growing

I met my grandchildren today. Briefly, and only through the Perspex of their respective incubators as they slept. I understand they're both doing well, both growing; Charlie now 3lbs 11oz, his brother Harry 3lbs 9oz. Their mum is feeling understandably beat up, but whilst she might not believe it, I can see in her face that she's healing more as each day passes. 

I have to confess, I found myself surprised at quite how small they actually are. I shouldn't have been, but there you go. In the photos Nik and Tash had shared with me that, until today, had been my only acquaintance with them, they both seemed somehow bigger.

Charlie & Harry (b. Thursday 18/04/2024)

Meet the new crew. Arrived little earlier than expected, but mum and babies all doing well. Seems I'm now a grandad. I am, admittedly, biased, but I think they're both adorable.

Petrella: around the Breakwater

Took a day trip down to Plymouth with Dad on Sunday. Forecast for the morning anticipated cloudy but dry, wind in the west, light in the morning but building to around 18 knots by late afternoon.

After an early start, we arrived at the boat for 0945. The wind had started to pick up by the time we got the cockpit tent down and stowed, the engine started and all the lines shortened ready to leave. The shelter of the cockpit tent is a wonderful luxury to have, but taking it down and putting it back up again does suck up time at the beginning and end of the day. We're getting quicker, but it was still 1125 before we were set and ready to cast off.

The close manoeuvring involved in leaving or returning to our berth is still proving to be a bit of a challenge. Leaving was helped by the fact that our neighbour's berth to starboard was empty, giving me plenty of room to swing as I reversed out, but it still took three or four attempts of shuffling backwards and forwards before I got Petrella lined up to reverse down of the aisle and into open water.

The prop walk to port when she goes astern is only slight, but it seems to take quite a bit of water to be running over the rudder before it bites enough to provide any steerage. Out into the Sound, we headed over to Jennycliff Bay where we practiced for half an hour under power, manoeuvring around a yellow buoy that we used as a reference point, experimenting with how she turned and how much room was needed both forward and astern. It helped. But it's still going to be a while before I'm completely confident with this.

Practice over, we left the shelter of the bay, put the sails up, stilled the engine, and spent the next couple of hours enjoying the weather and 10 to 12 knots of nice, steady wind. We beat over towards the western shore before tacking and laying the eastern entrance. Out into the open sea, we held our course until we neared the Shag Stone, before tacking again to round the outside of the Breakwater and lay the western entrance.

Back into the Sound, we ran downwind towards Drake Island, the wind shifting as we headed further into the Sound to lift us nicely up onto a course back to QAB. Finally, approaching Jennycliff once again, we rolled the genoa away, started the engine and turned into wind to drop the main. Fenders out and lines set, we headed back to QAB.

Our neighbour's berth was still empty when we arrived back at the marina. Dad stood ready with the bow line, whilst I nursed her in, aiming to drop the midships spring onto the end cleat of the finger pontoon. I initially misjudged the effect of the crosswind and came in too wide to reach, with the wind blowing us off the finger. Dad judiciously held off throwing his line, so I reversed back out and made another approach. 

Still too wide for me to reach the end cleat of the finger, but Dad managed to lasso the far horn of the front cleat with his line. 36' is a long distance to communicate over however, and clearly pleased with his throw, he then held the line rather than securing it to Petrella's bow cleat. 36' of boat is a lot of weight to hold in your hands, so although the line served to stop the bow blowing back off, I couldn't motor astern against it. I should add, all this wasn't Dad's fault, but the fault of a crummy briefing from his skipper. This was his first time on the bow line in a very long time.

In any case, I nudged her astern just enough for the prop walk to bite then took the way straight off with a gentle nudge ahead. I did this a few times, slowly edging her stern back in. Meanwhile a kind gentleman off a neighbouring boat came over to get Dad's line fully onto the pontoon cleat. Before the gentleman was able to take my stern line I'd already walked the stern of the boat back in enough to get the midship's spring hooked over the end cleat, and we were back home and safe.

So leaving and returning were far from textbook perfect, but we achieved both without any undue panic, and without hitting anyone or anything in the process of doing so. And we had a lovely couple of hours sailing out and around the Breakwater. My ambition is to get my boat handling competent enough to be confident of handling her in and out on my own if needs be. We've still got a way to go with that, but for now I was happy with the day's work.

