Largs to Lymington

Just two weeks ago, Lou was plying me wth gin to help wrangle the knot in the pit of my stomach into a more genial mass.  Worried about just the two of us taking on the fickle Irish Sea, thinking way too far ahead, like practically into the next century, I was envisioning the worst, and had even started to inquire about shipping costs for Meteor.  I had a bad case of the pre-departure jitters, nervous as a crab at low tide. (If you have seen the ugly business of a gull dispatching a crab, you will understand).

Our original plans were to take a month or so to cruise the Western Isles this summer, and then make our way to the south coast of England for the end of August.  Then we figured (talk talk talk talk talk) if we were really serious about selling we should focus on getting Meteor in front of the broker sooner than later, so we scrapped the Western Isles and turned our sights to the Irish Sea. As it was just the two of us, we were going to take our time and do the trip in small jumps. All doable, but my now gin-soaked knot was growing like the Grinch’s heart…

To help lessen the anxiety, we decided to see if we could find crew to join us.  We scrawled a call for crew on a yellow sticky note and left it with the Largs Sailing club, and despite the fact that the note looked like it had been written by a 7 year old (my mom and her beautiful penmanship would have been mortified), to our surprise we had several folks express interest.

Meteor, our crew magnet.

We then adjusted our plans again, so that we could avail of the crew’s timelines, and started planning to get to Lymington as quickly and directly as possible.

So, 4 days after the scribbled note, we had let our lines go, and were headed towards Ireland on a glassy Clyde, with Martin and Grace.

13 days, 600 miles, and 7 legs. 

Our first stop was Bangor, Northern Ireland, where we got stuck for a couple of days, waiting out a small craft warning that lingered like a party guest that just wouldn’t leave, and then finally, standing on the quay appraising just how awful the sea state would be upon leaving the safety of the breakwater (not ridiculously awful, just awful enough) we agreed to go. 

There are two reactions to being storm stayed.  For those of us battling an illogical lapse of courage, it is a delicious reprieve.  The bliss of a cancelled meeting. The unlimited possibilities of a snow day.  There is a lightness of being, the knot dissolves, food tastes good and your companions are funny again.   For those keen on keeping moving, the delay can be numbing, tedious, and frustrating.  I don’t get them. 

We took advantage of the 12 hours of favourable tides from Bangor to Dublin that are created by a split in the tidal wave from the Atlantic Ocean, which sends one part north, around the northwest coast and entering the Irish Sea by the North Channel,  and the other part east, entering the Irish Sea by the South Channel.  Seven hours after the split, the two streams bump together by St. John’s point.  If you haven’t seen eOceanic it is an amazing resource for Ireland and the south Coast of England, with loads of info on how to take advantage of these tidally efficient routes. 

We left Bangor at 10pm on July 11th, dodging the Orangemen’s Day parades on the glorious 12th (also known as the sectarian hate fest), which we had the dubious pleasure of experiencing last summer. We did however see the massive bonfires that were burning all down the coast.  They were so big, that even at about 2 nm off we could see sparks exploding up into the night sky.  Like the parades, a spectacle at first and then with time, disquieting.

Our next stop was Dun Laoghaire, pausing just long enough to sleep and eat, ghosting out like we hadn’t paid the bill (we had) the next morning at 4am and heading to the beautiful protected haven at Kilmore Quay.

We spent three nights there waiting for a good weather window, enjoying the seafood festival, which had a small and puzzling market that inlcuded 2 ionic bracelet booths, 2 bulk candy booths, 2 booths with small battery powered dog toys, and one booth with decorative light switch plates. We ate seafood of course, watched the Euro2024 final in a pub with the sole Englishman providing colourful commentary, and then made the jump to Lands End.  The passage couldn’t have been better.  12 to 14 knots consistently on our quarter, seas less than a metre, and we were escorted by a seemingly endless supply of dolphins playing around our bow and leaping out of the water by the cockpit, they as interested in us, as we were in them.

We encountered very few fishing vessels, no traffic at the separation zone, clear skies, a favourable tide at Lands End despite getting there earlier than planned, and we possessed a healthy supply of wine gums and crisps.

We made landfall in Salcombe, then Portland, and finally into Swanage Bay rounding Durlston Head at 10 knots under the main…a bit of white water rafting for Meteor.  Gradually doffing winter attire as we moved south and east. The last day we passed the famous Needles on the Isle of Wight, finding ourselves in yet another tidal rip welcoming us to the Solent, and then up Lymington River to her berth at Berthon Lymington Marina.

And the crew? you might ask. How did that work out?

Well lets just say that they have a bunk on Meteor, or wherever we are, whenever they want one.

Martin was a wealth of hard won experience, sharing tales of daring passages, fantastical wins in yacht races, and nights tucked into remote anchorages sharing the evening with the stars. His stories captured the imagination and for me, conjured up the adventures of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five which I had read many many years ago. He is an RYA Offshore Yachtmaster, the gold standard qualification here in the UK, and could probably have skippered Meteor to the Solent blindfolded, but instead he was this calm, quiet, patient well of experience, and humour, that Lou would tap into as she muscled through the mathematical complexities of wind and tide.

Grace has her RYA competent crew designation, and as I write this she is doing day skipper training in the Solent. When she saw our add for crew, she sent an email, texted, and called…all within about two minutes. Hard to resist such determined energy! She was the youngster, soaking everything up, thoughtful and insightful, she very quickly began to take initiative with the operations of the boat. We did try to keep Grace, and her man Jem, whom we met at the end of the trip, especially when we learned that he held the record as the largest baby on the Isle of Wight for 2 years.… We also learned that Grace likes a good bird, and we were impressed when she managed to signal to us that she was okay (having succumbed to the dreaded seasickness) by squirrelling a packet of ginger biscuits into her bunk. We encouraged her to use “when I was sailing down the Irish Sea” frequently duirng her day skipper course.

The energy on board was lovely. There was a fair bit of conversation regarding Tunnocks biscuits, and some amazing stories about botched drug smuggling schemes from Martin’s days as a customs investigator. My favourites were the crew that painted their names on the wall at Horta, and the ones that made t-shirts to commemorate their passage (they may have actually been the same crew).

There was a shared appreciation of gin, and the talent of Bob Newhart. They were amused by our accents, our embarrassingly new world delight in castles and cliffs, and our lengthy planning discussions (talk talk talk talk talk), and they helped us enhance our local vocabulary with our particular favourite “Johnny-no-stars”.

And the knot? Turned out it was no match for the power of the presence of such capable folks on board, and such good company, and so it skulked away feeling foolish.

When I was sailing down the Irish Sea… all was well.