weather & tides

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

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.

On sailing a Folksong

/ Bill / 1 Comment

On tuning the boat

The Open 60s are in Les Sables d’Olonne undergoing final tuning for the Vendee Globe.

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I remember one day, in my early teens, sailing Falcon solo out of Fowey, around the Cannis Buoy off Gribben Head and back again – all of three miles.

A big adventure for me.

Falcon – early sixties, racing with my Dad and sister

That day, the wind was light, the sea calm, the sun shining – (it always shone on those days). It was the day I learnt what sailing was all about. I got to thinking about my being the connection between wind and sea. Take away the boat and here was I, sitting a few inches above the water, my feet below the waterline, moving steadily along the coast with just the wind to drive me. If I got the balance right, even for a few seconds, the equation would be sea + me + wind = performance Add Falcon back into the equation and it became:: sea + hull + tiller + me + sheets + sail + wind = performance Fantastic, I thought, the wind may change, the sea state will vary, but, with an adjustment of a sheet here, a quiet movement of the tiller there, I can ride the energy between them. What I was recognising in my rather slow way was that sailing is about sailing – any talk of a destination, or of racing, or of my voyage to the Cannis buoy and back was just an excuse to be out there moving across the sea. Many years later, when I heard someone say: “Life’s a journey, not a destination.” I thought: “Oh. . . just like sailing.”

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So . . . tuning – improving performance on the water. The general equation is: hull – tiller – person – sheets – sails (with some fiddly bits in between – or a lot of very sophisticated fiddly bits on an Open 60). Start with tuning the person. Well, this one learns a lot writing about sailing, learns more reading about it, but never learns as much as when he’s out there doing it – and he needs to take more exercise.

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Looking at the picture of Falcon, I remember Dad being very critical of it – he didn’t like the way we’d set the mainsail and spent some time working on it – adjusting and readjusting the set until he got it right. I now realise how much the picture affected him. He became very particular about setting that sail. I guess he used pictures to critique the boat and then . . . . oh, good grief! I’m turning into my dad!

For love of a boat – in Devon, England

/ Bill / 1 Comment

We went down to the beach this evening to watch the Teign Rowing Club racing in the Shaldon Regatta.

The boats they race are copied on the original seine boats that used to fish the river Teign, mainly for salmon.

The Club website describes them thus:

“There have been fiercely contested rowing races on the Teign for about 200 years . . . Most of the racing prior to the formation of the club was in the one- or two-man Shaldon Regatta dinghy, with a “work boat race” held once a year as part of the regatta.
The boats used for this event were the original seine boats. Crews would arrange the loan of the working fishing boats for the day and modify them for the race. Extra seats had to be put in to accommodate four rowers. Blocks of wood would have holes drilled into them and then be clamped to the gunwales to hold rowlocks in place. The cox would sit either on the transom or on a beach chair fitted precariously to the stern.”

Thanks to AA and her clip of a Greek fishing boat being turned to woodchip, I have become much more attuned to how working boats are evolving to be meaningful to future generations.

Well, the seine boat has turned from a wooden fishing boat to a sponsored racing boat, built in grp – and very successfully too.

Here are 28 women, with seven men coxing, less than half the fleet, rowing their hearts out at the end of an hour’s racing which started at sea, rounded two marks before entering the Teign, going with the tide to a mark upstream and then returning against  a strong current to round this, the last mark.

In the Olympics , they rowed a straight course – their own lanes, no tide, no marks. Different sport? – Different tone.

This is the winning boat – by several lengths, approaching the last mark against the tide.

Salute the crew. You won’t catch them.

It’s a case of resorting to  one or two of the sponsors in consolation.

For the origin of this series – here

An extra headsail

/ Bill

There was no wind yesterday morning when we left the mooring, and we motored across the Sound and out through the Western Channel on a glassy sea. One hour, two mackerel and a pollock later, a light wind ruffled the surface. Just enough wind to try different sail arrangements.