9.2 nautical miles covered over 2 hours and 40 minutes underway, 1 hour and 16 minutes of that under power (funny enough, 38 minutes to get out, play on engine then put the sails up, and 38 minutes to drop sail, set lines and fenders and come back in).

vindication

As previously mentioned, it was suggested to me by my eldest son that I'd missed a couple of key lines out of the song we played for his first dance with his new wife a couple of weeks ago. I can't say I've been exactly beating myself up over it, a live performance is a live performance, and by it's very nature, there is always the chance that something will go amiss in the pressure of the moment. The trick is to deal with it as smoothly as possible and move on.

Consummate professional that I am, I dealt with it so smoothly I didn't even realise the mistake had been made until my son mentioned it, with some mocking amusement, the following day. Along the lines of "You had one job, Dad. Just ONE job . . . "

So I didn't beat myself up over it, but it has been a very small weight on my mind, a tiny regret. I don't like screwing things up. Especially not important things.

Turns out my daughter recorded the entirety of their first dance on her phone. She finally shared it with me yesterday, and I finally got around to watching it through just now. Have to admit, watching the two of them dance was lovely. Yeah, I was there on the night, but I was distracted, trying not to mess up the song they were dancing too.

It wasn't until I'd got to the end of the recording, and wiped away a (rhetorical) sentimental tear or two, that the realisation struck me. So I went back and listened through again. And confirmed that yes, the song was word perfect and entire, not a syllable or a note out of place, even less half a verse dropped, as had been so egregiously alleged.

For somebody that so consciously didn't beat himself up over the apparent, alleged mistake, I feel curiously relieved. And a little amused.    

Off to the lake to race this evening. Amanda is recovered, so we shall hopefully sail the Albacore. Aside from the pleasure of her company, that has the added advantage of being significantly drier to sail than the Laser.  

of a wedding and three birthdays

The clocks have gone forward, without me noticing until I got into the car and noticed its clock was suddenly an hour slow. Every other clock (I should add, our oven doesn't have one) updates itself automatically these days. 

So spring is here, at last. The snowdrops are pretty much done, bluebells are out and daffodils threatening. Trees have blossomed and shed and catkins presage the imminent budding of leaves. There is even a hint of warmth in the sun, when it isn't raining.

It's been a busy season so far. On Saturday, my son Ben married his lovely Hannah. I really enjoyed the wedding, despite not being a fan of crowds or social occasions in general. The venue was delightful, and the bride's family fantastic company, warm and welcoming and very easy to spend time with. 

My band played on the evening. Evidently, I forgot half a verse to their choice of first dance, which is hilarious as it's a song I've been performing for the best part of eighteen years. But nobody noticed, except the bride and groom, who had apparently choreographed their dance to the lyrics, but they covered it elegantly and live music is, after all, all about spontaneity.

Monday I had a birthday. I've had a few of them by now, so I didn't really mind Ben and Hannah upstaging me with their weekend's festivities. Nonetheless, I had a pleasant day; the high point being lunch in town with my wife Nikki and the kids.

Tuesday was the second birthday of the month, as my favourite furry idiot Lottie turned two. I'm not sure she understood the reason, but she was certainly grateful for the extra treats and fuss. 

With the clocks having finally leapt forward, Wednesday evening racing has started up again at the lake. The plan for this season is to race the Albacore with Amanda, as I'm expecting my Sundays this year to be quite distracted and disrupted by Petrella. However, Amanda's come down with a bug of some sort, so I dug the Laser out from the weeds and rigged that.

I haven't sailed the Laser since late last year, and we performed appallingly, not quite coming last, but close. I didn't really care, as I'd only gone out to have some fun, but was a little perplexed that both the other Lasers out on the water pretty much left me for dust. It wasn't until about halfway through that I noticed that I'd actually rigged my old Mk1 sail, which is old and blown and of not much more use than rigging a dishcloth might have been.

It's not been out of its back since I replaced it with a Mk2 some eight years ago, and I'm on my second Mk2 since then. I can't in all honesty lay the entire blame for my socking performance on that old rag of a sail, there were plenty of other unforced errors, including some penalty turns from hitting a mark of the course, despite there being no other boats close. But it won't have helped.

This coming weekend I have gigs Friday and Saturday, and then, to make it a hat trick, Nikki's birthday is on Sunday. Another excuse to head out for lunch somewhere I think, especially as there's not a hope I'll have any chance to go sailing. Which is fine, the wind is supposed to be gusting close to 40 knots by Sunday lunchtime, so the afternoon will be much better spent in a pub or restaurant somewhere.

