Wednesday night at the Yacht Club, I sought out Chris Formby, the keeper of the chart library, "off to Scotland next week Chris, what have you got to supplement our stocks". "Scotland eh, that's ambitious, just you and Margaret?" "Yes just me and M, but we've done plenty of preparation". Chris looked sceptical; maybe he knew something I didn't?

We rifled through the drawing file cabinets, used to store the charts, Chris started to pull out charts of Skye, Rhum, Muck, Mull, and Oban, "hang on Chris, don't think we'll get that far in three weeks" "Oh you mean Southern Scotland, the Clyde area etc." He pulled out more charts, most of which we already had, I picked up half a dozen we hadn't got, mostly Port and anchorage plans. "Be careful, most of them are out of date", "I've got the current pilot book and up to date large scale charts, I think these will do."

I signed the loan book, we returned to the bar, M was in full flow with the club's comedian Neil from the boat Kada, he sported a rakishly trimmed goatee and could talk the birds out of the trees. His boat was moored just over the pontoon from us, he was to become our best mate. I sat down with my new acquisitions, the topic turned to cruising in Scotland.

"Never stops raining, don't know why you want to go there"? quipped Neil, "Still you'll be at home there coming from Manchester". I had to get one back, "be three weeks rest from you Neil". Back home we checked off our lists, we had enough provisions to do the Whitbread. The engine had been serviced, extra spares, I'd also soldered a jack plug into the Roberts radio so we could plug it into the ships supply, set the timer to record the shipping forecast as we slept. We couldn't have been more ready.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny, the three-day forecast wasn't perfect but we were on a tight schedule. Down at the boat, it took us so long to load up we missed the last lock. M had compiled a list of what we had stowed and where it was. I lashed the two five gallon diesel containers to the push-pit, we even looked as if we meant business.

Next morning dawned cold and blustery, I ran the weather forecast tape back, "Shannon, Malin, Irish Sea, wind north to north west, four to five, sea state moderate to slight" the announcer droned on. Not perfect but moderating later. We locked out around eleven with two other boats, the racing fleet had left two hours earlier. Once more we turned to starboard, told the lock keeper we would be away a couple of weeks then headed down river. If we could maintain five knots, we should reach Douglas in the Isle of Man by nine tonight. By the time we reached the middle of the river, we were down to three and a half knots over the ground.

One of the boats which had locked out with us, "Spey Warren" had turned down river also, they were thirty-three feet, a big heavy motor sailor. We occasionally caught sight of their keel, which illustrates how much we were being thrown about. We passed the moorings at New Brighton where we had spent the night a few days ago, the wind had risen to 20 knots on the nose, with a wind over tide situation we were bucking two metre waves.

M was under the sprayhood looking distinctly green, I was having trouble keeping my feet, and sitting down was out when negotiating this part of the river. I called the Coastguard, gave them our passage plan, a now somewhat optimistic 22.30 in Douglas. Then Mersey Radio to tell them we were in the river, gritted my teeth, then remembered the forecast said, "moderating later".

M suddenly stood up then rushed below, "I'm going to be sick". Things were not as we planned, trying to keep to our deadlines I had to forge on. M had refused to take any preventative medication, or use the "Sea Bands" someone had given us. Over the next couple of hours she made a further three trips below. We had now reached Q5, the starboard hand buoy, Spey Warren who was just ahead turned to port, obviously off to North Wales. "Fancy following her, it would be much less rough and downwind?" "What about all our plans, all the way-points you've put into the GPS, the charts?" "OK we'll carry on," at that point the sun came out and the wind moderated.

As the conditions eased, so did M's sickness, setting the auto-pilot to steer 330 degrees, we sat back, I considered our options. Off to starboard I could just make out Blackpool Tower, many's the time I've been in Blackpool, looked out towards where we were and wondered what it must be like? Now we knew. We had reached the point of no return, the tide was turning, we were only making 3.5 knots, and our ETA at Douglas was back to 02.30 on Monday.

"We're going back" I said to M, "what, you have to be joking". I explained our position, showed her the chart, there were no options, swanning around the Irish Sea without radar in the middle of the night was not on. An Isle of Man ferry up your chuff was not on my wish list. At 15.00 we turned around, at 21.00 when we should have been pulling into Douglas we were back in Liverpool telling Malcolm about our disaster, strangely he was very sympathetic.

Next morning, we had to go into the centre of Liverpool to get M a new pair of glasses, during our acrobatic antics yesterday, she had sat on her own glasses and broken them. We also decided to splash out on a cheap black and white TV to enhance out our entertainment stocks. Back on the boat, after Specsavers were as good as their word, the TV failed to impress, so back to Tandy, money returned.

I sat down with the charts and tide tables, we were now three days behind schedule, and had to make up for lost time if Scotland was still on. High tide Tuesday was 07.00, if we made Ramsey in the north of the Isle of Man the first stop, it would save a day. GPS re-set we went to bed, the forecast was still iffy, but we were determined,

Ring Ring Ring, the alarm finally invaded my sub-conscious, the early sun was coming through the hatch, it was lovely and cosy under the duvet. Suddenly, reality kicked in, come on M, we're off to Ramsey, "do we have to?" she replied, my answer was to snatch off the covers, that brought her around quickly, "come on I've booked the lock for seven. We only had three days left to get up to Scotland.

Dressed and showered, deaf and dumb breakfast, (nobody spoke). I tuned in for a live weather broadcast, Men of Harlech was just fading away on the radio. "Fastnet, Irish Sea, South Westerly two, rising to three or four later, steady six miles offshore". "That'll do" I called to M, "I'll get the sail cover off while you clear up". As we motored towards the lock I called them on the VHF, they replied saying they would lock us out as soon as possible, that sounded ominous.

The lock gates were open with the lights on green so we motored straight in. There were a couple of other boats there already, obviously taking advantage of two lock out's that day. On the pontoon with us was the crew of a Cox Master Mariner, a grand title for a 22-foot motor sailor. We passed the time waiting for the lock sequence to start; they were off to New Brighton to dry out then antifoul between tides. Of course I had to brag that we were off to Scotland cruising, that suitably impressed them. The skipper then informed me there was something wrong with the lock, they couldn't get the gates open.

Page 1       next page>>>