Practical Boat Owner – September 2019

Sam Llewellyn writes nautical thrillers and

edits The Marine Quarterly. He is currently

patching up a 30ft ketch

Flotsam and jetsam

Sam Llewellyn

W

e are sailing full and by,

gently heeled, and the

swell is a neat

arrangement of ridge

and furrow. The sails

are full, the trim perfect, a cup of tea in

the hand, and a fi nger on the wheel is

enough to keep us balanced. And the

next headland lies blue across half

the horizon.

We do not entirely approve of

headlands, though of course rounding

them is a necessary evil if you want to get

somewhere. Some of them, though, are

just evil. Portland and the Old Head of

Kinsale can get an attack of verticalitis and

hammer the hell out of you even on a

kindly day. If you are proceeding like we

are now, with the wind blowing over the

starboard bow and the tide under you,

things do not look promising.

Still, you tell yourself as you approach it,

it will not be as bad as that time in the

Formosa Strait with the tide running

against the monsoon. On your right was

the island known to its inhabitants as

Taiwan and to the mainland Chinese as

Ours. On your left was mainland China.

And on your nose were dirty great cliffs of

green water so tall and thin you could see

the sharks swimming around in them.

Compared to that lot the headland ahead

is going to be a piece of cake.

Coping strategies, then. Stay in the lee

of the land, popping out into the breeze at

the last moment. The breeze which will

undoubtedly be dead foul, because of the

funnelling effect of the headland, and

stronger, because of that same effect,

which is what happens in the venturi

between the genoa and the mizzen as we

trundle across the bight. Consider the

inside passage. Take the Lizard. A load of

slam and swirl stretching three horrid

miles out to sea, but 25 yards off the cliffs

all is smooth. Except for the odd rock, but

the rocks are marked. The lobster pots

aren’t, though. On refl ection, forget the

inside passage. Give it a three-mile offi ng,

and take your lumps.

The headland is higher now, green, with

patches of purple heather. The tidal

streams are sluggish. But when you

contemplate the chart you will observe that

the seabed looks as if it has been recently

carpet bombed, and is only 20-odd metres

below the surface, so it is amazing what it

can do with half a knot of tide.

The autopilot is bust as usual. Tack, leave

the jib aback and while she lies hove-to nip

below and make sure of the stowage. The

mood music for headlands is normally

smashing glass and crockery. Quick cup

of tea. Then back on deck, haul jib across,

and back on course. Weird little eddies

are coming up off the rudder. The forecast

is steady; we are on the edge of a lump of

high pressure, so the breeze is north,

perhaps going north-east. The eyes sweep

the sky, looking for mackerel scales and

twisted mares’ tales. The thing is a sheet

of blue. But on the starboard bow the

headland has lost its charming aspect and

its grim black cliffs are plunging into the

sea with a lacing of white water at their

foot, and somewhere a blowhole is

booming like the drums of doom.

Grip the wheel. The luff of the main

bulges back, and the inside telltales on

the jib are lifting. A slight acceleration of

the heartbeat. Just as I thought. We are

being headed...

...No we aren’t. It is a plum duff, is all.

The telltales sink, and the luff returns to its

smooth curve. The forecast said north-

east, and here it is, alleluia, north-east. The

grip on the wheel slackens, and the teeth

unclench somewhat. The boat heels, not

one of those I-can’t-hack-this-so-take-a-reef

heels, but the kind of heel that instantly

translates into a forward surge. We are

tearing through the water, and because the

breeze is coming off the land there is no

sea to speak of, only the long heave of the

swell. And all of a sudden the world to the

right of the forestay is full of sea and sky,

and the headland is level with my right ear

and sliding by. Done. Rounded.

We are trundling along full and by.

The sails are drawing, the trim perfect,

a new cup of tea in the hand. And the

next headland lies blue across half

the horizon.

The headland effect

The mind plays games rounding headlands

‘The seabed looks as if

it has been recently

carpet bombed’

Rounding headlands is not

always this pleasant...

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