Changing The Channel

This journey has changed many attitudes I once had.

What I view as a hearty meal has been changed many times when shifts constrain or the bastard stove throws a tantrum.

My views on meteorology, once a mystery to me, became a science, something when studied would bring order to the chaos of the weather, but now, after many a followed converging bundle of reports, now seems more akin to voodoo.

So too have my views on the wind, risk-taking and ropes.

All was shifted one chilly November night, when, after weeks of weather watching and praying for a window, impatience and irritation got the better of us and we ventured out into conditions that were less than savoury.

We had been posted up in Portsmouth, breathing in the crisp muddy air and engorging on cheap Chinese food, just waiting for our opportunity to cast-off from the shores of Jolly-old Britannia and into the cultural melting pot of Europe.

Up until that point, we'd had a whale of a time.

Despite the winter rolling ever inward, the actual conditions had been clement.

Many days had been spent drifting about on the Solent, taking in the spray and throwing the hook down in the serenity of Osbourne bay for a quiet night on the water.

But the moment our confidence had risen and the decision was made, things changed.

The once pleasant breezes transformed into blustering gales, followed by patched of bruised air, as still as a stone, assuredly reserving what little energy it had to ride out the next beating it would surely be taking in the following days.

The pattern lasted for weeks.

Ireland seemed at that time to be hosting some form of elemental rave and had invited all of it's friends down from the polar region.

And on they came, hitching ride-after-ride down from Greenland before crashing upon the Celtic shores, popped some pills, harassed the Guarda, before stumbling out, Guinness in hand to piss in the bushes of Southampton.

Being the Brit I am and lacking an address for any sternly worded complaint, I sat stewing and planning my exit, watching with hope as forecast windows approached, just to be snapped shut again and again, as if some indecisive Deity couldn't make his mind up about letting in the breeze.

But patience (Or its substitutional cousin, impotence) paid off in the end and a window approached that didn't seem to be closing, but in fact, as it drew near, it seemed to be getting a little wider.

After thanking the same God for seemingly deciding a jumper would be the best compromise for the open window conundrum, I got to plotting and as the day rolled round, the plan was airtight and the window was set to stay.

We weren't looking at a perfect sail mind.

The wind would be coming from the South, right where we were going and would still be quite stiff and bloody cold, but with plenty of tacking and a thick set of thermals, all was manageable and as the leaving date arrived, we were raring to go.

The first of many little warning signs we faced as the evening chased off the light of day was the wind.

Whatever partygoer had stumbled into the Solent that evening had finished pissing up the needles, but was having a little trouble stumbling past the Isle of Wight, despite the roaring encouragement he was getting from his chums on the Channel.

I checked the reports again, but things were still looking good.

He was on his way and after a little vomit in Cowes, would assuredly be feeling well enough to stumble on to Bristol for the night.

So we continued to prepare and as the hour arrived, the wind seemed stiff, but manageable and we decided, despite the delay, to start out onto the water.

If things seemed to be a little too dicey, we could always turn around and come right back, the harbour was fairly shielded and it would take hours to leave the Solent anyway, so we'd have plenty of time to decide.

A fond farewell to the marina later and we were pottering down Portsmouth harbour and out into the inky blackness of the wider ocean, ready for the new horizon.

Which was the second little niggling warning.

There wasn't one.

At all.

The darkness out on the Solent was so complete we may as well been cruising with our eyes closed.

Not too much of an issue either as night sailing is all GPS and watching for lights anyway, but combined with the wind we should have guessed that this was a bad omen for our first major crossing with Hugr.

But still, fuelled by determination and bloody-minded stubbornness, we splashed out and upped our sails, being sure to keep them healthily reefed for safety.

From there, things were uneventful for hours.

The wind was screaming like a drunk dial from a nightclub and the cold was enough to turn your nipples into diamonds, but we were managing and still in high-spirits too, trying to guess the garbled mess spewing from the radio over the din as we splashed over the sharp waves.

We felt a pang of uncertainty drifting through the tanker-anchor spot on our way to Nab tower, but I'm always a little anxious around big ships.

As a general rule, I'm pretty anxious around anything that could knock you into orbit with a badly timed sneeze from the helmsman, but we were in control and we passed through without issue, the steerage was great honestly thanks to the wind, turning each tack into a smooth, mechanical process.

Once past, we entered deeper seas and that was when the weather tried a last time to give us the bloody hint.

The waves, once smaller, sharper cresting molehills, had transitions smoothly into great lapping foothills under the shadow of the mountainous bulk of Wight.

Every climb was felt in the stomach and every peak begat a deep trough, the great bulk of Hugr crashing down into the pit before rising again.

