Here’s a pub quiz question: Where is the Celtic Sea? Off Scotland somewhere? Ireland maybe? How about that bit of aquatic loveliness between the Atlantic Ocean, the English Channel and St. George’s Channel? Where’s all that? I hear non-sailors ask. Well, just in case you happen to find yourself in a pub at quiz time, the Celtic Sea is south of Ireland and west of Cornwall, although the marketing bods in the south west do tend to keep it under their belts. Numerous road signs in Cornwall point us this way and that toward the Atlantic Highway, not one mentioning that on any map the area of sea that lands on the north Cornish shore is in fact the Celtic Sea. And it’s in the Celtic sea that you will find scattered like gem stones, the Scilly Isles.
Under Charlotte’s expert tutelage, Monday morning saw us winching up the anchor and heaving on those meaty ropes to hoist the sails again, setting off for Bryher and Tresco. Tresco of course is ever so slightly well known for its famous Abbey Garden. It took a while to get there, as is the way with sailing, unfortunately by the time we did, it was shut. No matter. There was a whole island to explore and apparently a pub. Fancy that. But we had to get ashore first..
Ferried across to the island by skipper James, we scrambled on to dryish land via some rocks and a meandering path that took us up to Cromwell’s Castle. Now, I love a good sign, and thought this one so polite it deserves an audience here. My investigations since have found this fascinating explanation of the Ministry of Works and I am delighted that it’s neither a random sound bite to amuse tourists nor a nightclub. The Ministry was an actual thing, renamed such in 1942.
While we were enjoying a gentle stroll along the beach at Tresco in search of The New Inn (easily found, hard to leave), back on the Eda Frandsen, things below deck had taken a delightful turn.
I couldn’t do this in my own kitchen, let alone one as small as this: yep  that’s right –  the galley is about the size of the oven with just enough room to swing a cod. Unbattered.

Later that evening I took a risk and, sitting up on deck, began to brush my hair. Three strokes in and a snap and a splash told me that the bristly end of the hair brush would now lay forever more at the bottom of the Celtic sea. I like to think the brush was damaged before I started, rather than it being my sea-sticky knotted hair that hewed it in two. I hope some sort of marine life will make it it’s home and live within its little plastic spines happily ever after. The brush that is, not my hair, obviously.

The sun set, the stars appeared and a few of us sat on deck enjoying the spectacle. Shy crewmate John told me all about the constellations, which one was which, northern/southern hemisphere stars, planets et al. He was very knowledgeable and I was keen to absorb some of that knowledge. How did he know this stuff? I wondered. ‘Do you like sailing?’ I asked. ‘Its ok’, he answered quietly. ‘Done anything like this before?’ I asked, thinking by his demeanour and countenance that he probably had some dull old desk job and hadn’t. ‘Climbed the Andes twice,’ he said. ‘Oh’ I said, astounded, and remembered that old adage, never judge a book...

We sat in silence a bit after that, until the Milky Way became clear in the dark sky and took us on our own thoughtful journeys.