The Guardian: "Is this how I die?" John Crace

A political journalist and gifted satirist, John Crace, whom I very much admire and always enjoy reading, had a heart attack earlier this month. He's recovering, and has written about it in an article I read this morning on the Guardian's website.

I found it particularly moving, so thought I'd share. I'm very glad he's okay, from an entirely selfish point of view, I'd very much miss the cutting, always insightful humour of his writing.

www.theguardian.com/.../is-this-how-i-die-john-crace...

Petrella: Plymouth to Fowey & back

Last week was a happy kind of carnage. Cheltenham Festival, or as the locals prefer to call it, Race Week. I'm not a advocate of gambling. In fact, I'm far, far from an advocate of gambling. What you do with your money is your own affair, but it catches and ensnares the vulnerable in some of the worst possible ways.

Neither am I a fan of horse racing. I understand these beautiful creatures are bred to run, presumably love to run, and I understand the thrill of a race. But there is an inescapable cruelty that that runs with with it that I can't abide or condone.

But I'm complicit. Every year, we as a band accept a four evening residency at a favourite Cheltenham pub and play to the crowds as they throng into the bar on the back of the races ending each day. It's always a mad, crazy week and this year was no exception. 

By Friday evening, I was exhausted, my throat raw and my ears deadened. Entirely self inflicted. It had been a great gig to end a week of great gigs. We packed up, I dropped the band's trailer back in the garage, and then Dad picked me up from home and we headed down to the boat.

With Dad's driving, it was a two and a half hour trip even on mostly empty roads, but he got us there safe, and by 0100 Saturday morning we were aboard, and I had a cold beer in one hand as a nightcap and a book in the other as I settled down for the few hours remaining to the night.

The alarm got me back out of my bunk at 0700. It had been raining through the night, with more rain forecast for the afternoon, but the morning was still and the rain momentarily paused as I set about taking down the cockpit tent and readying the lines to cast off.

HW Plymouth was due for 0941, which would see the tide still set foul for the west until almost 1300, but the forecast suggested a brief break in the rough weather we'd had on Friday, with winds from the SSE at around 14 knots gusting up to 20. By 1600 to the west in Fowey, the weather was supposed to close back in with heavy rain and gusts up to 30 knots.

So the plan was to leave early and punch the fowl morning's tide to Fowey, shelter in Fowey Harbour overnight and then enjoy what was expected to be much fairer weather for the sail home Sunday.

Saturday 16th : Plymouth to Fowey
(23.3 nautical miles, 4 hours 54 minutes underway)

Our friend Mark was supposed to join us for 0830, but he was delayed, not getting to us until a little after 0900. Nonetheless, we were set and ready to cast off by 0930, the rain still holding off though the wind now beginning to pick up a little.

Mark took the bow line, Dad took custody of a roaming fender to place between us and anybody my helmsmanship might offend, and I took the helm and the midships spring set up to slip from the aft clean on our pontoon. Mark let the bow go, I slipped the spring, and I nudged her astern.

My plan had been to swing to starboard as soon as the nose was clear of the pontoon, nudge her forward to gain a little space, then back astern to starboard to line myself up motor ahead down the fairway and out to open water.

It didn't work. The width of the fairway didn't give me enough room to gain rudder authority before I was forced to put the engine back ahead to stop us bouncing into the boats berthed on the row opposite. So the planned elegance of my intended departure descended into a series of shuffles back and forth between the rows of the fairway, taking care not to hit anybody, until, through merit of the prop-walk to port as much as any accuracy or plan from the helm, I finally her lined up down the fairway to leave astern.

There was no panic and no collision, so I'll take that as a win. But I really need more practice at this.

Under grey skies, we motored across the Sound and out to the western entrance. Once clear of the shelter of the harbour we put her nose into wind and sea and set about hauling up the mainsail.

It was bouncy, and Dad had trouble keeping her set to windward, but we managed it. Another lesson (re)learned; I should've committed and put the mainsail up whilst we were still in the shelter of the Sound.

Conscious of the forecast of heavy weather ahead, and the expectation of gusts up to 20 knots across the morning, we left the main heavily reefed, and set the kicker using the aluminium horseshoe. We initially unfurled the headsail leaving it still reefed with a roll, but as we settled onto our westerly reach, the apparent wind averaging 14 knots but gusting to 17 or 18, it was clear Petrella was happily untroubled by the conditions, so we relented and let the genoa out in full.

We made a steady 5 to 6 knots over the ground, despite the foul tide. Leaving Rame Head behind, the visibility closed in with the rain, cutting us off from sight of land. But we had the company of another yacht occasionally appearing through the murk to seaward, of similar size and holding the same course as us, often hull down in the swell. And as the rain got heavier, we were joined by dolphins.