Blue Mistress shows a slight but noticeable wetherhelm in certain wind conditions and I have been wondering what difference an extra headsail might make. If I used the spinnaker halyard – (we have a spinnaker which I haven’t got round to repairing yet), and the deck fitting I normally attach my jack lines to, this was a chance to try it out.

From the depth of sail bag, I dug out our smaller jib and set it flying. It set very well and we made a gentle knot under this sail alone. Then I added the no. 2 jib which is the relatively heavier sail I set when single-handed in stronger winds.

I was trying to match sail shapes. The smaller sail has a longer foot than the no.2 jib but otherwise the match wasn’t too bad. After lots of adjustments, we found a balance and, still without the mainsail, we were making an extra knot or two. I took these images when we were reaching and you can see how the light wind affects each sail.

I need to think this through some more and would be interested to hear other people’s experiences/thoughts on headsails and weatherhelm.

During all this, we looked up to see three short but steeply breaking waves coming towards us out of nowhere. The sea was flat, there were no vessels creating wash anywhere near us, and yet suddenly we found ourselves beam on to a breaking sea. There was just time to disengage the autohelm and turn stern to. The second wave just lapped over the stern and then they were gone – the sea flat again. I guess some disturbance hundreds of miles away . . . but a reminder not to be fooled by the conditions and to keep a good watch . . .

Enjoying the wait

/ Bill

The trapeze artist said: “Living is walking the wire. Everything else is waiting.”

The finest Sunday of the summer. The sun shone, the wind blew. A brilliant day for a sail.

But there was something wrong with the car. . . and, as I have damaged my thumb, sailing was out.

So we took the train to Exeter . . .

Teignmouth – Dawlish – Dawlish Warren – Starcross – Exeter St Thomas.

This is the coast-line – to be more exact, Isambard Kingdom Brunel‘s line, the line of his Atmospheric Railway.

The sea sparkled the way it does here when the wind blows from the west and stirs the calm surface to catch the morning sun.

A mile or so off the beach, a ketch, in full sail, was reaching across the bay. Each time we emerged from one of short tunnels through the cliffs, she had stretched away further south towards Hope’s Nose and Berry Head.

We stopped in Dawlish, then Dawlish Warren, (disembarking families carrying beach clothes and picnics), before we turned inland along the Exe estuary.

The tide was high and the Folkboat (I always notice her) was on her mooring. I had thought of keeping Blue Mistress here before settling on Plymouth.

It seemed that people were taking to the water wherever we looked.

In Exeter, they were enjoying the river, including the short crossing on Butts Ferry.

The ferry is left over from the wonderful and much lamented Exeter Maritime Museum.

The warehouse that housed the museum is still there. I have always thought, whimsically perhaps, of the boats moored along the canal as ganging up in sympathy for the small gem of a museum that has been lost forever.

We had come to Exeter to visit our son and spent the day doing ordinary things – walking and talking, greeting and eating, before returning to the train.

Along the Exe, the tide was now very low and the Folkboat closer to the shore – well, close to the bird flocked mud flats.

And in Teignmouth, in the late afternoon, there was gig racing. On shore, rowers were hurrying to their boats, busying themselves before the start of their race.

Offshore they were heaving on their oars, some boats flying, some labouring, all working to a common cause.

Today the rowers had been out ‘walking the wire’, while we were ashore ‘waiting’ and doing ordinary things – walking and talking, greeting and eating  . . .

and we were all having a thoroughly enjoyable time.

Helpful clips

/ Bill / 1 Comment

I posted a short clip of Blue Mistress some months ago (the same clip I keep on my desktop at work!), but hadn’t thought much more about the medium – I have always preferred still images.

I went for a solo sail out of Plymouth one cloudy and suspiciously dark afternoon – (it blew up and rained after I came ashore).

There was a light breeze while I was out and the idea was to work with the autohelm, trying various sail trims, wind directions and so on. It was fun and I got several simple jobs done at the same time.

