"Oh Dear" I replied, or words to that effect, I could feel the roof falling in again. Three times the lock keeper started the automatic sequence to open the gates, which takes about five minutes, three times it failed with the road bridge halfway up. It was now 07.30, the tide had turned half an hour ago. The lock keeper came on the VHF asked us to be patient, saying that he'd sent for the engineer. Twenty minutes later, the engineer arrived. He put the lock through it's sequence, it failed again. Finally, the lock keeper traced the fault to an inter-lock between the road traffic lights and the opening sequence. He slammed the junction box lid down then dashed back to the control tower. The Klaxon sounded, the bridge rose, bang, it stopped again. Ten minutes went by. Klaxon blared out, bridge rose 80, 45, 0 degrees, and it was up. Thud, outer gates cracked open, a hush fell over the assembled crews.

The water level dropped rapidly then the gates opened fully, we were free to leave, and a cheer rang out. We bade farewell to our neighbour, once more pulled out onto the river. The turgid brown oily water was flowing at five knots in our favour; I hoisted the main as M helmed. There were only two knots of wind, also in our favour, this was a total reversal to Sunday's attempt. M was even humming along with Wogan on Radio Two; it was 08.00 on the Liver Bird clock tower as we passed the Pier Head.

After setting the auto-pilot, I brought in the fenders then sat in the cockpit with my portable chart table. As we passed them, I marked of the many buoys that distinguish the Queens Channel, at Q2 we were in the open sea. Next, the yellow spoil buoy, the West Cardinal at Jordan's Spit, then the West Cardinal El Oso. our course was 330 degrees true, the next waypoint at the gas field production platform at 53.7N 3.4W. Mr Furuno bleeped telling me to change course, we doglegged onto 309 degrees to give the platform a good offing, we were romping along.

M had now donned swim-suit oiled up, with regulation shades then adopted a horizontal position, "So, I'm on watch then?" I sarcastically queried. Tranquillity's bow gently rose and fell, she seemed to be enjoying herself to. As the gas platforms disappeared astern, we realised we were finally out of sight of land. M made her way to the bow, I marked up the chart then followed her. We sat with our legs through the pulpit, our toes occasionally splashed by the twinkling waves, all we needed were Dolphins. Not many of those in the Irish Sea.

We must have sat there for over an hour, each with our own thoughts, only speaking every now and then, not wanting to break the tranquillity of the moment. We had reached a point where a course change would bring us to our original port Douglas. Mr Furuno's call brought me back to the cockpit to alter course to 350 degrees. After marking up the chart, I re-set the alarm, the autopilot then settled back into the cockpit, next waypoint off Maughold Head Isle of Man.

After it's all too brief appearance, the sun disappeared mid afternoon, to be replaced by thick cloud, rising wind plus a severe drop in temperature. The swell was around two metres causing the ageing Autohelm 1000 to protest. The following sea was giving us an erratic course, which was adding to our estimated ETA. I was now wishing we had made for our original destination Douglas. Just after 18.00 the tide turned we now had a wind over tide situation as the Scottish Clyde rushed through the North Channel into the Irish Sea. The combination of the two finally overcame the autopilot, so I disconnected it and hand steered. As some of you will probably know, using the compass to hand steer from a GPS heading is very difficult unless you can de-sensitise the GPS. Our Mr Furuno was fairly new and relatively untried; I'd left it on the factory setting. To change the setting I would have had to go into another programme, which in this situation I was loath to do.

To add to our problems, the rain started to fall so the visibility was only around one hundred metres. At one point, I sensed we were not alone. I looked over the rain obscured spray hood; there off to port was a large fishing boat with outriggers, which made its width about twenty metres. The fishermen were totally oblivious to us, as we had been to them a few seconds earlier. At least there was someone else on the planet besides us.

Because of Mr Furuno's sensitivity, we had to adopt a partnership style of steering. While M watched the GPS I watched the compass, as soon as the cross track error started to increase, M would call out and I would alter the tiller to match the compass heading. It was like doing the skaters waltz across the Irish Sea. It was now 20.00 hrs, for all intents and purposes, pitch black. No moon or stars, just the eerie glow from the pulpit navigation lights.

The Yanmar had been thumping away for over twelve hours, it was time to replenish the fuel tank. In a marina situation, I would sit a five gallon can on the side deck, attach our siphon pump, a few squeezes and the fuel would run into the tank. Another tangent on the learning curve, it wouldn't work, I kept losing the siphon effect. The combination of Tranquillity doing her steeplechaser imitation, me trying not to spill diesel on the decks while filtering the fuel through a filtered funnel, was not the ideal condition to siphon. Lesson over.

