nautical links

Acknowledging the past

/ Bill

On Boxing Day, at low tide, we walked on the beach.

Empty quay, Bude, Boxing Day, 2008

The weather was one of blue skies and crystal-clear visibility.

The views were amazing, but there is always more to a view than meets the eye – there is a history that rides with it.

Ceres, Bude

This is not a request to  focus on the past, but to share it – to acknowledge that the past existed and that those who lived through it were no different from us.

They too saw the world change before their eyes and their old certainties lost to an unknown future.

Low tide, Bude, Boxing Day, 2008

Thus the toast this Christmas is the toast of Christmas’ past –  “Absent Friends”.

Ceres, waiting for the tide, Bude

For more on Ceres – here, here and here

For love of a boat – Teignmouth, Devon, UK

/ Bill

Teignmouth to Shaldon Ferry, late afternoon, December 2008 (and a short clip)

I was going to describe the ferry trip, but then I found this:

“. . . I too many and many a time cross’d the river, the sun half an hour high;
I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls-I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless
wings,
oscillating their bodies,
I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong
shadow,
I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south.

I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water,
Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams,
Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the sun-lit
water,
Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward,
Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet,
Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships,
Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me,
Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops  –  saw the ships at anchor,
The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars,
The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants,
The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses,
The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels,
The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set,
The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and
glistening,
The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by
the docks . . .”

taken from Crossing Brooklyn Ferry, by Walt Whitman

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Different ferry, same feeling – a deeply memorable description.

Enjoy the Christmas break.

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For the origin of this series – here

Inward bound

/ Bill / 1 Comment

I took a series of images of Cemluna inward bound on the last of the tide this morning.

Not my usual subject but the moment was right.

Whether you are interested in ships or not, I defy you to ignore the grace of such a large object being shepherded gently through the water

Then this evening, I was directed to Tugster’s blog – stunning images and a facinating site.

Photography is not always the answer

/ Bill / 1 Comment

Photography is often frustrating because what you are able to record is a small fraction of what you want to record. Sometimes it’s what is outside the image that makes the image itself worthwhile. At other times it’s better not to try but to leave the moment alone.

This was the case the other morning when we set out to enjoy a short sail.

As we left the Sound, the wind strengthened and steadied from the west. We settled on a course south south west, Eddystone on our starboard bow – four and a half knots across a gentle swell.

The sky had been heavily overcast all morning – a dark layer of stratus that shut out the sun and promised rain.  But, for now, there were clear patches of blue sky showing in the west.

It was that approaching blue sky that held our attention as, four miles out, we watched the coast come to life – cherished Cornwall unveiling in the sunshine.

First the Dodman, then the steep cliffs around Fowey, the green fields behind Polperro and on to the bright houses of Looe, sunlight flashing on expectant windows; Downderry sparkled along the water’s edge, pointing to Portwrinkle still hidden behind Rame, before the headland itself beamed out at us.

Silenced, we breathed in the startling November light, marvelling at the clarity of detail, excited by the intensity of the experience. Behind us the sea seemed to darken.

Suddenly, inland, the high chimney stack on Kit Hill stood proud in the sunshine. Next, a group of buildings on Plymouth Hoe, white beacons in the afternoon, overwhelming their less fortunate neighbours. In the foreground, the Breakwater leapt at us. And the whole stunning display moved eastward – scudding along the South Devon coast.

By now, Cornwall was dark again and disappearing fast.

Five miles out we turned for home, basking in our own ten-minute spotlight before, with the Cornish coast lost behind Rame, the gloom bore down on us. Dartmoor disappeared behind the city, leaving it without background – bleak, solemn and solitary, enveloped in drizzle.

We rounded the Breakwater in the murk, the band of drizzle mercifully lifting as we crossed the Sound.

A little later, dry and ashore, we watched the next band of rain cross the Cattewater, blotting out the familiar view.

It was a day to treasure – a day when there was more to sailing than the sailing, more images than could possibly be recorded.