A Whole New World

This Christmas, the box I found under the tree was really enormous. A few seconds later, I was holding an enormous tube - as it turns out, my gateway to the universe. After quite a bit of fiddling with intricately-made parts, I got its equatorial mount into something like the correct configuration, and there it stood: a brand-new fully-functioning Newtonian reflecting telescope of my very own.

Our neighbour, mid-phase, pictured by
camera phone through a big, big telescope

Unfortunately, the weather did not co-operate that night; when it did clear though, what sights! Our near neighbour I saw as never before, plains and mountains picked out clear as anything in the razor-sharp shadows along the edge of lunar day; I particularly remember a tall peak catching the sun from an otherwise night-befallen crater. On moonless nights, I found huge numbers of stars where my unaided eye had seen only blank space; happened by chance upon a huge glowing nebula... absolutely astonishing sights.

At First Sight

I went along on the trip to the hospital only because I knew there might be bad news; expected just to stay in the waiting room, brought a thick novel to keep me occupied. Then, they let both of us into the radiologist's examining room, where I sat with eyes glued to the monitor looming above the workstation.

Then, there you were - in fuzzy, monochromatic cross-section, but suddenly, magically, real and complete. I looked in wonder at your tiny beating heart, the lobes of your brain... and a little nose that your mother immediately attributed to her side of the family. You lay on your back, and kicked your little legs... and then one hand came up, as if to wave, and made our heats jump.



Some day near mid-summer, when this waiting winter is far behind us, I'm hoping to see you again, no longer ultrasonic echoes relayed in digital monochrome, but warm and noisy and pink, as you lie for the first time in your mother's arms.

Visiting Briongloid, on Solstice Eve

It is late in the afternoon when I arrive at the cove; tomorrow will be the winter solstice, and a copper-gold sun is already sinking to meet the far shore. At the cove-mouth, a heavy swell is bursting against the cliffs, the huge eruptions of spray made brilliant by the sunset. Under a clear blue sky and a rising moon, the sea is cold, furious, and beautiful. Launching the dinghy, I open the throttle wide, and make a dash for Briongloid, taking a disconcertingly high swell on my beam as I cross the cove.

Coming among the moorings, our little yacht cuts a lonely figure, floating in a sea of empty buoys. Winter neglect shows only as a slightly greener waterline; weeks of storms have blown harmlessly past her. In the cabin, lights and radio snap to life; bright LEDs on the charging panel announce that the last of the sun is trickling to the battery. The cabin sole (under a foot and a half of water in my nightmares), pumps dry in seconds. Back on deck, Briongloid moans quietly as the near-gale strums her rigging- she misses the sea, and I too am suddenly hungry for open water; but the light is fading fast now. I tumble into the dinghy, and turn for home… and our little boat is alone again, waiting quietly for the turn of the year.

A Swell Time

Briongloid left her home cove on Saturday under blue skies, carrying myself and Mr. T. We beat to westward for 34km against a steadily rising wind - choppy, damp, but exhilarating. After dropping anchor in the shelter of Broadstrand Bay, her hungry crew took to the dinghy for a 4 kilometre transfer to dinner at the nearest pub.

The wind having risen further after sunset, the return journey, in the teeth of a badly-timed squall, was exceptionally wet and bruisingly rough. On the basis that "'twer well, it were done quickly", I opened up the throttle on our nifty little Mercury Marine 6hp outboard. With Mr T lying flat across the thwart to keep the bows down, we had a wild ride through the blackness. In between trying to clear my eyes of salt water, I found time to admire the green flecks of phosphorescence in the sheets of spray blasting over the bows. Reaching the relative calm of Broadstrand Bay, we glimpsed at last the light from Briongloid, now rolling drunkenly in the swell that had now found its way into the bay; and at that moment, to the battered, soaking, and half-blinded sailors in that tiny dinghy, the little 10 watt bulb swaying alone in the darkness was as warm and welcoming as the sun.

Our long-suffering dinghy on the crest of a swell

Sunday dawned grey but clear; after a leisurely breakfast, we raised anchor and set off for home on a broad reach, whizzing past the low black knife-edge of Horse Rock and the crashing surf on Black Tom to reach the Old Head in record time, rolling our way home through swells noticeably taller than the previous day (9ft ?). Back on our mooring, the GPS showed 24km covered, the trip having taken less than half the time of our outward leg.

