On Thursday, November 19th 2009, I flew from Dublin to Las Palmas, to join the Beneteau 40.7 sailing vessel “Beoga” on her voyage across the Atlantic.

Not really a sailing log, but almost a decate later, I can still remember the feeling of “departure day.” I had taken a job in Dublin with the IEDR, starting in late October (the 19th or 20th, if memory serves). I was initially staying in a little B&B around the corner from the old IEDR offices in Sandycove and normally I would drive up on a Sunday evening, park the car out front and walk to the office each day. On Friday evenings I’d return out West when work finished. The week before the 2009 ARC though, was different. I needed my car somewhere convenient for the month or so I’d be away. So, on Sunday, I drove to my sisters house in Ennis, where the rest of my family staged an impromptu “I can’t believe my brother is dumb enough to sail across the Atlantic” party. I left the car at her place, and they dropped me at Ennis train station, waving goodbye. Commuter train to Limerick City, another commuter train to “Limerick Junction”, and finally the Cork to Dublin express train. From Heuston, I made my way to the Dart and arrived at the B&B quite late. The landlady wasn’t at all happy being woken up (at what was probably no later than 10PM).

Anyway, Departure Day!

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(Originally published in Medium)

Many years ago, before I actually found the time to learn how to sail, I had a large, framed picture in my office similar to the one above. It was a twenty-four foot sailboat, at anchor in a deserted cove with a morning mist adding a sense of serenity and peacefulness to the scene. I hung it in my office at work (back in the days when we had offices, and we weren’t piled up on top of each other in an open-plan dystopia). On those days when my work life seemed to be up to 11 on a scale of one to ten, I’d stop for a moment and stare at the picture. I’d sigh, and continue my endeavours.

I imagined that the occupants of the boat were just stirring, after a peaceful night under the stars. They’d have turned on the little gas stove and were patiently waiting for the kettle to boil, and the first brew of the day (always the nicest). After this imaginary breakfast, they might choose to sit in the cockpit and read, disturbed only by the sounds of birds going about their daily routine, or the sound of wavelets finding the nearby shore. Perhaps they’d planned to make sail, to haul up the anchor and head off into the mist, in search of yet another idyllic anchorage. I’d usually berate myself for working too hard, and once again promise myself that I’d learn to sail and some day, I too would own a boat like that, would sleep at anchor, and would sip coffee and read, without a care in the world.

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This year, we flew to Greece on Saturday, June 17th. Due to Aer Lingus schedule changes, the flight to Corfu now arrives at 23:20 (Local). In other words, too late to make it to Igoumenitsa. We spent Saturday night in the Hotel Atlantis, and Sunday morning, took a ferry to “Iggy”. Picked up our Avis rent-a-car which we had for the duration of the two weeks, and drove to Vlicho to board Nikea.

When we passed through Lefkas, the usual supermarket was closed, so we decided to stay Sunday night in Vlicho. I’ll insert a strong recommendation here for “The Office” restaurant in Vlicho for both the cheapest food in Greece, but also some of the nicest. We generally try to get to visit at least once. The boat had been left on the launching dock for the yard, which was nice. Saved us having to search for the dinghy and row out to her. That is, apart from being woken at around 8:30 on Monday morning to tell us we had to get off there by 9AM. Our local guy said we should stern-to on his pontoon. As we’re backing up to the dock, Ruth took the lazy line and pulled on the end tied to the quay. I said “no, the other end….” To which she replied, “you mean this end?” as she lifted the working-end of the lazy line and the “weight” up off the bottom. The lazy line was attached to a 10kg paint can - not exactly going to keep the bow out to sea. We used the anchor instead!

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Excuse the slightly blurred picture of a damp bilge, but I have been trying to figure out the best way of installing an automatic bilge pump into the Achilles. I want to put a small pump and an automatic float switch as far down into the bilge as possible. Ideally, I’d screw it into the fibreglass, but that’s not a good idea for a number of reasons. Using epoxy to mount the housing means that I’m stuck using the same type of pump and float forever, or else I have to try and unglue the pump mount to replace it. One possibility is to mount an L-shaped aluminium plate on the mini bulkhead (which is plywood) and then attach the pump and float to the aluminium plate.

As it stands, I’m favouring the Occam’s Razor approach which just involves gluing the pump mounts to the cabin sole. Eventually, I’d like to install an Arduino to sense when the pump operates (that’s why I’m using a separate pump and float rather than a combined unit). I might even have it send me a text message when the pump operates.

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It is early August in Ireland, and the sea area forecast says this: “Fair in the south and east. Patchy rain, drizzle and fog elsewhere. More organised rain developing in the northwest tomorrow morning.” In other words, a typical Irish summer day.

I can remember the first time I sailed into the North Harbour of Cape Clear Island, in West Cork. I was on board Finesse, and we were delivering her to Ford Cork Week. Niall Quinn, owner and skipper, pointed out that you could easily miss the harbour when you approach from the West. It looks pretty obvious in the picture, but the harbour can’t be seen from the sea, and it’s only when you’re due North of the entrance that it reveals itself.

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