It seemed straightforward – crewing for a yacht being taken down the coast for winter from Oban to Rhu, near Helensburgh requiring traversing the Crinan Canal. It was all going to be new and exciting – especially as it was November outwith any sailing season. What could go wrong? It was going to be Three Men in a Boat and it was going to be jolly. A Skipper/Owner, Myself and the Third Man, an experienced yachtsman from Inverness.

The drive up was through a Scotland wearing an Autumnal kilt and unfortunately a police speed trap camera on the M9 bridge. Tyndrum Good Food Fish and I was powered up following traffic where I turned off for the Falls of Lora stopping to photograph the bridge and a heron sweeping over the water. Resuming the trip south to Oban I found the three cars I had been following surrounded by police and an ambulance after a collision on a bend.

Parked near Tesco and used one of their trollies to transport my kit across the car park and humped it along the sea front to the North Pier waiting for the ferry to the Kerrera Marina across Oban Bay. I joined the boat with a rugby playing schoolboy and a couple joining their yacht and we skipped across the dark water to the marina pontoons. The boat waited – a 39 foot Swedish Malo yacht which looked huge in the moonlight. It was even larger onboard – wide with plenty of space, even for me. The skipper/owner was fresh from a Nick Nairn cooking course so I was treated to some pasta in a tasty sauce washed down with a wine before we opening my malt whisky to while away the night with an Islay malt and stories but absolutely no sea shanties.

Morning porridge and coffee and then a blur of getting ready as an experienced yachtsman arrived fresh from a chilled Inverness and we were off, just as I was in the middle of getting my left leg out of my waterproofs with my Dubarry boots stuck somewhere on the velcro legging. I got sorted out and we were on our way up the Sound of Kerrera, on automatic helm heading past the green buoys. There was a a problem with the GPS/Plotter cable to its transponder – but who is going to need GPS on a fine day like this – we are just getting out to sea and focusing on a lovely trip down the coast to the canal.

The sun was shining, the wind was light, the weather forecast was frightening in the afternoon but we were on our way expecting to be sitting in a lock in Crinan before it hit us, hence the rush on departure. Tide was on the flood and we were heading straight towards a lighthouse, I knocked autohelm off and headed off its collision course we were all chatting and life was good. The sun was even shining.

A fisherman’s buoy was ahead and skipper advised keeping it to port as we didn’t want any rope around our prop – very sensible. And ‘oh look there is fish in the water ahead look at all the rippling’. Skipper and yachtsman went to see what type of fish. Then the cry ROCK ROCK ROCK, and I knew instinctively this did not mean change the music to something less Scottish Traditional.

I spun the wheel around watching the water swirl around what was obviously a large brown ragged object sticking out of the water. This was Cutter Rock. We hadn’t even time to congratulate ourselves as to our near miss when we struck a submerged reef, part of Cutter Rock. CRASH, BANG, WALLOP – I really felt it on the helm and can’t even remember whether the bow lifted into the air or sunk into the water. It all happened so quickly and there was a horrendous sound.

I wheeled us round and started heading back to Oban as skipper and yachtsman automatically checked for leaks below. All OK no need for liferaft yet so just a call to the marina to organise a crane rather than a lifeboat – fingers crossed. It seemed to take ages to get back and there a crane was welcoming us. Cruised into the crane bands in low water, as the crane guys start driving us in to shore and elevating us with us all on board. This was all a new experience.

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All my waterproofs packed and it was off on the SouthWest airline flight from Newcastle to Plymouth. The board gate information gives a counter down in minutes labelled ‘Time to shop’. Musing at the queues of woman holding plastic sacks of toiletries to maintain them during short flights I boarded to find my manly waterproof jacket smothered in flowers as a woman packs a large bouquet into the overhead locker.

I had to get to Southdown Marina near Millbrook which is a long taxi ride (fortunately I shared the first part of the ride to Plymouth station) then onto the chain ferry at Torpoint and an exciting ride down single track roads as the taxi driver is adjusting his sat nav. I joined the boat – which is a lovely catamaran, scaring Jim on board who was busy fixing his heater as I bounce on board. Andy an RAF Hercules pilot/navigator arrives, followed by Jordan a Bulgarian Yachtmaster examinee (and not Peter Andre’s ex).

The first night is a simple motor down the creek to an anchor point, where we learn about anchoring a catamaran with a claw to adjust its pivot point and settle in for the night. My cabin has its own toilet (head) and shower (in the same space which makes toilet cleaning easier…) and a ladder with which I chimney up between the wardrobe and the ladder and hurl myself into the narrow gap which is the bed.

Breakfast was fried cheese with plum tomatoes – what a start to the long day (they were all long days – starting early and finishing with lectures on diesel engines or navigation – this was no joy trip this was serious learning). Sailing around Plymouth Sound off the scary looking breakwater whilst naval destroyers cruised around. Busy little place. Captain Jim got us all together with the weather forecast – it was not looking good. Force 7 gusting Force 8 and in the wrong direction too. So he asked us in turn ‘would you consider going on a trip down the coast in weather like this, without me on board’ – we each in turn replied ‘absolutely not’ – and he said ‘Good, so lets go then, we need to be out of Plymouth as Jordan is getting tested there’. Gulp. We got the boat ready and drove through the four posts marking the exit to Plymouth and into a very rough English Channel.

We were being chased by HMS Daring at one point doing its manouvers and after an hour of bouncing around all over the place whilst I was in looking at charts it all got too much for my anti seasickness bracelets (I had forgotten to take my crystallised ginger as I had assumed we were just going to be in the calm waters of Plymouth Sound) and I promptly threw up over the back rail losing breakfast in a trice. I was put on the helm as looking at the horizon helps but lunch followed over the back and I was timing the projectile vomiting with helming quite well until I had nothing left to give to the fishes.

The entrance to Fowey harbour was impressively scary but Jim took over and we were soon in calmer waters. We parked near the lifeboat (they weren’t going out in weather like that) and I took the chance to go for a walk on land that doesn’t sway in all directions. We had to move up river to avoid the worsening wind and settled on a pontoon for the night.

Black wet suited Customs officers visited us in the morning on their scary black rib – possibly wondering about Jordan’s endless supply of Bulgarian chocolate and asked us various questions about our course before wishing us luck and heading off in their black boat again to interrogate someone else.

We had to pop into town to the post office (whilst it was not on strike) and another chance to wander around the picturesque town of Fowey (home of Daphne Du Maurier) – we had tied up and Jordan and I were strolling off the pontoon when another yacht came in at speed, in the same direction as the river current and smashed into the front of our catamaran. It had turned out that Mervyn (or Swervin’ Mervyn as he came to be known) had picked up something round his prop and didn’t have the ability to stop – he tried scuba diving but got told off for not having a diving licence. We suggested we could tow him tomorrow to a dry dock which he took up and we left to do pontoon bashing and mooring in the river to our hearts content.