The first few were disinterested, crossing close astern of us and then disappearing. But within the hour we were joined by a couple more who stayed and played on our bow a while. We were bouncing around a fair bit, so rather than rushing to the bow myself to take photos, I enjoyed their company with Mark and Dad from the security of Petrella's cockpit.

An hour or two later, off the harbour village of Polperro, I saw gannets ahead and to port in a frenzied huddle, circling and dive bombing what must've been a shoal of fish close to the surface, whist the successful ones bobbed on the surface enjoying their catch. In amongst the melee, I thought I saw a fin or two, and as the frenzy passed to port by a cable's length or so and we left it astern, a couple of dolphins broke off from their lunch and came skipping over the waves to join us.

The rain eased, and the cloud lifted a little to starboard, revealing the gloaming Cornish shore and the mouth of Fowey Harbour slowly faded into vision ahead. Just outside of the harbour, we started the engine and put away the headsail, cutting ahead of Wolfchild, the yacht that had shadowed us for most of the afternoon, who elected instead to sail in.

Within the harbour we put away the main and made our way over to Berrills Yard pontoon, where we found just enough space to come alongside behind a small powerboat and the harbourmaster's launch. We came alongside nose into the ebbing tide, the wind astern, with no significant mishap. As we were putting up the canopy to keep the worst of the damp and rain out of the cockpit and companionway, another yacht, a Hallberg-Rassy 34 called "Ragnar" came in looking for a berth. With the little power boat and the harbour master taking up most of the available space on the pontoon, we invited them to raft up alongside us.

Everything safe and secure, we retired to the Gallants Sailing Club for a pint at their bar, before moving on to The Lugger for supper.

Sunday 17th : Fowey to Plymouth
(23.7 nautical miles, 5 hours 12 minutes underway)

It was a comfortable night. The following morning we indulged in a slow start, making the boat ready, but letting Ragnar decide on the time to leave, the weather forecast benign and the tide staying fair to the east until about 1400.

We finally cast off at 1030. Patchy blue sky overhead and a gentle southerly wind blowing straight into the harbour, we took advantage of the calm conditions and raised the full main as we were making our way out.

Clear of the harbour mouth, we stopped the engine, let out the genoa and turned to port, to lay distant and still unseen Rame Head. The wind was light, around 9 knots on our starboard quarter, giving us around four and a half knots over the ground on a broad reach, the swell occasionally knocking the air of of the sails.

The sail back was pleasant and uneventful, the late winter sun all but a constant warmth on our shoulders. We watched Ragnar disappear ahead, their speed reported on the AIS either suggesting they were motor-sailing, or that they had their own special wind. Each to their own, we were in no rush,

Eventually passing Rame Head and turning for the western entrance, the wind went astern, so we crossed the Sound in a series of gybes until it was time to turn head to wind and douse the sails in favour of the engine.

Entering Queen Anne's Battery, the breeze remained astern. I edged gently into the fairway leading to our berth, but left my final turn too late. Knocking the engine astern arrested the movement ahead, whilst the momentum of the hull briefly continued our turn to port even with the helm now locked against it. Before the momentum wore off, I nudged her ahead again, this time on a much better line, and entered the berth.

Mark, on the bow, lassoed the forward cleat, but I got the midships spring onto the end pontoon cleat first and motored gently ahead against that to hold Petrella in whilst I secured the remaining lines to make her fast.

We then set about putting her away, sail cover on, cockpit tent back up and hovered and cleaned below before locking up and hitting the road to head for home. It had been a fine weekend and, although looking forward to seeing Nikki and the dogs again, I found myself sorry to leave her.

of chopsticks, power boats and crowded bars

So, Saturday morning was the usual hour of karate, followed by lunch in town with Nikki. Nothing fancy, just Wagamama, but it's comfort food and I get a kick out of chasing stray noodles around my bowl of ramen with a pair of chopsticks.

Then home to change the strings on a couple of guitars and then out to a gig at The Star in Wotton-Under-Edge. We played there last summer, out in their garden as part of their beer and cider festival. I remember there wasn't much room, and a dire need to keep the noise levels down so as to not upset the neighbours. but despite that, it turned into a crowded, lively and energetic gig.

This time around, it being March, we were indoors. A quick search on google tells me that the pub dates back to around 1572. It's a deceptively large pub, but with lots of nooks and crannies and corners and walls and interconnected rooms. At first sight, not the most conducive place to set up a four piece band for a gig. The back wall of the area we were playing in was two or three meters away from the front line of our PA, at most.

