We waited patiently in the
Azorean town of Angra do Heroismo, for a fair wind for the final leg of our
odyssey. A succession of nasty looking fronts were coming through, producing
winds that we would rather avoid. However, by the 25th of June the
Grib files were forecasting reasonable winds. We were ready, so set sail
immediately.
Our tactics were to sail due
north for about 400 miles, to pick up the South Westerlies that blow in those
latitudes at this time of year. It adds considerably to the miles sailed, but
would put us in a better position should a westerly gale come bowling along.
We had easy sailing conditions
for the first couple of days, which is always something to appreciate. It
certainly helps one find ones sea legs again after a sojourn in harbour.
On the 28th the wind
steadily increased as the day progressed and as it did so, we shortened sail. With
the arrival of dusk we pulled in the 3rd reef in anticipation of the
gale that was surely coming our way. We had calculated that this gale would miss
us by a good 100 miles. Hmm, the best laid plans of mice and men.
By the next day we were hove to
before the gale, forereaching at six knots, in an easterly direction. Not at
all a good course, but in the large seas we were experiencing we had no choice.
Then things started to go wrong.
The roller furling control line
for the Genoa parted, despite only a pocket handkerchief of sail being set.
This allowed the whole sail to open out. It was thrashing and banging and would
be torn to shreds, unless something was done quickly. Pippa and I were both in
the cockpit wearing our safety harnesses. So I made my way to the forepeak,
secured myself there and gathered in the sail. It was quite a job, but no harm
was done and before too long I had the sail lashed securely to the guard rail.
It was quite exciting observing the bow rise to a wave and then come crashing
down into the following trough. It was also a rather a wet experience.
On my way back to the cockpit I
noticed that one of the dorade air scoops had come adrift, allowing water to
enter the cabin. Fortunately it was not lost and I was able to screw it back
on.
The next task was to hoist the
storm jib that was clipped to the inner forestay, then make my way back to the
cockpit and find out if there was any chance of a cup of tea.
The gale was not long lived and
during the next few days with the barometer raising, we were soon sailing on a
good course once more. We were able to jury rig a furling line for the genoa,
then hoist and set the sail once again. However the furling genoa was still
causing us problems, so it was finally furled away for good, before it could
get into any more mischief.
We still needed some canvas
forward, so we dug out a dinghy mainsail we had picked up in the Caribbean for
just such an occasion. It was set on the inner forestay, and served us well for
the remainder of the passage.
The next thing to vex us was
nearly losing our beloved Hydrovane in the last few days of the passage. I
looked at the vane and something didn’t seem quite right. On closer inspection
I found that a pin had worked loose. It was within a few millimetres of
escaping completely, which would have been a tragedy. I was able to push it
back home, but it would slowly work its way out again. I couldn’t fix the
problem but discovered that by setting the vane in an upright position, it took
the pin longer to work loose. So for the rest of the passage we had to check it
every forty five minutes, day and night.
On the final day of our passage
we had a cracking sail. We were sailing beautifully at up to seven and a half
knots at times, bang on course. We were made welcome to our home waters by visits
from dolphins, Manx Shearwaters, Gannets and Guillemots.
It was starting to get dark as
we sailed past Skokholm and through the Western entrance of the River Cleddau.
We anchored for the night at Dale, exuberant that Sula was in her home waters
after a seven year absence.
We took the flood tide up river
the following day.
Near Milford Haven, a couple of dodgy looking characters in
a pretty little boat caught our attention. They were clearly taking an interest
in us. Were we to be attacked by pirates so near to home? We might not have
worried, they turned out to be Neville and Geoff and they came bearing gifts.
Hazel and Tim escorted us from
near Benton Castle to our mooring, then kindly ferried us ashore where we were
greeted by many of our good friends in Pembrokeshire. As we stepped ashore a
cheer went up, a glass of champagne was pressed into our hands, and we passed
under a driftwood arch onto the hallowed turf of Black Tar.
We were happily detained for a
while, and plied with yet more champagne, in Ian and Christine Jacob’s beautiful
garden overlooking the river. Finally we tore ourselves away and walked the
short mile up the lane to our little cottage in Llangwm.
Sula, the final mile.