Tomorrow, sailing toward the Helston River in the dark

So there we were, aboard the Eda Frandsen in the glorious autumn sunshine, having just consumed a fabulous breakfast and gallons of tea and coffee, with our anticipation just ruffling the ropes slightly more than the wind. James gave us a lesson on sweating and tailing and those among us who fancied heaving on a very long rope – the sweating bit – stepped forward to pull the rope (also disguised as a lanyard) to haul the sail. Weedier crew members such as myself, did the ‘tailing’ – which meant keeping the rope tensioned around a wooden pin thus ensuring that it didn’t return back to the sweaters. Sounds pips I know, but later several under-used muscles which had been called into action by an overdose of enthusiasm told me it wasn’t. You can see from this picture we’re talking serious ropes that need some serious pulling – none of your super-yacht winches aboard this baby, oh no!
It was about about ten minutes after heading out into the beautiful blue sea however, I detected things were not as they should be. I clenched the hand-rail tighter than I needed, more often than I needed, and refused all offers of more cake and tea. Yes my friends, Mr Chunder was waiting below decks to catch me unaware. Super skipper James however, did that ‘here take the wheel and steer us safely on our course’ routine, obliging me to stop concentrating on not being sick and concentrate on not running us aground instead. I did my best and indeed it helped. When I got a spare five minutes however, I dived in to my – well, it wasn’t a cabin – let’s just say ‘space’, ferreted around for the seasick tablets I wished I’d had for breakfast, took two, and returned on deck. Ten minutes later I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so laid down on the lovely warm wooden deck and fell fast asleep in the sun. This too, is typical seasickness behaviour. You don’t have to chunder your guts up (another nautical term, bastardized from ‘watch under’) to be suffering Poseidon’s wrath; being useless and falling asleep is another very common symptom. So I slept in the sun and it was lovely. I awoke an hour or so later with a raging appetite feeling tickety-boo and looking a like large tomato that had been under the grill for too long.

And it was just after a delicious lunch, again conjured up by Chloe, (I think she has a wand and matching cape) that the cabaret began. On a scale of one to ten, ten being hardest, how hard do you think it is to take a picture of a porpoise? Let’s say 11. Arriving in a spray and a splash and flash, in seconds they were gone again. The pod zipped under the boat and we all ran to the other side to see them shoot out from underneath us. Just out of sight, completely out of reach, they came and went so fast, like dreams, leaving us wondering if they’d been there at all. So I have pictures of some rope. I have some pictures of some sand. I even have a picture of my left foot that I accidentally took when I dropped the camera trying to get it out of my pocket quickly so I could take my first ever picture of a porpoise. But I don’t have any pictures of the porpoise. Too fast, too clever, too awe-inspiring. Staring at the dark opaque waves made me pause and think of the whole world below us: an entire eco-system living so totally differently to anything on land. And all of it hidden from view; only a glimpse of these beautiful messengers from the deep reminded us that we weren’t the only ones there.

Ten or so sailing hours later we arrived at the Scilly Isles, mooring just on the edge of St. Agnes,
in a peaceful harbour between St Agnes and Gugh. Soft white sand, sparkling blue sea (check out that sky!) and a pub called The Turks Head.

The only pub on St Agnes in fact…so obviously it would have seemed impolite not to.

Back on board and after supper, the gentlemen of the crew held a meeting to discuss the day’s sailing, which seemed to be conversation mostly about which whiskey they should taste test for sea-worthiness (turned out all of them) and which beer is better for sea sickness (turned out all of them), while us ladies retired to our bunks. I only had four layers of clothing to grapple with on the Sunday night, so my toilette didn’t take too long to complete. Socks off,  jumper off, in to bed.  I had a little giggle to myself when I realised that the chances of washing my hair during the week were minimal. I had 8 days with nothing but a tiddly little hairbrush and as much sea spray as I could cope with (which is not, it turns out, like leave-in conditioner spray) to keep my matted locks from sticking to my head. Clearly no mermaid tresses for me on this voyage. And yet somehow, as I fell asleep to the sounds of the water trickling around us, knowing that those porpoises were out there somewhere, it didn’t really matter…

Next time, the tranquility of Bryher and Tresco – oh – and the Engilsh Civil War..