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Lutine is a French lady fairy with the rather reassuring attribute of  ‘you penetrate the abysses of the sea without drowning’

It was also the name of the boat that we jumped ship to – it is a 60 foot wooden restored boat which used to be owned by Lloyds of London and had won the Fastnet race twice. It is a Camper & Nicholson built boat (1954) with lovely wide wooden decks and more sails than crew. Skippered by a man born for the sea (noting an Onedin Line lookalike with Captain Baines) our first meeting was turning up on his deck with all of our luggage and some french sticks and cheese for lunch. Gob smacked wasn’t the correct phrase as he shouts ‘What the hell are all these bags? Are you in transit?’ and ‘this is a big ship but I don’t know if we have enough room for these!’. We did offer to stow them in the marina offices but his son had already kindly cleared a bunk for us to temporarily bunk them in.

Hanging from the mizzen boom I was chatting to one of the professional looking crew who admitted he had been press ganged for the day too and had only come on board 5 minutes before our dressing down, that was before he had admitted to drinking urine by mistake on another voyage. A spoon playing Irishman,  a young cabin boy, another irish lad who was a Cornish graphic designer and a chap who used to live in the same street in Edinburgh as myself made up the crew complement for the race around  Île-de-Bréhat, off Paimpol.

We were locked out of the dock and followed the boats to the start line, then we wooshed around and almost crossed the start line to find out that in France that is the 10 minute warning poop on the horn so quickly came about and circled in readiness. There was no stopping this boat or crew – once the race was off we were well in the front of everyone with James navigating off charts below and everyone pulling sheets and changing sails – I managed to put away the Ensign (not flown during a race) and returned it at the end and was responsible for the Mizzen Sail. We even saw a dolphin off the bow.

‘I thought you said you were sailors’, gnarled the skipper to his new crew as he barked questions at his navigator. You go 240 degrees Dad he shouted back. It was great to see a professional crew all come together and everything happen (not seamlessly, but effectively and problems routed around quickly). With the large downwind sail out we flew and it was great seeing every other boat in the race so far behind. Sadly it was only once around the island as we were all getting into the feel of the boat – the race had finished we were first (handicapping meant we were third in the race – if we had gone around again we would have been first due to increasing distance all the time with the competitors) and we anchored off a lighthouse for rest and recreation as we couldnt lock in again at Pampoil until 7 in the evening.

The anchor didn’t feel right as we were moving so it was brought up and the anchor hook appeared with a tyre attached. Paddy hung over precariously and it was unceremoniously dumped into the water. We moved a bit further on and dropped anchor again. This time when we brought it up we had a lobster pot complete with lobster and spider crabs hanging off the hook. We also had the lobster fishing boat on our port side and had to swiftly get rid of this before they attacked us. We didn’t think anyone saw us but in the bar in the evening it appeared the entire race did and our anchoring was commented on. We were anchored outside a pub but couldn’t get there – this was some circle of hell. The weather was gorgeous so we all lay around sunbathing and chatting and dozing as sea kayakers paddled past, as the huge ferry boats offloaded tourists to the pub, as a dredging boat went past and the lobster fishermen returned laying out traps.

We had to take the passage back slowly as the tidal range is huge (9 metres) so moves fast and rises rapidly but Lutine’s draught was 9 feet so the depth gauge was nervously beeping. Locking in was with some Breton boat who almost decapitated a photographer in a rib in front of him, and we were all photographed by a lock side full of tourists as Breton dancing went on and pipes played. We disembarked with all of our luggage but with an invite to the race to Guernsey the next day which we gratefully accepted.

We all booked into a hotel at the marina side which in retrospect was a mistake thanks to the Breton festival that was on and the Europop band that played non stop until after 1am. But it was nice to get showered down and head out for some beer, snails and steak tartare, before retiring for some well earned sleep. An early start meant trips around the bakers and Marche for water, bread, cheese and batteries for my GPS.

Locked out and at the start we were raring to go only to find that the forecast force 4 to 5 winds decided to go on holiday elsewhere. There wasn’t a breath of wind so Clive the skipper said bugger this and started his engine and headed off. 5 minutes later the race was abandonded and everyone else followed Lutine on the long motor to Guernsey. We went the pretty route – near the rocks and lighthouses, and saw floating weed in abundance. My phone was more informative than the GOS – Welcome to Jersey it said and then Welcome to Guernsey. I was nodding off and retired downstairs onto a free bunk with my arm out as if demanding tariff for the heads. I awoke and we had reached Guernsey harbour, I strode on deck just to hear the boat come to a complete halt and a bit of a scrape on its bottom – we had scraped rocks in a buoyed channel into the harbour – the harbour rib came out and said that the tide was rising quickly so we would be off soonish – just to have the rest of the regatta fleet sail in wondering why we were stuck there.

We disembarked said our thanks and jumped into a rib taxi to the Jersey ferry which was sitting there. We raced up to the ticket office to be told she was dealing with a customer, who turned out to be disabled and so we had to wait as the ferry is sitting there. She came back – and we said jersey ferry and she looked at us as if we were stupid and said ‘We don’t deal with that here you need to go down there’ …. groan. We got to the booking office as the ferry was leaving the dock. Fay the friendly ferrygirl had us down as Mr Condor, which I think I shall use as my non-de-plume from now on, and got us tickets for tomorrows ferry (we would just make our flight) and she recommended a hotel that her boyfriend was sous chef at.

We dragged our bags until Gill found us a taxi and arrived at the hotel exhausted but still ready to negotiate room rates. A sous chef appeared at the desk and I asked if he was Fay’s boyfriend and he was astonished – we should have made out we were psychics. The room was comfortable and I went for a swim in the heated outdoor pool with some guy looking at me strangely – I am guessing it was my impressive array of bruises a consequence of hanging off backstays during propwash and the girls hitting me with a boathook to stop me snoring.

Dinner was as expected, what was unexpected was the food poisoning from the starter that Alison and I had – I must have been hit badly because I spent most of the night peppering the loo with explosive diahorrea and feeling sick (I imagined it was because I took my sea sickness wrist bands off and it was all catching up). I was speaking to the Maderia staff (all the hotel staff were from Madeira) who told me about their conditions – get pregnant get deported, and the way the island licences accommodation based on employment requirements, and there was some birthday party on with Essex girls and boys (’just cos your 16 doesn’t mean you can go off fucking in the bushes’, one ballroom clad lady hollered across the Guernsey night)

The next morning the taxi rushed us (the island has a speed limit of 35mph which makes buying from one of the islands Porsche and Asron Martin dealers a bit of a joke) to the ferry. I asked her if she was from Guernsey – yes I have lived here all my life she said proudly. There were accepting murmurs from the girls in the back. I then asked if she remembered the war – sharp intake of breath from the back, but she said she remembered it well. I then asked ‘which side were you on’ and a choking sound emerged from the back as in ‘why do we have to travel with this idiot?’ but the driver smiled and said ‘can’t you tell from my litle moustache’. She didn’t tell though, which was telling.

It was all plain sailing now or so we thought. The ferry would appear to have lost an engine, how careless of it. So it was going to be an hour late. That meant we had about 3 minutes to catch the plane at the other end if all went well…. being FlyBE we had to inform them 2 hours before hand of any changes. The only thing we could do was to change form Aberdeen to Edinburgh which was a later flight that day. Kim handled all the ticket rearrangements in her role of getting me home again.