I though I’d try out the movie mode on the camera again.  And became irritated by the set of the foresail with its flapping foot – we sometimed accept things for ourselves that we wouldn’t accept if we thought other people were going to see them. Sad but true.

The view forward

It’s the sheet position of course, but getting the balance on an older sail is difficult when there has been some stretching. This is the foresail I would normally use in a much stronger wind. The genoa would have come into its own for the wind strength that afternoon, but we were in trials – not trying to break records.

So, a different tack, shifting the sheet one notch, sailing slightly further off the wind and it looks better. But I would like to sail closer to the wind with this sail, so I will need to think it through further.

Heading towards Plymouth

In the meantime, I have these reminders.

The Cloud Appreciation Society

/ Bill

We were charmed to look up at the mountains across the water from Korcula to see this cloud formation.

 

I had never seen a cloud like this and wondered if it was a local phenomenon or whether we were just unobservant.

It remained over the peak for a long while and slowly developed.

 

I don’t think it is related, but that night we had a thunderstorm and a half. The lightning was right overhead and the thunder claps deeply thunderous. At one point, our window blew open.

Anyway, I have looked up the type of cloud (Google) and find it is a Wave cloud. This particular form is called Lenticular:

“Another way that wave clouds can form is where air flows over a mountain or hill. If a cloud forms on this wave, it is called “lenticular” (which means “lens-shaped”) cloud, which has a very smooth, symmetric appearance”

In my search, I came across The Cloud Appreciation Society. Now, I’m ashamed to say I laughed. What! There are people who watch out for clouds and take pictures of them!!

And then I paused – Oh . . . . . . .

Well, here are two more untouched images – (taken two days later on the ferry from Korcula to the mainland) 

 

  

– and long live The Cloud Appreciation Society.

 

 

 

The gannets started it

/ Bill

The gannets started it.

We were about three miles off Polperro, heading towards an invisible Rame Head. Low cloud was hiding the cliff-tops, cutting the view with an unnatural straight line. The colours of the day were shades of grey. There was no one but us and a lone fishing boat, some way ahead off Looe Island.

 

In theory, 090 degrees would place us just south of Rame, but not in this wind, in this tide, in this visibility, at this speed – 020 (if she would head that) to take us well south until we could see it.

 

We had been watching the gannets since we left Fowey, their brilliant white backs shining, contrasting with the ink black tips of their long narrow wings – not fishing but flying in two and threes, vigilantly, almost lazily.

 

All at once, everything changed. Action crackled in the air.

 

Over there, they were diving.

 

“Dolphin!” Tony, at the helm, pointing towards the shore.

“There’s another . . . . and another . . . . they’re everywhere!”

 

Sure enough, everywhere you looked, a dark, finned, back would rise easily out the water and slip back, leaving an emptier surface . . . to be replaced by others near and far.

 

I grabbed the camera, forgot to put it on video record and went forward.

 

From the pulpit, I watched three dolphins, two of them twisting around each other, shoot under the bow, then another – not breaking the surface – just looking. Out of the corner of my eye, not six feet away, a shiny back had turned and was swimming alongside us. Two more crossed beneath me.

 

 They won\'t keep still!

 

 

The sea was full of movement. The excitement was contagious, you could put out a hand and feel it. You could smell it.

 

The dolphins were doing what comes naturally, of course – herding a shoal of (probably) mackerel. Spinning it around, pushing it, playing with it. Lunch in grand style.

 

In the few minutes it took us to appreciate the moment, they were gone, moving west behind us – all that activity rapidly slipping astern. We quietened down. Time to put the kettle on and talk about it.

 

Forget our strictly human feelings, we just happened to be there, a bit part in a world that is bigger than us, older than us – one that constantly needs tending.

 

But . . . to stand at the bow of your own boat in a sea full of dolphins!! Can it get much better than that?