I need to confess something dear Reader; my (fibreglass) Folkboat has spots. From bow to almost her shapely stern, she has hundreds of tiny red rust speckles. Now we sailors know that stainless steel does not rust (ha ha), well at least not on Bohemian's topsides (at the moment).But up forrard there's a forty year old Danforth and chain that are conspicuously off colour, and they have attracted the attention of the Skipper. "Fix that unsightly bloody mess sailor" he bellowed before trailing off mumbling something about stainless chain and silver paint. So like the good sailors aboard the visiting collides, I attacked the anchor with a wirebrush and paintbrush. After a few coats and letting in a metre of stainless steel chain, it looked sparkling and more importantly, free of rust.
The Skipper reeled along the decks and having satisfied himself the job was done ordered sail to be set lest someone mistake the vessel for mooring ornament of which he is very sensitive. The recently fitted lazyjacks fouled the setting of the mains'l something chronic, so a sharp knife turned them into string in an instant: unsightly and useless. The mooring gear was hauled aft and we set off at what was to be the maximum number of knots for the day.
Our sails trimmed taught-ish, on the wind but with enough camber to harness the breeze, we hauled away. The weight of ballast and long keeI gave us a typically slow start over a cable's distance and before she built momentum to pass effortlessly through any chop or holes in the breeze. The entrance to North Arm Cove is narrow (0.2nm. wide), the hill on the south-east of about 300 feet, bends the wind adding a nice bit of trickery for the seasoned helmsman - a half teaspoon of salt. Today we were awarded a 20 degree lift, well at least while we remained on the starboard tack. On port tack sailing below the entrance and free of the windshadow, the helmsman failed to win back his 20 degrees. The Skipper scowled a dark look but the helmsman pointed to a darker bank of cloud off to the west which has caused the wind to swing.
The headsail telltails were streaming true and despite her foul bottom the Bohemian was footing fairly. Our current course would take us close to the mooring of Sirius, a fifty foot navy blue and white ketch with lashing of shiny stainless steel and electronic gadgetry. Proximity to this darling of the waterway put our Skipper in strange moods, envy, turned to gratitude that he didn't need a full crew to maintain and sail her. Old age has bought on a crotchety side to his personality and he was becoming less tolerant of landlubbers for crew. Yes, he preferred to sail alone, and of the cost of that was to run a smaller simpler ship, then so be it. He gave the Bohemian an affectionate pat and the helmsman relaxed his shoulders."Thank god" he thought, that the Skipper had never witnessed Sirius under sail. There'd be no guessing how the Old Man would carry on.
Any we'd out-sailed all the flash Morrooring Ornaments today, again, as we always do. We could solve our "refugee problem" overnight by putting refugees onboard these unused yachts. In this cove alone there are more than 12 yachts from 35 to 50 foot long that couldeasily accommodate needy families without their owners ever realising.
But I digress, the narrow entrance approaching was made little more squeeze by our convergence with the courses of two yachts on converging courses. Both larger than "Boho"(not surprisingly) and both motoring (not surprisingly). One I knew, "Golden Prospects" a 40' Irens design sailed by Ray heading back to his mooring by the look of it, the other was a catamaran which caused most alarm, not because of her massive wheelhouse and canary yellow furling gear, but because she was travelling fast and erratically. To avoid them both we maintained course on starboard to just skim past the channel buoy. We set ourself about getting every fraction of a knot from Boho while these guys soughted themselves out. As I squeezed passed the starboard/green channel marker I gave Ray a quiet wave while privately pinching my nose against. I knew where the gaudy cat was due to the high pitched wailing of her twin outboards. Fortune finally shone upon us as we'd cleared the channel buoy we could bear off now and gain some searoom. Soon enough a lively spray sluicing from her bluff bows, the full monstrosity of a capacious catamaran loaded with deck clutter I've never seen, hove into view. Still, her erratic course did little to reassure me that anyone was steering. I love Wharrams but this thing looked like a neglected caravan afloat. Once she was abeam I afforded myself a sigh only to see her wheel around tilting like a London bus, into a one-eighty course change. A harrassed housewife type emerged from from among the deck clutter complete with ruffled hair and flapped a jaunty wave as way to explain away her erratic behaviour. I thought, "well at least she knows we're here".
It resolved itself soon after as helmsman discovered the concealed entrance to Fame Cove and steered directly there and soon disappeared from care.
As the alarming din of her outboards faded, so too did the wind. Fearing being becalmed the Skipper ordered an immediate return to Bohemian' s mooring.
This was conducted at slower than snail's pace, on a direct course. The only excitement aboard came when the Skipper ordered all hands to ship oars and row us home, which was done in good time with little fuss.
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