The ferry people were very good in that they signed a thing saying the ferry was over an hour late and made sure we were at the front of the queue for getting off – we ran down the gangway picked up our bags and got into a taxi and straight into a traffic jam. We arrived to waht I assumed was Bombay Intgernational Airport – it certainly had the population to warrant it. God I hate the great unwashed British travelling public – flying used to be about style and elegance – now it is reminiscent of a bus station. Long queues which we strode to the front of to see if we could blag a seat on the aberdeen flight – the woman looked like we were insane, and we hadlt eve told her about our channel crossing, saying I was a pilot didn’t help either (I had forgotten that baggage handlers earn more than pilots in low cost airlines). We were on the Edinburgh flight so checked our bags into left luggage and took the pretty FlyBE customer care girls advice and walked across the staff car park and int the mermaid tavern for the rest of the day. It is often very difficult to stifle pub converstiaon but you could have cut the silence with a nife onc ehte girls got into their conversation about autoerotic asphyxiation and its prevalance in suicide cases.

There was almost a flight between an old glaswegian couple and someone who had the temerity to prebook and so could walk tothe front using his prebooked queue. Alison said – it is just as well the knives are in the hold baggage. The British abroad and we are not even properly abroad. The flight was uneventful, the porridge was yummy and I drained remaining euros on wine and gin. Stuart picked us off and we dropped the girls off at Inverkeithing where it appeared the line was closed and they had to get a bus with my waterproof jacket still in one of their bags….

I got back to find out that in my absence our gardner/fencer/chainsawer had been killed by a sheep  (not one of mine) and had been resurrected in the ambulance by a paramedic and defibrillator; the neighbouring farmer had rolled his tractor and had concussion and sadly a father and daughter had died in a dinghy accident on Keilder which put our own sailing adventures into a much dimmer light altogether.

We were all psyched up ready for the channel crossing – one of the busiest shipping channels in the world and we were going to head straight over it in a small flotilla of sailing boats – and not from the Dover/Calais side but from the Atlantic side crossing over 100 miles and into what looks like a sea defence set of rocks protecting Paimpol. The forecast was force 8 with rough seas so we wore our motion sickness bands (on the P6 acupuncture point which surprisingly seems to work) and gobbled down crystallised ginger only to find that the race had been postponed and we would find out tomorrow morning. So a day to spend passage planning going through the charts redoing tidal calculations and routes for what might be a daytime passage, whilst listening to the high winds whistling through the boats and the halyards clashing against the masts. When evening arrived we went on a small pub crawl to find out one crew hadn’t been told by their skipper that the 5am early rise had been cancelled too. They weren’t in our class so were not competitors but were still sceptical  – we did point out they would find out at 5am tomorrow whether we were telling the truth or not. We returned to the boat with me only getting my bottom wet as I almost fell out of the tender – things were going remarkably well.

Then they didn’t. At all.

The cooker broke down so we had no way of getting hot water, the heads inlet valve also decided to stop working, my lifejacket clamp fell off, our exit from the pontoon was met by a hail of abuse from a gnarly seaman who couldn’t believe the mess that two boats could make floating down the Dart towards his pride and joy,  and we had a wonderful kerfuffle at the start of the race in front of the committee boat again and last over the start line. And we were off following a large set of sails across the channel with the wind in the right direction and the tide shoving us eastward. Sixteen and a half hours passage – recalling why I fly to get places.

The waves were growing in size, Gill and I were chatting about music when she said ‘oh I hate Paul McCartney’, when a wave suddenly hit her and she cried out – ‘Christ, it’s a Paul McCartney fan all the way from the Mull of Kintyre’. As the waves grew it became harder to stand at the stern looking after the mainsheet so I slid into the helm seat with mainsheet in hand and what became a seat for the girls when they were helming (the helm stance was quite tiring in the standing position and the sitting position was too low so my Goldilocks solution seemed to work well – yes lapdancing across the channel).

The boat has a heavy and large keel so the waves were hitting it and causing it to go into a bizarre sliding motion akin to a skid which made helming tiring as every seventh wave shoved the entire boat off course. The chart plotter was difficult to read in the light of day but we had the sails in front to keep our interest as well as the rapidly approaching cargo ship.

The cargo ship appeared first as a box on the horizon, Alison took a bearing and we carried on exchanging anecdotes. The box grew in size and Alison took another bearing. This time the anecdotes stopped as she said we are on a collision course. With the box growing ever larger forming a clear image of a rapidly moving cargo ship and the bearings still confirming a collision (with which we were almost certainly going to lose out) there followed a heated debate on Collision Regulations (COLREGS) and Safety of Life at Sea (SOLAS) followed by a stream of abuse punctuated with ‘arrogant, incompetent and fuckwit’ which for once didn’t seem to be directed at me.

All hell broke loose at once, I was clipped on at the stern hanging onto the backstay, as the girls handled the sails and Charles whirled the wheel around and we were now parallel with the cargo ship and into its prop wash. ‘This is much better than Alton Towers’, I screamed, with an eye on the life raft as she heeled over. The boat righted itself and we watched the cargo ship wend its way wetward. Using AIS and my handheld GPS track I was able to work out which ship it was and have a photo of it on my desktop to remind me of our seaprox (along with an RAF tornado which our microlight had an airprox with) – recalling that Burt Bacharach song – why do cargo ships and fighter jets suddenly appear, everytime you are near..

The girls and I helmed our way south as Charles snoozed in readiness for the tough part of the route – the night route through the rocks of the North Passage. We watched the sun set and the red moon rise over the water as hour by hour passed in a cycle of helming and chatting and singing or humming our way through John Martyn’s repertoire. It was a full moon which gave a bit of light but there was little to follow on the horizon apart from the occasional sail appearing and disappearing with the waves. The eastbound channel ships, which were not on a collision course, passed to the front and behind us or straddled in a long line into the distance. The only lights were the moon and our navigation lights and the instrument lights (the chart plotter was moved into night mode).

Alison went to grab some sleep and after ten minutes I decided this would be a good chance with Charles on deck to grab an hour before the navigation nightmare starts with our waypoint Frog1. I discovered Alison in my bunk (it was a secure bunk so you don’t fall out) and the choice was a rear secure bunk which looked a bit to narrow, the forecabin which was bouncing up and down or one of the insecure bunks. Wedging myself into an insecure bunk I kind of drifted in and out of sleep – woken by MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY and PAN PAN PAN calls, until I was unwedged and cramping and moved over to the bunk under Alison. I managed to wake her up as I was thrown over onto the bunk and bounced off the wooden side of it. With one dubarry on and one off and a lifejacket on and off at the same time I managed to flatten her clothes and snore away for a short while before being launched onto the other side. I decided to go for the forecabin and was fast asleep until I thought we were sinking with a MIKE MIKE MIKE call.