Comfort zone? Who needs it! Last week I had the opportunity to sail (I use the term loosely, obviously) this wonderful vessel, the Eda Frandsen, on a tightly scheduled pub-crawl. Hmmm. That doesn’t look right written down. What I mean is, myself, my Best Beloved and a group of total randomers went on a maritime jolly-up out of Falmouth harbour, across to the Scilly Isles and back round to Fowey, stopping off in the most fabulous harbours and inlets along the beautiful Cornish coast to test the local hostelries found thereabouts, before returning windswept and salty back in Falmouth a week later. As a total landlubber who gets sick just looking at a paper boat in the bath I entered into the spirit of the adventure by not really thinking about it. Now, some may say this was delusion on my part, whereas others would say Good Planning, Jacci. Well Done.
How did this all come about? I hear you ask. Well, birthdays have a lot to answer for. Not mine, I hasten to add. This year I thought I would get my other half something more exciting than a battery powered mechanical pencil for his birthday and of the three things in the hat, this was the one I drew out. For reference, the other two were a chance to wrestle with giant squid at a local sea life centre for fifty quid or a thrilling hour parachuting naked. I am quite relieved it wasn’t the squid option.
We arrived at a very wet and very windy Falmouth Harbour on Saturday afternoon and were met by skipper James who ferried us over to the gaff cutter Eda Frandsen whereupon he introduced us to his able shipmates Charlotte and Chloe, who then gave us tea and cake (liking this sailing lark already). Then followed a short break to allow us to unpack. It didn’t take long as there are – spoiler alert – no wardrobes on boats! Who’d have thought! I just left my stuff in my bag and shoved it, along with my soaking wet coat, into a little locker-hole-type thing and left it to fester for the week. The ship-shape Charlotte (not that she is shaped like a ship you understand, she is just very organised and professional) then handed out serious wet-weather gear and instructed us all to go up on deck (not ‘upstairs’ – that’s cissy house dweller talk apparently). As we strapped our life jackets about ourselves and the skies opened with lashings of soft Cornish rain, we were ready to set sail. And here’s something I learned – the bitter end, as in, ‘to the bitter end’ – is a nautical term. It means the end of a length of rope. Betcha didn’t know that when you started reading!
We left Falmouth about 5pm and set a course to Coverack, a lovely fishing port on the east side of the Lizard, and is about nine-ish of your nautical miles south west of Falmouth. It was very exciting. The rain was lashing, the sky was more than 50 shades of grey and the horizon was washed away in the drama of it all. As we worked pulling and heaving on ropes we got to know the rest of our crew members. To me, they instantly become characters in an Agatha Christie whodunnit, despite this being Du Maurier country.
On reaching that evening’s destination safely, we sat and chatted and ate – ate the most incredible food cooked by on-board Magician Chloe. As well as being crew, she produced food for eleven people in a four-foot by three-foot galley and without any sort of worktop. Yes that’s right. Imagine trying to cook inside your wardrobe. With every thing in the air. Astonishing. Mind you, none of us ever actually saw her do it, so may be …
After dinner was eaten we all staggered off to bed. Well, when I say ‘bed’, I mean ‘bunk’, which I bet is not the sort of bunk you’re imagining. Damp, tired and excited, I fell asleep hearing the gentle swoosh and gurgle of water as it raced around the bow. Because we were, after all, all sleeping below the water line. I woke once in the night, briefly, dreaming about wrestling a giant squid.
Dawn broke, the most beautiful sunrise over Coverack; and yes, me hearties, after hot coffee and a breakfast free of weevils, we set sail West…aharrr…

more to follow…!

This week, a short poem.
On seeing things in other things…

A life measured out
in dustbin days,
detritus carried away;
bins wheeled
from our door,
returned empty
ready for replenishing.
What if our Days
could be like that?
Each we could fill to the brim
with laughter
and sunshine
or just the pleasure of living.
Then every two weeks
our joy, once peaked
would be removed –
bin spritzed out –
for hygiene reasons
and
every season, every week
we could restock, refill
and so often
turn the other cheek
to distant unknown neighbours
who,
not as lucky as you
can only fill their bins
half full
or perhaps
that should be
half
empty

With the bank holiday nearly upon us, and with many of us heading for the beach, instead of a blog, here’s a 300-word short story.
Catch ya in September..

He took my hand; shook it warmly.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, casually, calmly. But I could tell by the burning in his eyes that he felt neither casual nor calm.

