Bobbing about

Eun na Mara is not a large sailing vessel. Ocean crossings in her would be difficult, not because the boat couldn't survive (she's a toughy with no qualms about going out in a good blast) but simply because the humans on board would need food and water and to carry enough of this would be difficult. Her little cupboards and lockers will only take so much and too much extra weight would make her low in the water and slow her down. So she takes us on short trips, and since she has a summer berth in Tarbert then this is the area where we sail, Loch Fyne and around the islands of the Clyde.

She will sail downwind happily, quite fast for one so small. Upwind she will go too but being so small, if this involves crashing into choppy seas then upwind sailing is hard work. The trick is to keep her moving quickly so her momentum pushes through the waves instead of bouncing off them but this is a mental challenge for the skipper who wants to gain ground to windward and tries to point the bow where he wants to go. Loch Fyne is particularly difficult because the wind tends to follow the loch, funnelled between the high ground on both sides. Exiting Tarbert harbour the choices are invariably upwind or downwind, no in between bits where the ideal sailing conditions lie. For a day sail I might choose upwind first to get the hard work out of the way early. If an overnight anchorage is planned, however, then the next day's forecast is equally important. A change in direction from one day to the next could be a real winner, played right.

On arrival at the marina I start with the plan I've had in my head for a day or so, sails up, turn right, head up the Kyles of Bute for one night, potter about, then return home. It's a scenery loaded couple of days, perfect. But as soon as we're clear of the harbour we are beating into a short choppy sea, spray flinging off the bow, strong gusts forcing me to clamber about putting a reef in the mainsail to prevent the boat leaning over too far. It is cool, the sun has barely made an appearance, and with this and the slowness of our progress upwind in mind after 30 minutes or so I review the plan. In between watching my belongings inside the cabin being tossed from one side to the other and hauling on the tiller to try to keep a good course I remember tomorrow's forecast. Today's south westerlies funnelling up the loch will become tomorrow's north westerlies, a crucial shift which, if I changed the plan, might just give me two consecutive days of downwind sailing, an unheard of event! Surely this can't happen.

I make a decision, pull the tiller towards me and ease the sheets, then we're off. Suddenly there is white foam beside me from the bow wave as we surf down the first of thousands of waves. I haven't time to check our speed but experience tells me it's over 6 knots, compared with a reluctant 3 going to windward. The boat stays dry and the gurgling noise from behind means we are flying. There are no other sailing boats in sight, just miles of sea then somewhere, up ahead of me a green concrete post marks the end of a spit of gravel and rocks. Behind this lies Otter Ferry, an anchorage where the lumpy seas can't go. All I have to do is keep steering downwind, eat the sandwiches I thoughtfully prepared earlier and keep my excitement in check till I can round up and drift into my safe haven for the night.

All goes well and once we are secured to the bottom, on a mooring, I can take stock and check the forecast again.

It's not perfect, rain is coming in overnight but it is quite warm and almost still. I erect our small homemade canopy over the cockpit, cook a meal then gaze around me. As I passed the end of the spit a trio of wetsuited swimmers was wading into the water and now I watch them arrive safely back at the shore having swum from where I had just gracefully sailed. Each to his own, I guess.

The rain arrived as predicted overnight, which was encouraging, and the morning came with a damp drizzle. Our little cockpit cover did its job well, keeping us dry. If the forecasters had got it right then around midday the sun would come out and the wind direction would change, a north westerly breeze being perfect for my return leg. The tide would also then begin to ebb, a happy coincidence (or else my perfect planning). All I had to do was wait, watch the gulls and drink tea.

Then suddenly it happened! The rays from our closest star found a gap in the clouds and flooded the world with light and warmth.  Welcome to a new world. Time check, yes the tide should now be on the turn and there are faint ripples on the water too, from a new direction. Mainsail up, cast off the mooring (thank you Otter Ferry), steer towards the end of the spit (which is now under water). Jib is unrolled and we're moving, slowly, barely a sound but there's a wake left behind us. The faint wind is flukey, turning slightly in our favour as we approach the concrete post again. One tack and we're drifting past it, bearing away and picking up speed. The hills are sheltering us no more and there's a fresh little breeze but this time the sea is flat and we accelerate smoothly away. Tarbert lies 10 miles away, still under a heavy cloud but we have blue sky above us, all is well in the world.

The passage home is quick, reaching along at 5 knots, admiring the hills, the absence of other sailing boats, and the warm breeze. 

The colour of the sea reflects the sky and reminds me why we live here. As I approach the harbour a large motor yacht emerges on a converging course which he holds for a while so I can pass ahead of him, then suddenly he veers to cross my bow, dangerously close. Priority to sail is obviously not in his vocabulary so he gets a raised finger before I'm tossed about by his massive wake. But it is just a minor event in an otherwise faultless day.

In no time the sails are lowered and we motor back to our berth, the first use of the engine since we left port the day before. I am still smiling from the two days of fast downwind sailing.