Eventually, I resorted to placing the funnel into the tank filler while pouring the whole five gallons in, well nearly, in doing so I christened my wet gear, the side deck and the Irish Sea. Not wanting to go out of our way I had shut the Yanmar to a tick-over, M was sat under the sprayhood with the rain dripping through onto her nose, watching my antics. "The compass light's gone out" was her greeting on my return. I gave the bulkhead a belt to relieve the tension the light flickered on then off. I repeated the performance at regular intervals throughout the remainder of the trip. Back under power, we resumed our combination helming, I was now starting to see things ahead of us that weren't there. I also had a distinct impression we had missed the Island and were heading for the Whitestone Bank, Ireland, or worse still, America. The night dragged on.

It was now 22.00hrs, we hadn't seen a sausage for the last two hours, the chart was sodden and useless, the cabin floor a shambles of gear dislodged from lockers or shelves by the violent motion of Tranquillity, at least we weren't seasick. We were now running through a sort of fog or sea mist, I could only just see the Nav' lights ahead. It wasn't very deep though as the tricolour at the mast-head was clearly visible, and, low and behold, stars. Had our luck turned? I hadn't reached astro navigation in my nautical education, but I didn't think it would help in this situation.

Suddenly, one of the stars twinkled brighter than the others then went out. It didn't register at first as I was sort of brain dead, resolved to sail the oceans of the world until eternity like the Marie Celeste, or was it the Flying Dutchman? Wink, wink there it was again, I snapped into action, thrusting the tiller to M, "hold that a minute love", I disappeared below. Carefully unfolding the sodden chart I checked the lights that were visible from the greatest distance, Maughold Head! After checking the light sequence I shot on deck like a rat leaving a sinking ship. The wind had dropped to about a three, the clouds were scudding across the starry sky. Flash, Flash, Flash, the sequence was correct, it was right where it should be 117 metres above sea level.

The mood immediately changed, spirits raised we peered through the fading gloom, there was a brightening on the horizon. We were now entering Ramsey Bay, which is about five miles across, with Maughold Head at the south end. Still about two miles off shore, but through haze I could make out a string of lights that weren't on the chart. Our way-point at Ramsey was the anchorage to the south of Queens Pier, there were also a couple of visitor's moorings, but I didn't expect to see them in this visibility. M laugh suddenly, I thought she was cracking up. "It's the illuminations on the sea front we can see" she chuckled. I wiped my glasses for the umpteenth time, all was revealed.

At one mile out we could make out the cars on the shore, behind us the arc of Ramsey bay which now enclosed us in it's calm interior. Down now to a half-mile, engine at 1000rpm, new digital NASA Target echo sounder at 15 metres, dropping steadily. "Usual routine M like at the New Brighton moorings, but this time we anchor". I went forward with the torch, the chart said hard sand, no rocks, I gave the slow down signal, we were down to 500RPM, with the depth 10 metres. It was almost low tide.

At six metres I had told M to go to neutral, reverse then rev us up to a stop. Taking the CQR out of the bow locker with its new 5-metre chain plus 30-metres of Anchorplait warp. "Six Metres" M called, I felt the way come off then we came to a dead stop as she selected reverse. Just then, one of the visitors moorings loomed up in my torchlight, S**t no boat hook. I lowered the anchor then shouted to M to reverse, which as you know isn't one of Tranquillity's best manoeuvres. After making the end of the anchorplait fast, I then paid it out as we reversed, I'd allowed a good scope on the warp. We were at low tide with a six-metre rise in the next five hours. I felt the warp tighten as the CQR bit in. As a belt and braces, I chucked out the 20 pound fisherman's for good measure. As I made my way to the cockpit, a fishing boat was creeping in behind us, I hoped we hadn't pinched his place.

A last look around, I felt so proud we had made it safely I couldn't come down from the adrenaline high I was on. Down below M was trying to bring some semblance of order to the chaos in the cabin. She was obviously relieved but didn't show it the way I do. After switching on the anchor light, the navigation lights off, I checked Mr Furuno's trip meter then set him to anchor watch. Following a stiff scotch, I made up the log. Place Ramsey Bay, time 00.30, distance 93nm, 17 ½ hrs, 15 under engine. Thank you Mister Furuno, Mr Yanmar. Most of all thanks to M and Tranquillity.

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