I knew how he really felt: said nothing. Didn’t need to. We exchanged pleasantries, chatted to journalists, smiled for the cameras: all over the web in seconds – as many seconds as it had taken for me to take his hand the first time.

“Take my hand!” I’d shouted, above the viscous, angry voice of the wind that worked to deafen us as I’d balanced perilously over the edge of the life raft.

The relentless spray had battered our faces, cold salty water trying hard to blind us, distract us from our task. But we would not be distracted. Not ever.

Numb from the cold I’d felt his fingers weak in my gloved hand, leaned further and grabbed his coat, hauled him aboard. His face, riven with shock, looked back at me: a portrait of fear and dismay and embarrassment.

“Canapé?” his wife offered. I accepted. Popped the little shrimp-topped pastry into my mouth, spat tiny crumbs as we made conversation. Someone laughed and we turned. A fat man I didn’t recognise. But then we all look so different with our clothes on. In the horror of the moment, soaked through to the skin and shivering, when the light of life is almost gone from our eyes – then we are naked. And I have seen so many of us naked. I check my watch. Time to go back to work. New houses won’t build themselves. I say my goodbyes and leave, my pager like a second heart, beating gently in my pocket, until it’s time to take another hand.

Thank you to all the RNLI volunteers who so selflessly give up their time to help those in danger on and in the sea

Following on from Max Bantleman’s blog about the trials of finding inspiration, and combining it with Debbie Young’s, about her husband’s altercation with a chainsaw and a bird’s nest, two days ago three wonderful characters were born right in front of my eyes. The goody, our protagonist, was just a mere frog when I set eyes on him. Just a little brown-green frog going about his business under damp leaves and nowhere near being a character in a short story. Then the brutish antagonist arrived, deftly hopping, if not slightly slyly, through the undergrowth: a blackbird, our antagonist, and also our baddy. The two creatures went about their natural activities for a while offering me a refreshing chance to watch nature literally at my feet.
The frog hopped away to find shadier places. The blackbird turned over leaves and pecked at the mud to find grubs before flying off. Five minutes later, like a rocket blasting low over my head flew the blackbird with the frog in its mouth. Mortified that my actions in tidying the garden had led to this little frog being lunch for a murderous blackbird I followed to see where the blackbird took it’s haul. I don’t really know why I did that, seeing as birds have wings and tend to live in trees and I am a flightless land dweller. Guess you could call it the sub-plot. I found nothing, but also reassuringly heard nothing, knowing that frogs do tend to put up a bit of a squawk when in danger. Maybe it wasn’t Freddie, I thought, immediately naming and birthing a character. I returned to my digging. A short time later, Brandon the killer blackbird returned, landing at my feet as if nothing had happened and even if it had it was nothing to do with him. His name just popped in to my head (after Beaky, it’s true, but that just sounded silly) and I questioned him about kidnapping Freddie but he didn’t answer, intent as he was to unearth a very large slug and mercilessly peck it to slimy death. Sooo….an antagonist with a good side I thought. Maybe it hadn’t got Freddie earlier; perhaps it had speared a different but not so popular creature, Vince the slug, aka the third character. Somehow I didn’t mind so much if Vince the Slug got trashed in the first chapter – he was already dislikable or even unlikeable to start with. And now it looked like his cousin was getting a severe jabbing as well. Thoughts came and went and a story emerged.

Brandon watched the smaller man as he continued about his business. Quiet, detached, melding with the city streets in a coat of leaden grey, Freddie’s walk was slow and deliberate. Brandon’s unblinking black eyes had him in his sights. A brief gust of wind scattered urban leaves around Freddie’s feet and he slowed further, as though distracted by their rich autumnal colours. He hesitated, deep in thought. Moving his head slightly, Brandon turned his small flat face to the breeze, his keen eyes and sharp intellect calculating the logistics. Five seconds passed.
Decision made.

Funny old thing, inspiration.