of ‘every owner’s emergency handbook’. Which he
proceeded to read, becoming more and more concerned with every page.
On another occasion when we had to sail back to
Athens to catch our flight home, it unfortunately decided to blow a full gale
on the day (Murphy’s law in action). But as time and British Airways wait
for no man we set out dressed for Cape Horn and with hearts in mouths. Reefed
down as much as we could, and with the motor ticking over in forward (to
prevent excessive leeway), we had a terrific sail back. This was undoubtedly
helped by the blazing sunshine and the fact that it was a broad reach all the
way. We sat in the cockpit being soaked regularly by the spray being thrown
back by the bow as it plunged through the waves. It is amazing the effect
sunshine has on the human mind, the wind never seems as threatening in bright
sunshine, whereas a full gale at night, in the depths of winter, is a truly
frightening thing.
A third experience in strong winds (probably force
5-6), took place in the UK, when we were sailing the J24 at Fowey. Thinking
that racing would be cancelled, we rigged and set out for the line, confident
that we would be sent back, which would enable us to brag in the bar later
that we were not frightened by a bit of wind. Imagine our surprise (and
disappointment) when, as we approached the committee boat, a cannon fired and
the 10 minute flag was hoisted. Panic is an inadequate word in these
circumstances, however as we were there, we decided to compete (if that’s
the word in our case). What followed was a superb sail as we trailed the fleet
around the course, smashing through the waves on the beat, planing on the
reaches and rolling alarmingly on the runs. Maybe not surprisingly we all
cowered in the cockpit for the duration of the race. Fortunately, we lost the
spinnaker halyard early on in the sail, thus removing any temptation to hoist
it. Gybes were executed extremely gingerly, with all of us holding our
collective breath as the boom scythed across the boat. Approaching the
committee boat after the first lap (which it has to be said was about 10 miles
long and had taken us an hour and a half to complete), a collective decision
was taken (with surprisingly little discussion) that we would retire
gracefully and leave the glory to others.
Strangely enough, all my light weather experiences
seem to have taken place in my own boats, maybe because, being a coward at
heart (they tend to live longer) I only ever sailed my cruisers in good
weather.
I well remember our first night sail, which took
place many years ago. Val and I planned to sail from Burnham on Crouch to
Brightlingsea in our first cruiser, a Jaguar 22, which we had acquired (with
help from the bank) earlier that year. Being new to this cruising lark, we
were not over ambitious in our destinations that first season. So with some
trepidation, we set out late one Friday night. Purely by chance we managed to
pick a night with both a full moon and a gentle warm breeze. As we headed out
of the river mouth the moon started to rise and was with us all the way.
Sailing in bright moonlight is a truly magical experience, as all colours
disappear, to be replaced by varied shades of grey and silver. Slipping along
at 2 or 3 miles an hour in total silence, except for the sound of our gentle
wake, with nobody else about is an experience which dreams are made of. We
eventually arrived at our destination and anchored, just as the sun rose.
Bacon sandwiches have never tasted so good.
Our second light wind experience was also in Essex, when we set out late one evening to sail the four miles to one off our favourite anchorages, in the River Roach. As we turned into the river with about two miles to sail, the wind started to die, until it was no more than a gentle zephyr. As it was now low water, we had no tide to fight and the water was as flat as the