It turned out that Gill needed some sleep and there were some navigaitonal points ahead that someone who had done the passage plan could help with. I now had to try to get my other dubarry boot on which was not wanting to – this was in the pitch dark on a rolling boat. Next the life jacket which turned out to be impossible due to a clamp coming off, and the next one I had problems with trying to get the clip closed – finally I was ready and realised I desperately needed to pee. So it was time to unlock the head door and throw myself in on the next roll and unlock it before I was thrown out again. That was when in the pitch dark I realised that my flaccid penis was somewhere under my lifejacket, waterproof jacket, waterproof trousers (with locking zips all going in different directions), my tight pair of Bear Grylls shorts and bamboo underwear. I also had to lift the seat cover, seat and try and pee in the right direction whilst being thrown about, before attempting to get the right seacocks open and closed and pumped. The PAN PAN PAN call turned out to be a women in a small boat with a broken rudder and she was being rescued by helicopter. At least we still had a working rudder.

I stayed in between the chart table and the deck. There were some issues. We had a passage plan that said if it was dark we choose at Frog 1 whether we have sufficient lights to go through the North Channel (which someone had mentioned over drinks was closed) or our first choice was in from the east down a well lit passage. However the chart plotter had been preset to the route and we were now sailing down the North Channel with rocks on all sides and with cardinal buoys all unlit and with lighthouses disappearing due to wave height making it almost impossible to count them for recognition. The chart plotter and GPS took this moment to die, of course.

I had my handheld GPS and I had the charts and started to make suggestions. The rocks and presence of sandbanks and steadily decreasing depth were of concern and I strongly suggested that we should go onto engine to make any progress as tacking with rocks yards away would not be good. Alison helmed bravely with a North West wind making life even more difficult. We started the engine which didn’t start. Great. Battery switched over and we were good to go. My GPS batteries, of course, chose this moment to go losing the backlighting of the screen so I had to use the chart table red light to roughly see where we were in relation to an invisible, in the dark, 193 degree transit. We were on it and motoring down, saw the white buoy we were looking for, and knew we were safe as morning broke and we saw other yachts at safe anchor.

We passed the finish line, retired due to using engine having crossed the channel and beaten by rocks and lack of lights in the last mile. If we had pressed on we could have been first in our class – yet again we could have also been sunk. We followed the well buoyed channel to the Paimpol locks, were locked in to the harbour and tied up on a pontoon and broke out he whisky. The girls announced their departure from the boat and I joined them in the abandoning ship as it wouldn’t have made any sense to rely on me as an incompetent crew and I figured Charles would press gang a complete crew off one of the boats that seemed to break rudders regularly. Three quarters of a bottle later of Highland Park and some fruit cake – the girls and I crowded into the forward bunks and snored our way through to lunch where we discovered Kir Breton (Kir and Breton cider), spinach crepes and mussels with chips.

Paimpol is a jolly town however it is a bugger to escape from. We went along to the tourist office to ask how to leave, an unusual request I grant it. The only way out was a 7 hour 3 change train journey in the opposite direction and ending up in St Malo where a ferry or flight could take us back to blighty. We were settled on an early morning departure leaving Charles to welcome his new crew and for us to start the long trip home. Charles had tickets for the evening so we all settled up our different accounts and polished off more Kir Breton and munched our way through the pheasant as I chatted to a crew from Guernsey. That was where one crew suggested that the skipper of the Lutine was press ganging as they needed more crew so we met the skipper and volunteered and in a moment of madness he agreed and took us on. We had to be on the boat at 0815.

The boys of the Sandy Lee had a long sail planned north up to the Krka National Park – famous for its waterfalls. This took us up through a shipping channel and through a fort protected river entrance into the National Park with gorgeous sedimentary layers in cliffs. We weren’t too sure if we were going to fit under bridges (we did) and came across some odd looking buoys along the side of the river – these were mussel buoys leaning over depending on how large the mussels were. Shouting over and gesticulating wildly we encouraged a chap to come out with a bucket of 5 kilos of fresh mussels, taken off one of the buoys. We tied the bucket at the bathing deck and headed further up the river into a lake.

We needed more provisioning so stopped off at a small harbour where a gorgeous, heavily pierced, supermarket assistant helped us fill up our baskets. We munched on more delicious Croatian icecream whilst watching jellyfish and sea snakes slither through the water – discouraging us from swimming there. We motored up the narrowing river to the marina where we could pick up the tourist boat to go deeper into the waterfalls following a reed lined river with signets swimming with their parent swans. The first sight of the waterfalls is stunning – it is a set of waterfalls cascading down from quite some way and height.

There is a walk which we followed around and over the waterfall, a circular watchplatform built for the King and wooden platforms which take you over the top so you have the water flowing under you. A fantastic national park and a great way to spend an afternoon wandering through woods and over waterfalls.

On the boat back were a couple of tour guides, one who was the spitting image of Drew Barrymore. I wandered through the town at the marina and there was a church which had been bombed by the Serbs during the war and it was amazing to think that even here war had touched so deep in Croatia.

Time was marching on so we made our way back down the river and out across the Adriatic to an island with a small empty bay where we were to have our mussel dinner. The moon rose over the bay and it was a perfect spot – calamari and mussels with some Croatian wine and bread and olives – this was luxury. Then the other boats arrived and our solitude was gone. One anchored very close to us and on refusing to move we had to start singing filthy rugby songs and peeing over the side – they got the message and shifted.

We were now out of gin which recalls the tale of Sir Francis Chichester when returning to his port after circumnavigating the earth he was asked ‘When were your spirits at their lowest ebb?’ the obvious answer seemed to be, ‘When the gin gave out.’ “. Fortunately in our case there was my emergency bottle of 18 year old malt.

The full moon lit up the bay during the night and Kevin decided to sleep outside with his snoring drifting over the water as more boats came in overnight (it must have been some night navigation exercise on a regatta)

Photos

Waking early as we needed breakfast and supplies – mostly fresh bread as Fanny and Johnny in the kitchen had been running a conveyor belt of sandwiches out and empty plates back since day one and our provisions were running low (not to mention the Gin)

I headed out and found the great ice cream shop was also doing freshly baked Croatian Chocolate Croissants and armed with loaves of bread, from a supermarket with a girl asleep crouched down in between the aisles, I returned for breakfast, a shit and a shave in the toilet block and then we motored out until the wind hit us.

The sailing this day was possibly the best, there was a good wind and we were shifting nicely (even exceeding 10 knots) – with us all on one side at one point dangling our feet over the side. We saw a group of Spinnakers sailing and one passed as we took pictures of it and they posed proudly – only to have their sail collapse and chaos on the boat as they all tried to recover from their lapse of judgement. So the rest of the day was tacking up to our destination so we were all wide awake by the time we got there.

Primosten is a lovely spot – this is a round islet connected to the mainland, a safe harbour and lots of restaurants and bars along its beaches. It was famous for its vineyards, a photograph of which hung in the UN in New York. We lazy lined up and couldn’t resist the water – I swam over to the Irish Night Club across the bay and back again and appear on a number of tourist photos with my tilly hat.

We walked around the island up to the church watching yachts fight their way against the growing wind and roughening sea. Dined out in a great restaurant which tried to rip us off – they hadn’t counted on the analytical mind of Andy though – we ended up back at a shore bar where we watched the Chelsea-Barcelona game where Barcelona showed their skills and the referee showed his alliegance. Well oiled now we ended up back at a pretty Hungarian barmaids bar where we unwisely played drinking games with a set of Italian sailors – spinning around broomsticks and trying to find our grappa whilst spinning across the main square and various other fun and games led the Italians to scream ‘Please, No more Games!’ – the barmaid said she had never seen anything like it in Primosten. Fortunately the Irish Night Club was shut.

