#channelcrossing pegasus fowey pilotcutter

[nereiduk]

Channel crossing: Tregueir to Fowey

Wed 16 Aug 17

Being shaken awake at 1250 was a shock, but I heaved myself out of my bunk and added an extra layer.  Clambering up the steps, I was speechless at the quantity and intensity of the stars.  The 11pm watch were a little giddy with excitement as they had seen shooting stars, and I shared their sense of wonder, settling myself on deck and staring open-mouthed at the milky way and the myriad of unknown and unnamed stars.

I took my turn on the helm, and used the two right hand stars in the Plough as a marker for our course of 330, keeping them just to port of the mast.  Much easier than endlessly looking down at a compass.  Craig brought up a mug of tea, and wedges of Katy’s homemade flapjack.  

On the starboard quarter was the light of Roche Douvres, on the port side more French lights, but no shipping as we were nowhere near the main lanes.  I spotted a warm brown light on the starboard beam, which grew in size so fast I quickly realised it was the crescent moon rising, obscured by a couple of clouds.  Soon it was fully above the horizon, and the stars on that side of the sky dimmed slightly.

After my hour on the helm was done, I handed over to Barry and just sat on the deck soaking it all up, and spotting shooting stars. The wind hadn’t yet filled in, so we were still motoring and the air felt warm.  I was ever so slightly reluctant to go back to bed at 3am.

During the next four hours, in my semi-conscious state, I was aware that we had started sailing: the heel had increased, and the water was slopping noisily against the wooden hull just a short distance away from the planks of my bunk.

Up on deck at 7am there was a watery grey light and a faint pink blush on the south eastern horizon.  The wind had got up to 10-12 knots and Pegasus was on a beam reach with full main, staysail and jib, and getting to 6 knots of speed.  I couldn’t steer by the stars this time, but used the compass on 320 instead. Craig made us thick, warming porridge with raisins and sliced apple and more tea.

Now we were properly in the shipping lanes with a gaggle of west-going vessels showing up on the chart plotter below and appearing lit up on the horizon. Strangely, I felt more tired on this watch than I had on the 1am slot, so at 9am I went below to sleep again, as we were not due into Fowey until about 6pm the next day.

Once again, while asleep I was aware of the speed and the heel of the boat increasing, and the familiar rolling, which meant we must now be on a broad reach.  I had the expected struggle just getting dressed and into the heads, but emerged into strong sunlight at about 1130am.  

The wind had freshened, the sea state moved up a notch and we were sailing at 7-8 knots through the water, although we had a little adverse tide pushing us east.  Now we were in the east-going shipping lanes, encountering ferries, fishing vessels and a Royal Navy frigate, which made a textbook course alteration to go round us.  I guess we might have made a rather impressive sight, cutting through the waves with near full sail.

A couple of dolphins paid us a visit, arching through the water near the surface, playing in the waves and the spray and then disappearing.  The blue sky was speckled with a mackerel sky, and there was a faint haze over the sun, indicating that the depression was on its way.  The motion of the boat was now more exaggerated, so it felt safest to just sit down on deck and find a winch or a cleat to wedge my feet against.  A few rogue waves sploshed over the bow or the back quarter, providing an unexpected salt water shower.

Craig provided baked potatoes in bowls on deck for lunch, easy to eat just with a fork and fingers, and another round of tea.  I had a go at helming, but the forces on the tiller when Pegasus was caught side on by waves were too much for me.  We were still on a port tack broad reach, heading directly for Fowey on about 320.  

Soon we spotted the Eddystone lighthouse, a tall thin black-topped stick off to starboard.  Gannets swooped unfeasibly low over the waves, and a flock clustered where they found a shoal of fish.  The movement of the waves became mesmerising, as they approached the windward side of the boat like a dark grey wall, lifting her up and then foaming away to the stern.  The motion was exciting, like a fairground ride, so long as you weren’t trying to move around the boat or down the steps as a big wave hit.

We were now making 7-8 knots over the ground and 8-9 knots through the water, chomping away at the distance.  The visibility was poor, but by 3pm we could see the faint grey outline of the cliffs above Salcombe, and soon after the round dark mass of Gribbin Head, which marks the western edge of the entrance to Fowey.

Nearing Fowey, the sea state eased slightly although the skies were dark and the wind fresher.  We had a tea and chocolate brownie break before the final approach.  Heading for the western rocks, the staysail and jib were dropped first, and the main cranked hard in, to reduce our speed to 4 knots rather than 7-8.  White water was crashing against the rocky cliffs to the east of the entrance as we slipped inside, straight into the thick of a race of Troys, the graceful wooden keelboats native to Fowey.  

Their race officer in a rib was not a little put out by Pegasus having to head up to drop the main just near their windward mark, but we hadn’t much space to manouevre. Safe inside the harbour, under engine and in relatively flat water, we were asked to go alongside an enormous red static crane which took a fair amount of fendering, lines and negotiations with the slightly bemused crane crew.

James and Craig pumped up the dinghy to ferry tired crew ashore for showers.  It was Fowey week, so the yacht club was busy with chattering racers, and so walking in with a lifejacket on and in sailing boots, nobody turned a hair.  I felt slightly faint and dizzy in the shower, but the hot water was reviving.  Back in the lounge, the rain had arrived with a vengeance, and I regretted not bringing my waterproof trousers.  Instead I sat in the busy, steamy lounge, had an OJ and crisps and researched my onward travel.

The dinghy ride back to Pegasus was very damp, and the saloon was steamy with drying sailing gear, and rocking gently in the swell.  As a wooden boat, Pegasus is not watertight, and as she had been worked hard the last 20 hours, it was no wonder some of the rain was finding its way inside.  We put bowls under the main drips and feasted on Katy’s creamy chicken and bacon tagliatelle and fruit crumble.

I was still feeling washed out and the warm, steamy, rocky atmosphere of the saloon was doing me no favours.  I poked my head out of the hatch and inhaled the cool air.  Tired after that long passage, everyone went for an early night.

Thursday 17 August 17

No rain this morning, and the last wisps of grey cloud cleared fast.  Pegasus was continuing onto Plymouth today, but I was jumping ship to get home, so said my goodbyes to the crew and took a water taxi ashore, then a bus to Par station, to start the long journey home.

On the train, as I write this, I am reflecting on what an amazingly seaworthy craft Pegasus is, and how easily she can chomp through the miles on a long passage.  I had got used to her smooth wooden lines, graceful sails and that lovely slooshing noise of water on her hull from my tiny cramped bunk as she sailed along.  And it was so easy to become accustomed to the admiring glances from passing modern yachts or waving quayside crowds.  Plus any photos taken from her deck with the landscape and sky framed by varnished wood, smooth blocks, light grey ropes and creamy sails were instantly transformed into a form of time travel.

Immense admiration, also, for the crew, with their careful passage planning, smart decisions on sail plan and route, to make our passages exciting but also secure.  And the ability to rustle up hot meals on deck in challenging conditions. Living aboard for a week is tiring and challenging, but the experience of sailing far out to sea, under sun, clouds or stars, accompanied by sea birds and dolphins, is so dramatic it takes a while to adjust to normal land based life again.