had only been sailing for a few hours and already we had problems! At around 0300 I discovered the source; a leaking seal on our engine exhaust on the port side (left). Every time we leaned over, the fitting scooped up water and so it began its journey down to the bilge. Fortunately Pete had completed our run on the starboard tack and the exhaust was out of the water. So, armed with an array of tools I went about dismantling the wardrobe, tank filter and wood panelling to get a clear shot with the mastick gun. I managed to form a seal around the fitting which stemmed the flow to a mere trickle at most. This would have to do until we reached a sheltered anchorage where we could lay flat enough to inspect the exhaust from the outside. It sounds really odd but at 0400, when the seal was in place, I felt an odd satisfaction at having sweated and toiled over such a frustrating job. It made me realise that from now on that was how it was going to be; the jobs that we might have done on land would now all be completed at sea. From this point on we were not just sailing, but living and maintaining our vessel whilst travelling at the same time.
Anyone who knows Pete will understand how much he loves his sleep. When I first met him I thought it was just a hibernation thing but as spring approached and he still got excited at the thought of getting his head down on the pillow at 9pm, I began to realise that the guy really did like early nights. In one of the many talks we had whilst planning our adventure, we had discussed sleep. If there was only two of us it was inevitable that we would either be at sleep or sailing the boat. So it was unbelievable that we went 60 hours with only 5 hrs sleep a piece during this leg of the journey. How is it that a 60 minute power nap can keep you going for another 5 hours? All the way along the south coast; past Dover, across the vast bay to Dungerness and rounding Beachy Head and the ever impressive Seven Sisters, into we our second night of non stop sailing (we motor sailed for an hour before attempting to sail again, the first time the engine had been used since leaving Heybridge) we saw the lights shimmer of the electric sea side resorts of Newhaven and Brighton. Somehow the throb of the engine seems to lull you unwillingly into a sleepy state, a bit like the return car journey from anywhere at night. It was then that a craving for sleep crept up on us. We hot bedded it for two consecutive hours. When on the helm we did anything to keep us from nodding into sleep; mini cock pit yoga, suduko, letter writing, checking the GPS, playing with the radar, making cups of tea, singing, guess the time, mini cockpit yoga, suduko, letter writing…all of which I found myself flitting between with the concentration of a gold fish, willing the minutes to go until it was time for Pete to wake up and take the helm so I could hot foot it into bed for some shut eye.
Oddly enough with day break and the sighting of the Isle of Wight I persuaded my eyes to stay open (I find if you can trick them for 20 minutes then you are home and dry) and together we saw day 3 arrive. Passing Cowes we were lucky enough to pass the endless stream of boats that were eagerly awaiting the start of the new day of races in Cowes Week. Some of them were relics of the recent Volvo 5 Oceans Race; long, sleek and speedy looking despite being motionless on a mooring. We also saw Ellen McArthur’s trimaran which she raced solo around the world, now stripped of its B and Q colours and sporting a ‘For Sale’ sign.
Without wind and disliking the motoring we anchored in Alum Bay, the place where you can see all different coloured sands on one beach. We had a beautiful view of The Needles and for the first time I discovered how crystal clear the waters are on the south coast. After fixing the leaking exhaust, we cooled of with a refreshing swim around Don Quixote. To see her keel clear, as if I was on land and she was on the hard, was so bizarre. It was as if she was floating in a swimming pool and I had just dived in next to her.
With the sun bright, we lounged around and it was not long before we both fell into distant sleep. Another thing I have realised about sleeping on this journey is that you may only get a nap, but you instantly fall into a perfectly deep sleep. No tossing and turning, even with the sounds of the waves crashing along the sides or the rigging rattling restlessly. I find that bliss. Rest at last.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
HEYBRIDGE BASIN: 7-08-07, 1900 Hrs
Despite planning and preparing for this adventure for the last 6 months, it was still a big rush to stack, pack and rack all of the loose ends on Don Quixote II. It really is something special to have your whole life wrapped up within one big floating parcel. Not sure our parents would agree entirely with that statement as their lofts bulge with bag after bag of our ‘precious’ trinkets that we cannot take or bear to part with.
Our families had gathered for the last of the post wedding BBQ’s and it was slowly dawning on me we really were heading off. Each time I glanced at my loving mum, Val, I wondered how many looks we had left before there would be no more. Even though Pete and I had nearly totalled double figures for the amount of leaving parties/speeches/drinks we had been a part of, we knew the final wave from Heybridge Basin would be the tear jerker, and as the day raced on my stomach was beginning to reconstruct the gravity pull that only a hair raising roller coaster ride can create.