Photos

Another beautiful day, another beautiful hangover. Still full from last nights dinner and gin I skipped brekkies and we set off intending to reach Milna for the evening to watch the EUFA cup semi final match between Man Utd and Arsenal.

It was a long and lonely sea journey so we took the chance to empty the holding tanks (for onboard toilets) so it was stern tubes away as the disgusting stomach churning sight and stench of strands of shite snaking away from us. What happened to that simple rule from the last long sail – no shiting on board and the desperate rush when the boat goes shore.

We found a lovely deserted bay, with deserted houses, recalling the advice do not venture near deserted houses as they may be booby trapped from the wars we snorkelled around the blue water bay watching fishes and urchins.

As much as I have told everyone how much hard work sailing was around Croatia the photographs tend to see a bunch of sunbathing or snorkelling guys – of course we didn’t take photographs whilst working hard! What cynics my family are.

Milna looked delightful as we sailed into the harbour – people idling on the harbourside bar tables as we reversed into the space allocated for us on the marina. We needed to sort out shopping, a visit to the beautiful church (had to sneak in as I was wearing shorts which were forbidden), get a pint, whilst watching a diver in the river, and sort out a telly for the football, as well as more delicious Croatian icecream. During the walk there the lens of my sunglasses fell out as a screw had fallen out, I was now without sunglasses so could blink with my clear lenses for the rest of the trip.

The bar was already filled with Croatian football fans and we all shouted supporting different teams – I felt like that IT Crowd episode when they pretend to be football supporters – but I did enjoy the game and Man Utd goal was a tremendous dispay of skill and teammanship – they were by far the better team. The bar bizarrely had a cabinet of curiosities of British objects. Handshakes all round at the end of the game and we retired to the local restaurant for lots of food and wormwood and the grappas – fortunately the gang plank was much shorter that we could leap on board to open the gin bottle and discuss the game and the forthcoming Barcelona one.

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Leaving Vis, after paying the 50 quid lazy line fee, we motored past limestone islands littered with abandoned military towers. We anchored near the cave we were told about and inflated the tender grabbed our masks and snorkels and headed into the cave.

In the centre of the roof of the cave was a hole through which sunlight poured striking hte water and forming a blue glow with a beam of sunlight reaching all the way down to the rocky bottom. We slipped into the water and snorkelled around – my waterproof camera in video mode caught some of this and I swam underwater through the beam of light and fish (the kids were doing the Jaws soundtrack when I showed them it). The water was very cold but my Icebreaker merino top kept me warm and after a while it was enjoyable too. Getting me back into the tender was a bit more challenging but 4 shell oil workers helped!

Having the cave to ourselves and snorkelling in the crystal clear water was magical.

We got back to the boat, which was still there, clambered back on and then had the joy of trying to get the tender back on board. We eventually winched it through some great engineering rigup from the Shell guys. Andy changed his leg and we were off to the next destination – a secluded bay off the island of Hvar with bars and a sunbathing bikini clad waitress.

I swam to the bar through anchored yachts wearing my Tilly hat and hobbled across the rocky beach to meet the others, who had come by tender. A beer and a swim back and e were ready for dinner – we took the tender over, dined on a massive amount of seafood and meat with the grappas and wine and staggered back to the tender.

That was when Andy and Pete decided to tip the tender over as Andy got in – Pete managed to save the situation by grabbing Andy before he hit the water which would have brought the tender over too into the cold water filled with spiky sea urchins.

We made it back to the yacht in one piece, tied up the tender up the starboard side as the stern was going to be the easy urinal (no swimming in the morning methinks) – the gin bottle was open and we settled down to a rowdy set of rugby songs – with actions. Not to sure what on earth any boats in listening distance thought.

We all snored well that night…

Photos

We set off early and, having spent a great deal of our Croatian Kuna already, headed to the ATMs to refresh our pocket wealth. This went well for all of us apart from Kevin who upon putting his card in and entering PIN and amount was then thrilled to find out that the town had been hit by a power cut (coincidentally at the same time as I yanked the power lead for the boat out of the dock). He now found himself with no card (and no spare card).

We set sail for Vis, previously a military only island and with fabulous vinyards, with a hangover and a lively Force 5 gusting Force 6 sea. We were all fairly stoic – Pete took the helm as he was feeling queasy and that helped him (good ploy), Andy threw up down in the cabin and very shortly afterwards I decided, in the absence of ginger teddy bears, to throw myself over the starboard winch and vomit all down the side of the yacht. Using the winch to hang onto the boat which was tipping every which way I managed to empty yellow bile all down the starboard deck, whilst listening to the skipper recounting his seasickness stories. It was during this point of hanging over the side that I spotted a fin – I shouted Shark! Shark! but it turned out to be friendly dolphins who had come along to play. Some people have always wanted to go swimming with dolphins and here was me vomiting with them.

The dolphins were remarkable leaping completely out fo the water – a substantial size and playing in front of the bow. That cheered us all up on the long long trip in the grey sea and howling wind to Vis.

Once we reached the island the wind dropped and the sun came out and we reached a small bay, anchored and the wet suited snorkellers jumped in and I gingerly made my way down the steps in my trunks and icebreaker merino top – the sea was about as cold as the North Sea although it was a gorgeous colour. Andy put on his swimming leg – a completely enclosed artificial leg and joined us in the cold. Croatia doesn’t have beaches as such (there are rare exceptions to this) – rocky limestone meets the turquoise water. A sea kayaker paddled past. This was a real holiday after all and hopefully armed with my ginger my sea legs had returned. Anchor up and we were off to the town of Vis itself.

Vis itself was a marvellous island and the town was a joy – we lazy lined into the town and then cleaned down the yellow dried vomit off the starboard side. Skipper and I went looking for the others who had gone for a walk. No where to be found we scoured one end of the town and had a marvellous walk through deserted streets to the other end of the bay. Delightful town. With no sign of them we enjoyed a delicious Croatian icecream and wandered back to find them outside a restaurant – we decided upon it as it looked fancy and reasonable and waded in amongst the huge candles to enjoy red scorpion fish and John Dory with some splendid wine and a recommendation from the waiter, in between football advice on the upcoming European Cup Final, of a Blue Cave, not the tourist one, but an isolated cave which was free and we could anchor and snorkel. All bills come with complementary grappa so you are not sure which is more painful – walnut and fig grappa is quite tasty though once you get past the smell.

Back to the boat, over that narrow gangplank again, and more gin forgetting the dreadful effect of the morning hangover.

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Yotlinx organised a boat out of Kremik, north of Split in Crotia for a week of sailing up and down the Dalmation coast – in the end only five of us went for it – 4 Shell workers and Mike.