Despite that, they crowded in and we all had a great night. Really hope to play there again. Although with only a couple of Saturdays still left free in the band's diary for this year, it might have to be next year now.

It was also a late night; with the band coming off the stage a shade before midnight, an hour to pack up and forty minutes to get home, I didn't get to bed much before 0300.

And was up and back on the road again for 0900 Sunday morning.

I haven't spent much time at the sailing club this year. A couple of weeks ago, I put a Sunday aside from my regular trips down to Plymouth to take the Albacore out with Amanda. In the week leading up to that, the club committee collared her, and suggested that as she'd already sailed a race in the Chilli Dogs series, she should take a turn at running one. 

Which would've left me without her company and, potentially, without crew for the Albacore. So we agreed a trade. They found somebody else to run the race, Amanda sailed with me, and in return I took a duty this weekend running the Safety Boat.

Other than the discomfort of dragging myself out of bed after just a few hours sleep, it was no great hardship. The company was good, the racing, as always, interesting to watch, and the rain held off until after we'd put the boats away and were heading home.

South Cerney have increased the duty commitment of racing members that don't "buy out" of their turns to five duties a year. It feels like a bit of a burden; essentially, I'm down for Safety Boat every Wednesday evening from the beginning of July through to the beginning of August, so if, as is likely, I'm away or otherwise committed through the weekends of those two months, I won't actually get to sail my Laser or our Albacore for over a month through the summer.

The club is having trouble filling the duty roster, so I understand why they've done it. But I do wonder how much of an impact allowing members to "buy out" has on that. They also have quite a heavy racing calendar, with regular events on a Wednesday evening, Saturday afternoon and all day on a Sunday through the summer. The Saturdays and Sunday afternoons are not heavy on attendance. It occurs to me that they could lighten the duty roster load by dropping them, with minimal impact.

I shall see how this year goes. If the new boat in Plymouth impacts my weekends as much as I expect she shall, I might look around at the end of the season for another club with less of a duty commitment, that preferably doesn't allow it's more well-heeled members to buy out of the obligation.

Which would be a shame, because I like South Cerney.  

three balls up

Photos started appearing on social media earlier this week of a ship aground on the sands of the Severn Estuary between my old haunt of Lydney Yacht Club and Sharpness.

photo: kris upfold

According to local news (Gloucester Live), the EMS Servant, out of Santander in sunny Spain, misjudged her approach to Sharpness Dock on Monday and ended up aground on Saniger Sands. The bank and therefore the channel has, according to local knowledge, shifted recently. As sandbanks in the Bristol Channel are wont to do.

photo: kris upfold

It would be inane to suggest the estuary is forgiving, but the sands are soft. Initial attempts to tow the ship off failed, so she sat there, intact and unharmed with the crew remaining aboard until she could refloat. Tuesday was a neap tide, so she was stuck a couple of days, but I read this morning that she's now safely in Sharpness.

The cargo ship is 325' long. And there's I worrying about manoeuvring Petrella's 36' of length in and out of her berth.

I've blatantly lifted the above photos of the ship from a Facebook Group called Dursley Matters where they were posted by a Kris Upfold. I've not troubled him for permission but hope the credit and link back will suffice, by way of apology. The remaining photos are, of course, my own, from various past visits to Lydney, looking out over the sands where the EMS Servant ran aground.

Petrella: for the simpicity of a bucket

Weather looked lovely for Sunday morning. After a bleary start but an easy drive, Dad and I made it to Plymouth for 0930 to find blue skies and a dead calm, but a promise of wind (and showers) later. There had clearly been some weather across the last couple of weeks though, as the snubber on the stern line had failed. QAB is hard on snubbers.

The original hope had been for a couple of hours sailing in the Sound, but on getting to the boat, we quickly noticed we had a problem with the forward heads. It's a standard Jabsco, a marine toilet with a very basic hand pump that sucks water into the bowl and then, at the throw of a switch, reverses and flushes the contents out.

Unfortunately, it was pumping out, but failing to pump in.

So the promise of a couple of hours sailing turned into a morning, and then an afternoon, of servicing the heads. Without much success. Amusingly, what we first thought to be a hairline crack and therefore likely cause of our pumping woes, turned out to be a stray dog hair.