With most of the essential items packed away; best china, Schwarz ornaments and chandeliers, I sensed the boat was being prised away from the nook she had sat in for the last few weeks since gaining her new polished skin. Warps and springs were taken apart, accompanied by the sound of the opening lock gates and chin scratching debates as to which was the best way to manoeuvre Don safely away from the mooring. My attention flitted between my devoted mother, standing anxiously on the quay alongside supportive faces that had gathered to share our departure (or just check that we were really going at last!), and the immediate jobs that needed doing. Don won. I stayed on her and guarded her polished topsides safely into the lock.
By now a small crowd had gathered and the skies turned dark; not really the cheery, sun lit afternoon I had pictured but it did not matter as the atmosphere was overwhelming. Champagne was sprayed, (not bounced of her body as some suggested!) and it was then we placed our final footprints on the lock side to say our farewells. I flew into my mum’s arms, the tears no longer sustained but I did attempt to laugh with them rather than lose myself in a sea of sadness. I heard a wail, an outcry of pure love from behind and knew it was for my husband ,from his father. Making my way around the shoal of supporters, words of great encouragement and well wishes were sent and received, along with the compulsive swigging of champers. I heard the final chinking of the lock gates and knew Don Quixote was in danger of missing her tide. My eyes searched for my mum for one last hug but she was lining herself up for a fantastic departing photo opportunity at the end of the lock. Jeers and shouts reminded me of our boat and I saw my hub on board waiting for me. The wind pushed the boat out of reach and with one hand clutching a half drunken bottle I took a leap of faith, praying that I would make the distance. I did, somehow!
As we pulled away, I was glad the rain trickled down on us as it watered down the tears and melted sadness with joy. Pete yelled goodbye to the great British weather and left a sea of arms waving from land as if in need of rescue,
Just the rain, with images of people celebrating and the sounds of support saw us out past the withies and into the same water that would amazingly carry us, someday, to the Caribbean.
That was how we left. And then we had our own private moments with wells in our eyes and swelled hearts reminding us of how much it all meant to us, and all those close. That was when we looked each other in the eyes, chinked bottles and said ‘cheers’ (and splashed a sample over the side for Neptune).
Our adventure had begun.
Our families had gathered for the last of the post wedding BBQ’s and it was slowly dawning on me we really were heading off. Each time I glanced at my loving mum, Val, I wondered how many looks we had left before there would be no more. Even though Pete and I had nearly totalled double figures for the amount of leaving parties/speeches/drinks we had been a part of, we knew the final wave from Heybridge Basin would be the tear jerker, and as the day raced on my stomach was beginning to reconstruct the gravity pull that only a hair raising roller coaster ride can create.
With most of the essential items packed away; best china, Schwarz ornaments and chandeliers, I sensed the boat was being prised away from the nook she had sat in for the last few weeks since gaining her new polished skin. Warps and springs were taken apart, accompanied by the sound of the opening lock gates and chin scratching debates as to which was the best way to manoeuvre Don safely away from the mooring. My attention flitted between my devoted mother, standing anxiously on the quay alongside supportive faces that had gathered to share our departure (or just check that we were really going at last!), and the immediate jobs that needed doing. Don won. I stayed on her and guarded her polished topsides safely into the lock.
By now a small crowd had gathered and the skies turned dark; not really the cheery, sun lit afternoon I had pictured but it did not matter as the atmosphere was overwhelming. Champagne was sprayed, (not bounced of her body as some suggested!) and it was then we placed our final footprints on the lock side to say our farewells. I flew into my mum’s arms, the tears no longer sustained but I did attempt to laugh with them rather than lose myself in a sea of sadness. I heard a wail, an outcry of pure love from behind and knew it was for my husband ,from his father. Making my way around the shoal of supporters, words of great encouragement and well wishes were sent and received, along with the compulsive swigging of champers. I heard the final chinking of the lock gates and knew Don Quixote was in danger of missing her tide. My eyes searched for my mum for one last hug but she was lining herself up for a fantastic departing photo opportunity at the end of the lock. Jeers and shouts reminded me of our boat and I saw my hub on board waiting for me. The wind pushed the boat out of reach and with one hand clutching a half drunken bottle I took a leap of faith, praying that I would make the distance. I did, somehow!
As we pulled away, I was glad the rain trickled down on us as it watered down the tears and melted sadness with joy. Pete yelled goodbye to the great British weather and left a sea of arms waving from land as if in need of rescue,
Just the rain, with images of people celebrating and the sounds of support saw us out past the withies and into the same water that would amazingly carry us, someday, to the Caribbean.
That was how we left. And then we had our own private moments with wells in our eyes and swelled hearts reminding us of how much it all meant to us, and all those close. That was when we looked each other in the eyes, chinked bottles and said ‘cheers’ (and splashed a sample over the side for Neptune).
Our adventure had begun.
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