The flight from Edinburgh saw me behind a hen party with sparkly sequins on their tight T shirts who all had to remove their belts for security and were staggering through security holding up their jeans. Sadly they weren’t going to Split. I next bumped into a part time fireman we normally meet in the steam room in the Kelso swimming pool – he was off for a lads weekend which may have been tarnished by me shouting ‘I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on’. The skipper, Alan, had to drive down from Aberdeen and we met the other side of security where his normal routine is

I have a metal hip – just step through the metal detector sir;
NAAAAAAW, NAAAAAAW- right sir step back
Are you wearing a belt sir? I have a metal hip – off with the belt sir and step through the metal detector;
NAAAAAAW, NAAAAAAW- right sir step back
Do you have any coins in your pocket – err no I have a metal hip – you must have a metal hip sir on you go….

We met up with Andy in the Wetherspoons pub at Gatwick which was kindly offering ales at a very decent price. Andy was disfigured in a car crash in Australia and had lost his leg and had an amazingly positive view of life which put my grumping about anything in its place. With an early start we left when the pub shut and retired to the Yotel for a power shower and a few hours sleep before meeting the rest of the crew – Pete and Kevin the mate (or Fanny and Johnny as they came to be known for their prowess in the galley). We all filled up at duty free with Gin and Malt Whisky – emergency rations.

After such an early start the flight was of course delayed for hours due to a maintenance issue, and we now had Kevin snoring loudly in the lounge so we were all keep to go, so on prodding the airport staff it turned out they needed to get ‘the engineer’ from Luton airport – who must have changed a bulb as the plane was ready 5 minutes after he was due to arrive.

The plane was full of bankers – HSBC had filled the plane and the marina boats with staff who were going sailing (what happened to this credit crunch in banks?) – it was a sensible strategy to get to the SunSail offices before them otherwise we would be sailing out several days later… we did, got our briefings as to where it was possible to go and departed before the HSBCers had unpacked. We also discovered that they had given us a much larger boat than we had expected giving us all separate cabins (mine was ensuite with the galley head) – we had a 43 foot Jeanneau with BMW logos on the front.

Skipper decided to show us the ropes – literally – we tacked until we were a well oiled machine – a knackered machine at that and sailed to the port of Rogoznicko where we had the pantomine of the ‘lazy line’. Skipper had heard of them but never used them – the rest of us made it up as we went along. The guy on the dock would pull up a rope and we had to grab that at the stern then pull that up the side of the boat and secure it fore and aft – that way we were physically perpindicular to the dock and secure – we tied onto the dock and dropped the gangplank down. Whilst skipper dealt with paperwork the rest of us were tasked with finding the supermarket. It took an icecream and a mile walk before we found one – where some aged blonde Croats in hot pants were out shopping and helped us find some tea. Walking back pleased with ourselves we then discovered that there was a supermarket opposite our boat. Skipper assumed we had just gone to the pub and broke the news that the lazy line was about 50 quid a night – those news articles about the pound dropping hit home (from my Lonely Planet guide the pound had halved since last year – this was going to be an expensive week).

A few beers and discussing football and joining the EU with the pretty waitress and some locals and we retired back across the narrow gangplank with the long drop down to a cold sea to open the gin and chat under the stars on deck. It turned out that drinking a lot before a long sail in the morning was not a sensible idea.

Photos

I had thought that a 9 day sail to St Kilda would be a perfectly relaxed way to unwind in between projects and to move from dinghy sailing on the Whiteadder Reservoir onto the high seas, consolidating my navigation and meteorology from microlighting with tacking and gybing in tides.

Lochaber Watersports at Ballachulish have three yachts heading to St Kilda so I joined the crew of one – Figment III, a Catalina 320 which is a 6 tonnes, 34 foot yacht. Arriving in Ballachulish I immediately set about exploring the drinking hostelries, chasing a trapped duck across the Ballachulish Bridge to enjoy a refreshingly different Cucumber gin in the victorian lounge of the Ballachulish Hotel before retiring to the bar of the Loch Leven Hotel for late night drinking and chatting to the drunken locals and tourists.

I turned up at the yacht with an ill-advised hangover and my body weight in ginger chewy teddy bears and seasickness tablets for emergencies (recommended if the yacht sinks and you are bobbing around in the rescue raft). We were allocated yachts from a scrap of paper and faced the folk we were going to be with in close proximity for 9 days and 8 nights. All were white recalling the old joke – Why don’t black people go on cruises? They’re not falling for that one again.

The crew consisted of Captain Ahab, who owned the 34 foot 85K yacht, two mechanical engineers (one of them ex Royal Navy) who worked in the oil industry, a cabinet maker (ex Merchant Navy) with a side line in making handles for whips for the sex industry, a producer of childrens programmes with Toyah Wilcox, and myself with more than my allowance of cabin baggage. Fortunately there was not a swear box on board otherwise we could have bought a spare yacht. We were also on the one year old yacht with full plotter and wheel, whereas the others were bundled on 20 and 30 year old boats with tillers. On the other hand the other boats did have marine charts so in the event of the electronics going tits up we would be navigating with the dinner mats which had maps of Scotland on them.

We lined up under the Ballachulish bridge for publicity photos with the photographer damning the low mist realising that he was going to have the spend days in post production blending in that blue sky and Glencoe hills in the background. Captain Ahab told us that we were well served with medical assistance which turned out to be a gynecologist, who left after the first day sail, and a psychotherapist who left on the third day leaving peeling potatoes to be a very hazardous event with no medical backup.

Peeling potatoes on a moving deck is harardous enough without having to fill the bucket with sea water first. Fortunately I wrapped the rope around a stantion first before flinging it into the sea where it promptly filled with seawater creating an equal and opposite force on the rope. It then bounced out of the sea emptying itself quickly so it required a few deft maneuverers to get it even half full and pulled up. I took a knife and started to peel and the chaps said ‘you weren’t kidding when you said that you had never done this before!’. It was then I saw that they were new potatoes and suggested that they didn’t need peeled and only washed when the comeback hit ‘f*cking middle class c*nt’ – which put me in my place (although I was still armed with a potato knife).

We received no outside news once we set sail other than inferring that Pavarotti died when SMS jokes were being sent in (the Three Tenors are only worth twenty quid now). We did get mobile signal quite a bit of the trip though, contrary to Ahab’s advice.

Ballachulish to Tobermory 37 nautical miles 1st September
Head wind to Tobermory so mainly motored out of Ballachulish putting the sails up for the photographer. I took the helm and in a short time the 68 metre depth gauge started bleating emergency sounds in the middle of Loch Linnhe with a 2 metre depth warning which may have been a whale or a bit of seaweed wrapped around the sonar. It certainly wasn’t a mackerel as our fishing line remained empty. We passed a quarry and tried to work out what the cardinal buoy marks were using binoculars, which hadn’t even been on a short date with a gyroscope, on a heaving deck with spray and a swaying boom. Fortunately that buoy was for the huge stone ships taking granite to Germany so, provided we didn’t actually hit it, we were ok.

Captain Ahab took the wheel and I sat back as observer, two chaps jumped ashore with ropes to secure us to the pontoon. Ahab from the wheel shouted – ‘talk to me, talk to me, talk to me’ as we inched closer to the pontoon and one of the fenders took out the light/charging station. The guys did talk back – ‘you’ve broken the fecking light’.