We had a service pack, with requisite o-rings and replacement valves amongst the ships spares, and Dad, armed with a screwdriver, attacked the project with the requisite enthusiasm. Being an engineer's son, I'm not allowed to drive the screwdriver unless he's not about, or the job requires work at heights, or, in extremes, access to particularly cramped spaces involving an unseemly degree of flexibility, contortion and acrobatics. 

Otherwise, it's Dad domain and my role is reduced to occasionally handing him said screwdriver, holding a torch, or working out where he put the spanner he was using.

I'd like to say the operation was a success. But valves and o-rings duly replaced, the pump unit spewed water out of all its seams, anywhere in fact, except into the bowl. A disassemble and reassemble and a short while later, the same result. And so went the morning into the afternoon.

By the end of the day, we were back to where we'd started, albeit with new valves and o-rings. We did, briefly, clear what appeared to be an airlock in the intake and have water pumping in, only for the seal on the pump to fail again, and for it to spray everywhere but where it was supposed to go.

Then, after leaving it briefly to stand, the intake failed again. So we're left with a forward heads that can pump out but can't pump in. Which is vexing.

Oh for the simplicity of a bucket. Which is what we might be reduced to if we can't find somebody to fix it before we're away to Fowey for the weekend in a couple of weeks time.

In other news, I did use the time between handing Dad his screwdriver and looking for his spanner, when I wasn't needed to hold the torch, working on an arrangement for our stern spring. It's an idea I've stolen from an older gentleman in Brixham, after watching him take his lovely 36' Hallberg-Rassy out and then later bring her back in single-handed.

Anti-chaffing hose to make a fixed loop at the working end, a length of pipe to provide some rigidity to the affair, then a bowline mid way along the length. The idea being that, on coming back in, I can easily and quickly drop the working end over the pontoon cleat, then the mid-length bowline over our mid ships cleat, which will let me hold the boat to the pontoon by motoring ahead against it whilst we secure the remaining lines.

happily inconsequential

A good weekend. Took Lottie out for a walk around the park as usual after work Friday but with no other plans for the evening, had a lazy night. Saturday morning had the usual hour of karate, didn't hurt anybody, didn't get hurt. Saturday afternoon took Nik and Lottie out to lunch at one of our favourite pubs.

Saturday evening had a gig, our third of the year and what actually felt like our first in a while. 50th birthday party, went down a storm with an absolutely lovely, mad crowd. Funny how we seem to have grown into our demographic. Only took thirty years.

During training earlier that morning, I distinctly remember thinking whilst warming up with the usual stretches how lovely it was that nothing currently hurt. Back good, shoulders good, knees good, elbows good, ankles good, hips good. These days it feels like a happy bonus to get all six in a row.

About half an hour before we were about to go on Saturday evening, my lower back began to hurt. It got progressively worse through the evening. Nothing crippling, just slowing and annoyingly inconvenient. The band were very kind in looking after me and carrying out all the heavy stuff at the end of the evening.

Sunday morning I got up early and headed to the lake to meet Amanda. We cracked ice off the covers and rigged the Albacore to race. A fleet of ten boats, two races, we sailed a total of 7.5nm around the cans over the next couple of hours.

First race, a pursuit, was a bit grim. We finished an ignominious second from last. The wind was a fresh 10 knots from the south east, building across the course of the race. By the start of the second race, a general handicap, it was blowing 13 knots with some tasty gusts blowing through; we clocked our highest speed at 9.8 knots.

The wind direction forced a reaching start, with the wind blowing down the start line, as at this time of year all the racing is run from the committee hut ashore. With the sacrifice of fine control and the inevitable confusion over rights, such always makes for some amusement. 

We intentionally started at the leeward end of the line, clear of everybody else, relying on our faster boat speed to push out and past the rest of the fleet, who were bunched up on each other to the windward end of the line. It paid off, and we made it first to the windward mark, just on the inside of the single Solo that had managed to keep us company, the rest of the fleet coming up on the mark rounding in a single, chaotic lump.

The good start paid dividend, and we redeemed the disgrace of our first race result with a clear win in the second. 

The sailing done, and my back loosening up nicely, I headed home to pick up a guitar and then out to Cheltenham with Dad and Nikki for an open mic at the Cotswold. Caught up with some friends I hadn't seen in a while, played a few songs with a few friends, new and old. Drank a few too many beers and generally had a lovely evening. 

It was an early start, so a relatively early finish to the evening, so Nik and I were home again in time to order a Chinese for supper, and finished the day with me unintentionally falling asleep in my chair watching Spooks.

So, all in all, a happy sequence of inconsequential events; a good weekend.