From the cockpit, they didn't look all that menacing though honestly and after checking the reports again, the weather was still passing, so with a little more caution, we pressed on.

It was only when a rope slipped free up at the mast that I got the opportunity for a better vantage of our predicament.

I clipped onto the safety holds and shimmied up to fasten it down before its vengeful lashing could draw the blood it was seeking.

Once secure, I looked back at the squinting smiles of my crew, just as Hugr rose, like the vengeful leviathan as the ocean swelled beneath us.

The whole world dropped back and what had once been horizon fell below and reared as I was lifted high to gaze down upon the whole world stretching out behind us.

It was a strangely serene moment, the lights of the city in the distance glittering distantly on the horizon, I felt weightless and disconnected from it all, staring silently at the inlaid gems of the world as they glittered serenely over the lapping ocean.

Then we plunged right back down with a deep thudding splash.

I slipped back into the cockpit and paradoxically, an experience which should have been slightly harrowing, had brought a sense of zen upon me.

The image of the rise and fall of all creation was mesmerising and imprinted itself in my memories, not shifting in its splendour to this day.

It also gave me a sense of great awe for the vessel we were perched upon.

Despite the evident turmoil of the seas, she was handling them with noting but grace.

The grace of an elephant at full-pelt mind, but grace nonetheless.

This awe has only been solidified by further experience. We got caught in a gale off the coast of Muros after we crossed Biscay and despite a sail emergency and a temporary loss of steerage, she still barely flinched as a wave, higher than her gunwales threw itself mercilessly against her before control was regained moments later.

She is a tank of a vessel.

Despite the evident warnings, being at the time foolhardy as we were, we plunged on into the void and over the crashing waves.

I checked the reports again, but the wind was said to very soon be letting up, so all we would need to do was endure for a short while longer before things would begin to smooth out.

No problem.

Or so I thought.

As we passed the bulk of the island, the wind began to converge against the rock and rose in speed sharply.

I watched as it passed thirty and kept rising as the gusts spiked up and the roar became deafening, as solid against our voices as granite.

A decision was made after a mixture of frustrated hand-signals and bellowing in each others' ears and despite the deep reefing, we decided to deepen the jib further until we passed the convergence zone.

We turned into the wind to get some slack and the winch began to turn.

Exactly at the moment an errant gust came tearing from the gloom and hit us side on.

The winch itself was secure, no hands were damaged and no finger bitten or burned, but the rope, which up until that time had shown no signs of weakness, surrendered to the onslaught and set the jib loose to the breeze to dance a free and angry dance against the gale.

I gazed up as the triumphant sail thrashed loudly and pulled hard on the forestay.

Tom, being quick to action immediately bellowed out words, that while deafened by the din, got across that he would be wrestling the bastard back to safety and I took hold of the helm to keep the sail from lashing him senseless as the engine was roared to life.

It didn't take long, mere minutes until she was secure, but the mood had died in that moment and we had all decided that this voyage was over.

The trip back was a little more dicey, with less steerage from the wind as the sails were stowed to prevent further damages, but we kept our safe distance and with minimal cursing, we eventually pottered into port, soggy and sullen from the defeat.

The marina were sympathetic to our struggles and welcomed us back with warmth in the early hours of the morning.

From there, we slept for most of the day before sorting a replacement for the rope, which has since been granted retirement and serves as an occasional line for our anchor-ball and motoring cone, where it can rest easy knowing it'll never have to take that kind of strain again.

Its replacement is a dyneema-cored beast of a line that we are much happier with and has served us well on many voyages since, only recently needing attention due to a snagging issue in our roller-furling drum while crossing the Med.

But that is a story for another day.

This ordeal left me with lasting awe at the elements and the power they possess as well as with our vessel for how easily she handled them.

It has also lead to sometimes excess caution when planning a passage for, while the experience for the most part was actually quite fun, the expense and feeling of defeat wasn't worth it and had we waited merely a few hours, we would likely not have had an issue at all.

The successful crossing took place the next month over Christmas and was a boring, windless trip spent largely on engine unfortunately, but much safer as a result.

Christmas in Cherbourg was charming, cheery and spent mostly asleep after gorging on a holiday kebab, which is much less depressing than it sounds.

The French know how to do a gorgeous kebab. They're a far cry from the greasy mystery strips I was used to from back in the UK.

Our spirits were lifted and our future was coming into view over the horizon.

It couldn't have been more blissful.

Of course, the bliss wouldn't last forever and soon more issues would arise, but for now, all was right with the world and I couldn't have been more at peace.