Practical Boat Owner – June 2019

Marsali Taylor sails an Offshore 8M, Karima S. She’s a

dinghy instructor and author of The Shetland Sailing

Mysteries starring liveaboard sleuth, Cass Lynch.

Living with the sea

Marsali Taylor

I

’d promised myself a proper day out

the next decent sailing day, and it

looked like it had arrived at last, with

the hills summer green, the sky best

Dutchman’s breeks blue, and the sea

dancing. The forecasts I looked at both

reckoned on a south-westerly, but the Met

Offi ce gave more wind than the Fair Isle

weather station: Force 4-5, it reckoned,

one reef conditions.

Better safe than sorry. Down at the

marina, in a decidedly north-westerly wind

of the 2-3 sort, I put my reef in, and

headed out, skooshing north on a close

reach. By the end of the voe, my poor

Karima was practically wallowing in the

Atlantic swell. The breeze might come

later, of course, but for now I needed full

sail. I hove-to well clear of mussel rafts

and lobster pot buoys, and shook out the

reef. Karima began to lean to what wind

there was, and we beat our way through

the Rona, the channel to the Atlantic.

Once I was out of the narrow part, I

managed a nice long leg towards the cliffs

of Muckle Roe. ‘Muckle Roe’ is Viking for

‘Big Red Island’, and the cliffs really were

red in the sunshine, with pairs of nesting

kittiwakes white on the ledges, and yellow

lichen adding splashes of colour.

My second leg brought me across an

imaginary line between the guns and the

Muckle Roe light opposite, which qualifi es

as Being In The Atlantic. I got well clear of

the cliffs, set Karima’s nose for Papa Stour

(‘big island of the priests’) and left her to

sail herself while I foraged in the lockers:

oatcakes and packets of sliced cheese,

some undersized KitKats, and an apple.

A feast! I ate it up in the sunshine,

bobbing over the swell. A kittiwake fl ew

over, circled twice, and landed on the

water nearby, watching me with tilted beak

and beady black eye, as if he was

wondering what I was doing out here.

I didn’t want to go too far out in case the

threatened south-westerly 4-5 arrived,

leaving me a stiff beat home, but there

was still no sign of it; the wind was falling

all the time. We bore away until it was

behind us and surfed happily on the

rollers until we’d come back past the

guns. Sheltered waters, and this light wind

was perfect for getting up my gennaker.

It’s red, white and blue striped, rather

embarrassingly Union Jack colours for a

good Scot, but in these light airs, with the

wind on the beam, it would pull us along

nicely. I messed about happily, getting the

sheets out, shoving the sail up onto the

foredeck from the

forecabin, fi xing it onto

its ancient and not totally

effi cient furler and hauling

it up.

It set beautifully, and the water

began to chuckle under Karima’s forefoot.

Instead of heading directly home, I turned

left into the channel up to Brae, went as

far as the far end of Linga (‘heathery

island’) and then turned back towards

Papa Little.

At that point, the wind almost gave out. I

didn’t actually seem to be moving, but

there had to be a breath of air

somewhere, for the gennaker remained in

its bonny curve, and although there was

no rattle of water along Karima’s sides, a

vee still came from her stern. Besides, I

wasn’t in a hurry... treading gently, I went

below to boil the kettle again, then sat

back in the cockpit, mug in hand, and

enjoyed the day.

It must have taken an hour to pass the

fi ve hundred yards of Linga. I was some

ten metres from the shore, closer than I’d

normally go, and it was lovely to be so

near, just looking. The water was like a

mirror, with each little rocky spur sitting on

its own refl ection. There were sea pinks

scattered in tussocks of grass. It was so

quiet that I could hear the tern chicks

cheeping among the pebbles, and the

heather scent drifted across the water.

Past Linga, the wind picked up again,

but not so much that I had to put the

gennaker away. We sneaked past the

narrows of Papa Little and skooshed the

last two miles down the voe to the marina.

It had taken me fi ve hours to do 18 miles,

but I’d had a wonderful day out.

The red cliffs of Muckle Roe,

with the Brae yacht Selene

heading for the Atlantic

Karima shows off her red,

white and blue gennaker

‘The wind almost gave

out. I didn’t actually

seem to be moving’

Becalmed

Put not your trust in forecasts... but a

light-wind sail can still be a lot of fun

M

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