* For an alternative version of this trip, see here...

Thirsty

Less than a week on dry land, and I was missing salt water already - so left the office early, a colleague in tow - Mr. G. After a slightly damp dinghy transfer across the cove, we were tumbling aboard Briongloid and losing no time in rigging her for open water.

Briongloid, beating to windward

As we cleared the sheltering land, we felt her rise on the swell rolling in from the south west. Her sails filling then, the rising burble from her stern was almost musical. As the light faded from another grey autumn evening, Briongloid cut smoothly south and west into the rising waves, alone on an empty ocean.

Escort

An (adapted) extract from the log recording Briongloid's first cruise

On the last morning, I raised anchor at 08:00, rescuing two very bewildered starfish from the chain as I gathered it in. With the storm jib already set, Briongloid bore off a little and began to move as soon as the anchor cleared the bottom; I had already lashed the tiller amidships, and she "self-steered" very smoothly out into Courtmacsherry Bay as I finished my jobs on the foredeck.

Before the morning was out, the cliffs of the Old Head slid past - the final headland was cleared, and a few miles ahead, the bulk of Big Sovereign marked our home cove. Just then, I spotted black fins in the water off the port bow.

Dolphin surfacing in Briongloid's wake

I bore up a little to meet them, and was thrilled to see the fins turn and slice towards me.
Within seconds, Briongloid was at the center of the school, and looking down from her cockpit, I could see sleek shapes streaking along beside her, a metre or two below the surface. Every few seconds, a fin would break the surface as a dolphin caught its breath; and sometimes, a muscular body would arc completely clear of the water. The dolphins stayed with me for a kilometre or so, playing all around while I scrambled to get a clear photo; then, two rose into the air side by side, landed with a neat double splash, and headed east; one by the one, the rest of my escort broke off to follow them.

Briongloid's First Cruise: Encounter with a Giant

From "Briongloid"'s log for Thursday, August 25th

Raised anchor in Baltimore Harbour at 10:00 and slid gently out past "Lot's Wife" with full main and genoa set. Once outside the lee of Cape Clear, good westerly helped me to progress eastward, running almost dead down-wind with sails goose-winged, easy sailing under a clear blue sky, the sun bright enough to make me cover my hands for fear of their burning. The wicked-looking Stag Rocks (nemesis of the "Kowloon Bridge") drifted past very satisfactorily to port, and I allowed my course to take Briongloid well clear of the land.

By late afternoon, however, the easy progress of the morning was forgotten. Speed fell away, until an uncanny calm came over the water, and the sails hung slackly by the mast; after a week of light northerly airs, even the swell was undetectable. Four miles out, the land looked low and distant; the water was very, very clear and blue, and, just then, glassy and inviting. It was immensely quiet.

At 18:00, I had just decided to abandon all pretense of steering a motionless boat and break for dinner when I heard a deep "whoosh" to the south; a glance revealed the source to be a very large whale indeed. By the time I had my camera at the ready, I was too late: the giant's black back arched gently above the surface just once - then the weirdly small fin slid back under the surface, and beast dove deep.

Briongloid at Midnight, Broadstrand Bay

Just 5 minutes later, the long-promised strong north-westerlies arrived, and Briongloid was making 9 to 10 kph towards Seven Heads. The wind built quickly, and within the hour, I realised that I was over-canvassed. Foolishly, I decided against leaving the helm to drop the genoa, instead managing the steeply-heeling boat by luffing the mainsail. After two hours of fast sailing, I entered Courtmacsherry Bay just as the sun sank below the hills. Time to stop for the night; my charts showed a perfect spot close by - Broadstrand Bay, the perfect depth, and well-sheltered - though not so sheltered as to disable a boat totally reliant on sail power.

It was about this time that I discovered the damage two hours of luffing could do - the vibration had shaken loose the body of a bottleneck screw which attached a lee-ward stay to the deck. The genoa was doused in record time, and a temporary repair effected; then, reading my chart by torchlight and steering my moonlight and GPS, I tacked gingerly past the Horse rock in the gloom of early night, and dropped anchor right in the middle of Broadstrand Bay. The falling chain blazed eerily as it sank through the water: phospherence, very strong. The run for the day was 68 kilometres, made over 12 hours of single-handed sailing.