companionway to report that the leaks had allowed seaweed to
enter the ship and that we now had a length of the finest wrack
slopping around on the galley sole. She announced these grim
tidings in a casual tone, but I could see that our seasick shipmate
was rattled. Dave went below to inspect the plant life, returning
with the reassuring bulletin that it was only a length of old marline
that had escaped from somewhere. I hoped it wasn’t oakum, but
unlike the fool in the book of Proverbs who uttereth all his mind,
I followed the Biblical advice and kept my thoughts to myself.
Half an hour later, evening was closing in out of the driving
scud of the afternoon and I was picking up a distinct impression
that the hands wouldn’t mind if I followed Dick’s advice. The
thing was that I’d just spent four years teaching people never to
miss a fair tide, and examined many others on the same subject.
Throwing in the sponge went against the grain. Despite the
seaweed incident, the leak rate had not increased since “hour
one”, and the pubs of Dublin were calling.
The six o’clock shipping forecast promised more grief, at least
to start with, and just as Ros came on deck to inquire what time
we wanted dinner, an unkind gust caught us with our rail down.
Hirta staggered, then picked up her skirts and powered away to
windward, throwing solid spray back as far as us poor mashers
cowering in the cockpit. She was doing what she had been built
to do, but it was a long time since the shipwrights hung up their
mauls and she was showing her age. Butterfly Dave didn’t flinch at
the wheel, but Dick shook his head. Then he committed an act of
mutiny with such style that it had to be left off the punishment list.
Reaching across the side deck to the big cavel with the mainsheet
belayed on it, he whipped off all but the last turn and surged out
30 feet of 18mm three-strand.
When owners like me boast about how easy unconverted pilot
cutters are to sail, they never let you into one secret. If you let the
mainsheet out in a hard blow, the five-part purchase doesn’t cut it
and the only way you’ll get it back is by luffing hard or ordering
an all-hands heave. I didn’t have to ask if anyone was interested
in the big pull, and coming up to the wind with everything
a’shake in that weather was an ugly prospect. I bowed
therefore to Dick’s judgement, eased the headsails
and bore away for Campbeltown.
With the wind on the beam we
thundered into sheltered water, noting
in passing that the late Andy
Stewart’s song, “Campbeltown
Loch I wish you were
whisky. I would drink
ye dry,” held more
appeal than
ever before. The engine started on the nod. We dropped the sails
and found an alongside berth. That night we discovered the
delights of the Springbank single malt, distilled just up the road.
It wasn’t cheap – it still isn’t – but it cleared our heads sufficiently
to stand down the galley staff and submit instead to the ample
menu of the local Indian takeaway. While we were waiting for
the Scottish version of beef vindaloo, our casualty crewman found
a phone box and made a call. The result was that he discovered
a “family crisis” and caught the last bus to Glasgow. We didn’t
blame him. He had suffered much.
As for the rest of us, we turned in to the sound of rain
hammering onto the deck like stair rods and a wind that was
blowing even harder than before. I blessed Dick as I pulled my
pillow over my ears. I blessed him even more thoroughly when
I awoke at 0800 to a sharp, clear morning and a wind that had
veered six points in the night. I’d learned my lesson about being
ready to wait, and rarely has a cold front been more welcome.
The old boat hadn’t made a drop of water in harbour and she
never did in all the 15 years I had her. The afternoon tide swept
us down the North Channel to reach bravely on towards Dublin,
leaking once again, but a lot less than the day before.