44 Practical Boat Owner 593 November 2015 • http://www.pbo.co.uk
Cruising – The Firth of Clyde
44 Practical Boat Owner 593 November 2015 • http://www.pbo.co.uk
Lamlash bathed in early morning sunshineshelter from breezes from WNW round
to ESE. I was idly admiring the view over
the stern when I noticed something like
a corkscrew in the foreground. Close
inspection revealed this to be part of the
backstay, whose lower split portion, worn
by years of tightening, was stranding and
breaking out of its swage. The mast could
have come down any time yesterday.
After some calming deep breathing, I
effected a jury rig with several yards of
Dyneema and set off for the decidedly
non-picturesque Largs Yacht Haven a
couple of miles across the water. Here
the resident rigger made a new backstay
section with cheerfulness and skill.
Having paid his tiny bill, I pointed the
boat’s nose at Arran.
At the beginning of the cruise there
had still been snow on the island’s jagged
upper slopes. As Surprise reached out of
the channel between the mainland and
Little Cumbrae (another island given over
to religious practices, this time Hindu in
inspiration) the breeze was a mere zephyr
from the northwest, and Arran’s snows
had gone. The island is a big one, but
short of anchorages. In fact the pilot book
is sniffy about all except one, between
Lamlash and Holy Island (Buddhist, by
the way). So it was for the two humps of
Holy Island, some 15 sea miles distant,
that I steered.
Frosted and white-capped
The zephyr became a breeze. The breeze
became a wind. Soon the sea was kicking
up, frosted and white-capped in the gusts.
Surprise trucked mightily on under reefed
main and full genoa. A couple of
container ships surged by, then a
tug, throwing a huge wake. The wake
combined with the seas in a manner
doubtless understandable by students
of fractals, but not by me, and suddenly
a black slope had piled up behind the
boat, and Surprise was sliding down it on
wings, I tell you, of spray. Another came,
and another. The GPS said 12 knots, and
I was singing Surfi n’ Safari, looking round
for the next wave, and saw the following.
Across the sea to the north there was
steaming a big, rusty fi shing boat. I had
seen it already, and noted that it would
pass well to port of my boat and another
small yacht that seemed to be on the
same course as me. Now, though, the
fi shing boat had altered course towards
the small yacht, and looked as if it was
right on top of her. I opened my mouth to
yell, saw the rusty side of the fi shing boat
loom over the small boat, saw the yacht
shouting something, and then, to my
intense relief, saw the fi shing boat slide by
the small yacht, its trawl lines slicing the
seas like cheese wires three feet ahead of
the yacht’s bow. A tragedy had been
averted, just. And there was no question
that it had been the fi shing boat that had
altered course, endangering the yacht. I
went back to see if the yacht was all right.
The helmswoman said she was. She was
laughing so much she could hardly talk.
Surprise sailed on across the wind,
blowing Force 6 now. Ailsa Craig stood
hazy on the southern horizon. A dot in
the sea off Claughlands Point grew to a
crumb, from a crumb to a square, and
became a red can in the North Channel.
And into the great fl at sheet of Lamlash
harbour swept Surprise, losing way in thelee of the land. The visitors’ moorings
were all full, but a local refi tting a
Nantucket Clipper pointed me at a private
mooring whose owner was away. Whisky
went down, followed by spaghetti.Wild and fi ne
At four in the morning the water was
like glass. I sat and watched a yellow
half-moon rise over Holy Island. After
breakfast I dropped the mooring and
headed north. It was a whole-sail reach
to Glencallum Bay, a tiny wild notch in
the extreme southern end of Bute. The
wind died as Surprise ghosted in, past the
drying rock on the eastern side of the
anchorage, dropped an anchor, blew up
the dinghy, rowed ashore and climbed the
hill above the harbour. The Firth of Clyde
lay spread below, wild and fi ne. The sky
was dusted with mares’ tails and mackerel
scales, and on the horizon to the
northwest a blue-black line of cloud was
forming. It was time to go home.