Finally, as was expected, by Wednesday the sun had done a runner and left us with grey drizzle punctuated by occasional heavy spots of rain. The Helford River was beautiful though in the early morning light, the tops of the trees that abounded each shore just tipped with low mist, like a veil. Despite being quite mild I knew that once we were out at sea we’d be feeling the cold. So I donned two pairs of leggings and a pair of waterproof trousers, a thermal top, a t shirt, a fleece, another fleece, a fleecy balaclava (didn’t look mad at all) my sailing jacket and a life jacket and my new shiny sailing boots and I was ready to go. Feeling a bit like the Ghostbusters Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (ironic really – he was dressed in a sailor suit) I clambered on deck to join my shipmates; as the mist and fog rolled swiftly across the ocean toward us, the Eda Frandsen made her way down the Helford river to the sea.

Remember all those lovely pictures in brochures or on the internet of blue sea and blue sky, of bright sunshine and cheeky sea creatures photo-bombing whenever they could? Forget it. Wednesday wasn’t like any of that. We didn’t see the porpoises for one thing. We didn’t see much at all, as, like a scene from John Carpenter’s The Fog, the real fog chased and swallowed us up, spitting us out again and then swamping the mainland, so all we could see and feel was cold wet misery for ten hours, and at 45 degrees. And that wasn’t the temperature, land lubbers, it was the angle. Yes, the boat was heeled over at a rather jaunty angle for the entire journey and I felt a bit like a mountain goat when we finally reached our destination. 

Earlier in the voyage, a plumbing problem with a return valve had been identified by James which had resulted in him having to suck up a mouthful of mucky water and a wear a strange expression until he was able to spit overboard. Whatever the problem had been, the men of the crew were delighted to be able to get their heads together to work it out, and had come close to cannibalising a spare motor and hitting things with hammers. I don’t know how the issue was resolved, but it was, and we were able to replenish the fresh water tanks when we reached the dramatic and beautiful Fowey .  At around 3pm, after taking down and packing away the soaking sails, we motored through the harbour entrance where everything was still and wet and grey and tranquil. The houses that sat on the cliff edges above the small harbour town looked like wedding cake sugar decorations; white and blue and pink and as if they would melt into the sea in the rain. As we disembarked, clambering on to the pontoon, James pointed out the harbour showers should we feel we needed to partake in some hot water and some suds. Seeing as we had been in a shower since about 8.30 that morning and were pretty wet anyway, it seemed pointless to waste good drinking time. So despite being damp and claggy and probably very much in need of a good wash, we chose instead to do a bit of shopping before ending up in the Galleon Inn.

After another magical supper created out of the air by Chloe, and entertained with sea-faring stories from Charlotte, bedtime rolled round very fast. There would be no star gazing tonight: by 9.32pm, every single one of us was ready for bed, aware that tomorrow was to be our last full day, and our exciting adventure was coming to an end.

The last day approaches…Pandora, nan breads and beer

Although not raining, Tuesday was a cooler day, which meant a bit of a breeze and warmer clothes – we were on a long sail. So long in fact, that we were to enjoy some night sailing. Or rather, sailing in the dark. Same thing really, as there were some giant ships loitering just off the Cornish coast, lights ablazing and engines running and it didn’t matter if it was 8 in the evening or 2 in the morning – they were still the sort of thing we wanted to stay away from.
We said our goodbyes to The Scillies, vowing to one day return whether by car plane or boat. Probably boat as there isn’t as yet, an Scilly Isles Chunnel – a Schunnel, if you will, and that is probably a very good thing.

Navigating around the top of Tresco and then down, heading south east, we sailed on toward Lands End, passing some beer.
No, wait. We passed this:
 not be confused with this:

The lighthouse is Wolf Rock Lighthouse, named after the rock it is built on – the rock believed to be so named due to the howling sound made by the wind as it blows through the crevasses and gullies in it. Fantastic! A howling sea wolf!  But howling or not – would you believe that this lighthouse, 8 nautical miles from Lands End and 18 nm east of St Mary’s, since being de-manned is now controlled from Essex.

And so on we sailed. Conversation was made, tea was drunk. Chloe’s delicious cake was eaten. Lots of cake was eaten. Lunch was eaten. More cake was consumed and all of a sudden, it was getting dark.

A strange hush came over the Eda Frandsen and all we could hear was the splishing and gentle splashing of the water as the bow broke through it. A sunset is always pretty cool; watching our nearest star plummeting over the horizon taking light and warmth with it is but the warm-up act to an inspiring night vista. As our eyes adjusted to the dark, we became aware of our port and starboard lights, how small we actually were – a tiny tiny dot in massive ocean. We were calm and peaceful, enjoying the movement of the boat and watching the lights ashore, the few we could see, sparkle out from blackening land mass.
Then a shout – a call to arms – the sound of splashing – had someone had the misfortune of falling over-board? No – they were back!! Such drama llamas, those porpoises. They came alongside us unannounced, then in front, then to the side again, this time so close we could, if we formed an orderly queue and held on tight, reach out to touch them. But we didn’t form an orderly queue of course, we ran around like cats chasing mice in a barn, dodging this way and that, following the creatures as they teased us with their brilliance. Having worked us all up into a frenzy they dipped below the surface and buggered off. And that was the last we saw of them.

By now the stars were also out, showing off. The sky above us was streaked once more with the Milky Way and it seemed as though time as standing still. Only the gentle glow from the navigation screen with its red blip marking us out indicated our whereabouts: other than that we could have been anywhere in the world.

As we approached the Helford River it was time to take the sails down. I liked this bit – so much easier! Guiding those ropes carefully, down came the sails and were stuffed immediately into their green sail bags, taking on the appearance of giant olives. James started the motor and we pottered up the Helford River in the dark. So Daphne du Maurier I can’t tell you!

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