single-handed

Brixham to Plymouth – reflection – tidal race

/ Bill / 2 Comments

(Continued . . .)

This series of five posts outlines a September passage from Plymouth to Teignmouth and back.

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The interruption to my passage plan has meant that I have to get from Brixham to Plymouth, a distance of a little over 40 nautical miles by this evening. This is no problem on paper – but there will probably be no time for fishing. Also the tide will be wrong going round Start Point. I had planned to round the Point, which is about 13 nm along the coast from here, yesterday evening with the tide carrying me, I will now reach it around the middle of today with the tide against me. The wind has gone round  to the north east – almost the opposite of yesterday morning.

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Stillness in the dark

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(Continued . . .)

This series of posts has covered a short voyage. My original intention was to outline – (mostly in images), a trip I made up the rivers Tamar and Lynher in August and maybe make a few comments about waypoints. Experiencing the advantages and disadvantages of waypoints was the exercise I set myself for the trip. On the way, I learnt much more than expected. All voyages involve a personal journey of one sort or another, but, looking back at this one, there were so many things I hadn’t seen or done before. Like many  people who finish their day job, I ask myself, “What on earth have I been doing all my life?”

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I go on deck around 0500 to check the rode. I shortened it last evening to keep Blue Mistress out of the shallows as the tide fell.

It is dark. I have rigged an anchor light aft rather than on the normal fore-stay because it throws a useful light over the cockpit. The boat is only 25 foot long so the difference is unlikely to affect any passing boat. Of the two other anchor lights I can see, one is rigged the same way.

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To the Lynher

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(Continued . . .)

The early morning mist reveals four egrets. We enjoy the peace together.

(Click on image to enlarge – an extra click magnifies)

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The tide is falling and I decide to wait till after lunch before leaving. There will still be an hour or so to the next high tide but it will be slackening. This gives me a morning to do odd jobs on the boat and time to sit and read.

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The same question

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 (continued . . .)

The depth reading is less is 2 metres and falling, the gps says I am exactly on track. Despite my resolution a mile back, I am still following the numbers – and for a moment am completely confused.

The gps says there is a straight line and just to the next waypoint and it’s just under one nautical mile away. It’s on the screen. I want to believe it but I can see it’s wrong  Looking closely at the chart it says the channel crossed to the other side of the river about 100 yards back. I make the adjustment and realise the mistake. When I was entering the waypoints I missed one; even though I checked them, I still missed it . . . not good. (You have to do it to know it).

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Although this is the only yacht I saw on this part of the river, part of the pleasure has been in the other boats. I will add them to the next post.

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Drifting on about technology

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 (Continued . . .)

The channel narrows and we pass close to ruins of the South Hooe Mine on the outside of the bend.

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All the way along the reaches of the Tamar from here was a busy mining area. In its heyday, more tin, copper, silver and arsenic were mined in this region than anywhere else in Europe.

The mines eventually ran out and the mining came to an end very suddenly in the late nineteenth century, the villages and towns emptied and Cornish miners spread all over the world.  In a small cemetery in Russell, New Zealand, I was very moved to find the grave of a young miner from Cornwall who died in the late eighteen hundreds. He had made the long voyage, found work . . . and died shortly afterwards, far away from home.

Once the mining had finished, the landowners landscaped the land and it was turned over to market gardening, but a number of remnants of the industry can still be seen – like these useful cuts in the bank.

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Waypoints

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(. . . continued)

Once through the bridge, I enjoy the scene that’s opening up,

Then the depth reading drops from 4 to 3 metres . . . then 2.5 metres.

The channel is wide here but I’m obviously out of it already.

The tide seems to be taking me down towards the entrance to the River Tavy.

The buoy I had failed to see turns out be a lot further towards the other bank than I expect.

I need to zoom in on the gps. At the level I had it – a  wider view, it didn’t show the loss of track in enough detail. It would have been fine out at sea, but not here where the margin for error is a lot less.

That’s one of the reasons I am doing this.

I look at the chart and sigh. I need to pay more attention.

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The buoy at last. The entrance to the Tavy behind.

Because I have neither the boat nor the money to navigate like this . . .

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Rite of Passage

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(continued from . . .)

I am watching the Udder Rock buoy further up the coast. The tide is taking us inshore and I head further out to sea to stay to the seaward of it.

This is the third day of this trip, finally a day of wind, sea and sail. The cloud cover is still low, clinging to the tops of the cliffs. There are no other boats visible and, despite being close to the shore. I can see no one on the coast path.

The early mist had given the harbour a silent, closed feel.

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The wider world is never far away

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(continued from . . .)

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The early morning sunshine doesn’t last and we are soon back to a windless, blue-grey, engine-powered day.

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Wherever you are, the wider world is never far away. I spy Grace with her magnificent Cornish flag leaving the Maritime Museum pontoons. I admire her lines and recognise a smaller version of Ceres, my grandfather’s Westcountry trading  ketch mentioned extensively in earlier posts in this blog.

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