Tobermory was the first chance to visit the public toilet – the unspoken rule was not to ’shit on the boat’, especially when Ahab returned from the other boat with a jammed head which blew back showering the ceiling and Ahab’s head with excrement. I suspect the combination of breaking the light and having your head effectively shoved down a toilet was not going to lend one towards a good disposition.

Captain Ahab did all the cooking including the fried breakfasts, steak pie and pasta and a superb rolypoly pudding and custard. I think he was reliving his boarding school days at George Watsons as after a few whiskies he would sing the school song until he started to snore. On the snoring stakes Roddy was competing with me for setting off seismographs and we were also the dawn chorus of pumping the head until everyone woke up. Not that I slept much with the squeaking fenders, snoring compartments, rhythmic halyard line smashing against the mast, seals bleating, my lifejacket falling on my head, seagulls demanding their breakfast and the hourly bilge pump noise and large red light which shone into my face.

My early morning experiences included stretching out and turning off the power to the entire boat including anchorwatch (the automated system that tells us if the anchor is perhaps not embedded as we thought but is stuck on the back of a seal or basking shark which is going to tow us to the Sargasso Sea overnight). I also went to the loo at 4am closing the door quietly behind me to hear the door handle thud on the floor outside. After ablutions I then spent some time extracting myself and warning anyone who went near the loo with a haunting and half asleep message which they all ignored.

Tobermory to Canna 35nm 2nd September
After another accidental gybe and complete loss of control Captain Ahab took the helm with various swear words of which the gist was ‘Don’t break my mast you c*nt’. The helm is a very tiring place to be – you need total concentration watching the sea ahead for fishing buoys, other yachts and the huge Macbrayne ferries; keeping the sails in wind with a changing wind, pitching and rolling boat and the third axis of the boat whirling around with tide; watching depth and trying to maintain a course whilst your legs are trying to keep you upright and you are tempted by the tea getting cold in front of you in silver cups as the rest of the crew tuck into the minirolls and kitkats.

Captain Ahab covered up the wind instrument and I knew I was now having to use ‘the force’. This seemed better and in full concentration on everything apart from where we were actually heading I was in 25 knot wind doing 8.6 knots ploughing the bow into the sea and heading directly towards the cliffs. Racing yachts tend to let their helmsman remain on duty for only half an hour and I could see why.

We anchored in Canna harbour in between two churches and Simon and I dinghied ashore to see the more intriguing church and use the toilet before returning at sunset for dinner and brandy.

We chatted on deck in the twilight – I mentioned my wife used to be a dietitian and received the brutal retort from Roddy ‘But you are a fat c*nt too’, I replied that I thought she was feeding me up to make me unattractive to other women, the immediate chorus ‘aye, it’s fecking working’. If I had been a lesser man I would have cried myself to sleep, still I did have a peek at my HotOrNot rating and I was still more attractive than 50% of the men on the site, at least to the partially sighted voters (no, I have not been voting for myself!)

Canna to Eriskay then Castlebay, Barra 47nm 3rd September
The weather broke and we had blue skies and sunshine and sunburn. Stornoway coastguard voice sexily told us that there was very little chance of going to St Kilda as the weather forecast was reading worse than the day before. We were all a bit dispirited but the chance of a toilet on Castlebay would make the difference. Being a catholic island my Vodafone didn’t work, but John’s Orange phone did. We would have gone if there had been a chance as our crew hadn’t been throwing up at all, as the other boats had (they had no ginger teddy bears).

The bar was empty apart from a drunken shapely gal and the general drunks – we definitely raised the tone of the place, which made a change. The Vatersay boys were playing elsewhere in a ceilidh (we were told not to go and get back to the boat) and my previous rescuers were nowhere to be seen. Getting back to the boat included ducking under the low bridge in our dinghy.

It was merchant navy day so the lifeboat let off its out of date flares combined with some left over fireworks for a splendid display watched by the only person on board without earplugs and dressed only in underpants on deck. When the applause started I turned around to see the entire seafront filled with the population of Castlebay.

Castlebay to Wizard’s Pool, Loch Skipport, Uist 32nm 4th September
We left Castlebay after showering at the Macbrayne ferry terminal and wolfing down a fried breakfast, the harbour channel was filled with dense fog, seeing a few hundred yards ahead and trying to make out the next buoy through the fog and hoping it wasn’t the morning ferry. Our psychotherapist left on the Barra ferry with aching hips, but I suspect the uncomfortable combination of us farting and snoring in the boat really got to him.

At Wizards Pool we anchored relaxing on deck as a knotted polythene bag of Ahab shite and toilet paper was hurled over our heads, as we tried to get the fishing line reeled in as soon as possible before hooking something unpleasant, as the bag of curiosities bobbed its way towards the fish farm.

Making tea is not as easy as it sounds on board – especially when rolling. A hot kettle is held on a moving gas hob and takes 20 minutes to boil, that is when you work out how to actually turn it on. Opening the cupboard whilst rolling tends to end up with jars of marmalade and sugar rolling around the floor after narrowly missing everyones head. Pouring the hot water into a moving teapot once it whistles requires a bit of risk assessment and then teapot of moving mug even more. Still the end goal of supping a decent cup of tea was worth it most of the time especially when kitkats or minirolls were accompaniments.

Wizards Pool to Scalpay and Tarbert, Harris 40nm 5th September

Heading north we had a good sail and reached Scalpay which has a huge multi million pound bridge linking it to the rest of the outer hebrides. It was a lee shore so we couldn’t wait and the pier was filling with folk keen to whisk us off to a ceilidh (or perhaps they were waiting for a ferry). It had a very The Wicker Man feel to it so we crossed the loch to Tarbert for chips and a toilet. All five of us fitted in the dinghy with water lapping around the side. The pub was filled with fishermen watching Trawlermen and we soaked down some Guiness for essential vitamins before we got back in the dinghy to find the outboard engine no longer worked.

We rowed back to the shore, ok when I say we I obviously don’t mean me. We were all fretting like naughty schoolchildren on the deck, telling filthy stories and jokes in the freedom that no-one was on any of the boats. Captain Ahab returned and we broke the news – we got the engine on deck promptly spilling the contents of the fuel tank onto the deck and tried my swiss army card contents, before Simon shouted ‘Let the professional craftsman through’ armed with a hammer and a large pin and started hammering metal against metal on the fuel rich deck. Swabbing the decks and washing down our shoes we now noticed that the other boat had a woman cocooned on deck in her sleeping bag and would have listened to all our filthy jokes (without laughing once I have to add). At least we didn’t set her on fire, so I wasn’t sure why she kept throwing dirty looks at the four of us. The other girl in the fleet was becoming incrementally more attractive as the days at sea passed.

Tarbert crossing Little Minch to Loch Scavaig, Skye 56nm 6th September
The weather forecast was still awful even though it was lilted from the lovely Stornoway Coastguard voice. So St Kilda was abandoned and we crossed the Minch to the cliffs of Skye. We saw a buoy maintenance boat lifting a solar powered buoy out of the water (probably to shine some torchlight into the fog bound buoy to keep it going). We entered Loch Scavaig at sunset after a long and cold sail/motor and it was like the Vikings entering a fjord for the first time. The mist was down to around 100 feet and the craggy rocks were all around us – the shallows were shallow and the seals were squealing. We got to 2 metres depth and anchored for the night near a waterfall and the Scottish Mountaineering Hut at the base of the Cuillin Ridge. Ahab cheered us up saying the place was haunted by a witch that dragged rufty-tufty sailors down to the depths, but since we were in 2 metres we felt a bit better. He also said we had run out of water so tea was going to be rationed – when this happened on the Bounty they put the Captain in a small boat and left him to row over 4,000 miles with his officers.

Loch Scavaig to Knoydart 20nm 7th September
We saw a minky whale (Ahab was disappointed they weren’t white) and some porpoises, although one of the other boats had seen a dead minky whale and took photos of its bloated tongue (in case they weren’t feeling nauseous enough).

Passing the statue of the white lady with arms extended we sailed into a mooring at Knoydart – only reachable by yacht, ferry or a long hill walk. The Old Forge Inn provided showers and a shit and some great beer to wash down a great lamb broth. I walked along the coast to see the runway (it is a fly in only runway as most aircraft have come a cropper on it) and it looks extremely dodgy in between large mountains and looks perilously close to a swamp. Dinner at the Old Forge was seafood heaven with sandcastle buckets for the debris. Getting back on the dinghy after quite a few pints would have been funny if we weren’t in such a mutinous mood. Fortunately tiredness took over and cutlasses remained sheathed and Captain Ahab lived to sail another day to shout and swear at us for messing up another operation with no pre-briefing whatsoever. When he told us he used to run a motivation company we smiled inwardly and crossed off the diary as another day passed.

I had to wade into the sea to get back into the dinghy as Ahab refused to let it nearer the beach. As a consequence my only footwear were my Muck Boots straight from my field, with a combination of soay sheep shit, highland cow shit and horse shit on them. This left an impressive set of footmarks on the white deck which Ahab immediately recognised as my boots (especially since he had been falling over them for the past few days) so we swabbed the deck and I sat in a commander seat with my boots over the edge being rained on. Any time the boots were off my legs they became an accident waiting to happen for all the crew (including me) as we stumbled over them.

Knoydart to Tobermory to Loch Aline 49nm 8th September
We caught an attractive fish but since it was only one and we didn’t have Jesus on board it went back unable to feed the hungy crew – other mackerel were caught but were too small so it catch and release fishing for us. We sailed into Tobermory, this time not smashing anything and in our 20 minute stop I managed to have a shite at the public loos, eat half a dozen deep fried scallops from the Les Routiers recommended fish van on the pier, listen to a group of kilted women singing at a wedding, buy a bottle of Tobermory for dinner and fill up with water for tea. We were doing single Man Overboard practice in case the wife had fallen over – slow down, check insurance, turn around into wind then hit her over the head with the boat hook. A motor boat suddenly headed towards us – pirates I thought and brandished the boat hook to repel boarders. They shouted – ‘where is Tobermory?’ and Captain Ahab challenged hypocritically ‘Don’t you have any charts?’. We shouted ‘You can borrow our dinner mats’ but they had already headed off into the sunset – Ahab informed the coastguard just in case and swore at us a bit more. An interesting aside is that it is perfectly legal to have no navigation charts and head for the high seas (us pilots would lose our licence) but if you dare to sail without flying the ensign then the bastards could storm your boat and impound it for such a felony.

Loch Aline had lots of lights and shallows and we stood up like Vikings again watching the depth gauge drop rapidly before mooring in sight of a stately house on a still loch. We spent our last supper telling sailing stories with Ahab saying he had handcuffed some chap to the centre pole in bad weather and we realised we had got off lightly. Ahab admitted that his personal joy was watching me raise the table in the morning when it invariably hit me on the chin and struggle to try to lower it each night. He then retired to sing the George Watson school song in darkness once the whisky bottle was drained.

Loch Aline past Lismore to Ballachulish 29nm 9th September

We set off and raced the ferry to the channel, the other yachts had stood off, but we knew the ferry wouldn’t be able to go into the shallows so pressed on remembering our RYA collision course and me with one hand on our liferaft release switch. Lunch was spent watching Alasdair dive into the cold water to free his rudder from the man overboard rope and Ahab cried out ‘come and get a hot shower’ as he uncovered a shower hose – this was big news to us as we had suffered the ferry terminal and public showers, to unglue our testicles, for the entire trip. Images of Ahab Overboard flashed through our minds. We sailed back under the bridge and berthed tired but happy that we didn’t sink, mutiny or throw up.

Total travel was 356 nautical miles over 9 days, we lost one crew member, successfully rescued our man overboard each time (although it may have drowned a couple of times at least we didn’t run it over and wrap it around our rudder as the other boat did, necessitating a freezing cold dip to free it).

Disembarked and headed north then forgot my deck shoes and headed south, then headed north again. Got caught in horrendous traffic at Fort William for the Mountain Bike World Championships and a car almost ploughed into me when police motorcyclists were successfully slowing down long queues of traffic and a citreon careered to a halt at my side on the wrong side of the road.

Overtaking buses and lines of cars along Loch Laggan I raced to Plockton and ran up the stairs banging on the door and a toweled wife opened it as I shouted ‘don’t hug me I haven’t had a shite in a couple of days and the tortoise is out of its shell’ before rushing for a welcome defecation. Not changing underwear has the side effect of leaving testicles glued to the thighs like velcro so the hotel shower was very welcome and I started to feel less like a celibate seaman and more my randy self. So a shag (or was it a cormorant) and out for dinner where I was speaking to an avalanche survivor and a quantum cryptography research student – a typical Plockton flying club dinner at which no-one had actually flown up due to the weather.

We ambled back the next day through the wonderful road to Glenelg, with stunning views of the Five Sisters of Kintail, to the Brochs and stopped for coffee at a grass roofed house with a gypsy caravan outside. A drop dead gorgeous Chilean girl served espressos in the middle of nowhere and we just knew that this was surely Mike’s world. Lunch at the Cluanie Inn, where Kim could spot the South Glen Shiel Ridge which she had walked five of the seven Munros (one of them twice whilst lost in fog) on the Saturday, then down for dinner with friends before arriving home and a welcome bed.

The trip was unforgettable and I am glad all the crew mates were jolly and we never threw each other over the side. It was of course disappointing that we didn’t get to St Kilda, but then I went along to learn what it was all about and in between the tea making, getting sworn at, having wet feet and processing saturated fats I have to say it was a jolly good time and pretty good value for money. Although no-one believed me about the Songs of Praise Clown Programme where the congregation were all clowns, and everyone thought that classical music was for snobby c*nts (they hadn’t come across Mozart’s Lick My Arse obviously).

I still wake up thinking the room is moving and that I am on a boat and wondering when the next toilet stop will be. In case I want to do more of this there is the YotLinx site which allows you to sign up for weeks of similar fun but perhaps in more tropical climes. I am also reading the fabulous book ‘Coasting’ by Jonathan Raban and the trip added so much to the enjoyment of that book. It is a bit of a gateway book, in that once finishing a chapter I am immediately on amazon or abebooks buying yet another sailing or poetry book or ancient chart for transiting churches and rocks.