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I’m still a novice sailor. The first thousand miles in my logbook haven’t brought the confidence I wanted. Whenever the forecast shows 26–27 knots, something inside tightens into a pulsing knot. My head bargains with itself: at least a short motor out? I worry I’ll miss something and broach, as in Croatia in 2017.
It was the same on 8 June 2024. From the marina pontoon, I watched whitecaps form. The surrounding masts broke up the wind into a humming whistle. Halyards beat an anxious rhythm like war drums. I let go the lines.
Practice settles it. Now the boat is in the middle of the backwater. Some motion, nothing serious. Wind from astern. Perhaps it eased, perhaps not, but the anxiety vanished. Up with the sail. Jib fully unfurled. The yacht made 5.5–6.5 knots. Exhilarating. I left the autopilot off and handled sheets and tiller myself.
After an hour, fatigue arrived. At the next bend in the river, I needed to tack. No luck. The port sheet caught beneath the babystay and wouldn’t let the sail across. Several more failed attempts. I decided to furl and head back. Not the sort of adventure I wanted in strong wind.
Berthing was quite something. The bow leaned against the neighbouring motorboat and scraped along her side while I secured lines to the piles. Without her, I’d have ended up sideways across the pontoon. Still, I’d like to avoid touching other people’s property in future.
After berthing, I inspected the babystay. The shackle’s eye caught my attention: apparently, that was snagging the sheet. It should probably face aft to reduce the chance. I didn’t want to rearrange the stay that day, so I took a plastic lid, melted holes in it with the heat gun, fitted it over the shackle and secured it with white insulating tape. It’ll do.
Track here.
#passage #maintenance
It was the same on 8 June 2024. From the marina pontoon, I watched whitecaps form. The surrounding masts broke up the wind into a humming whistle. Halyards beat an anxious rhythm like war drums. I let go the lines.
Practice settles it. Now the boat is in the middle of the backwater. Some motion, nothing serious. Wind from astern. Perhaps it eased, perhaps not, but the anxiety vanished. Up with the sail. Jib fully unfurled. The yacht made 5.5–6.5 knots. Exhilarating. I left the autopilot off and handled sheets and tiller myself.
After an hour, fatigue arrived. At the next bend in the river, I needed to tack. No luck. The port sheet caught beneath the babystay and wouldn’t let the sail across. Several more failed attempts. I decided to furl and head back. Not the sort of adventure I wanted in strong wind.
Berthing was quite something. The bow leaned against the neighbouring motorboat and scraped along her side while I secured lines to the piles. Without her, I’d have ended up sideways across the pontoon. Still, I’d like to avoid touching other people’s property in future.
After berthing, I inspected the babystay. The shackle’s eye caught my attention: apparently, that was snagging the sheet. It should probably face aft to reduce the chance. I didn’t want to rearrange the stay that day, so I took a plastic lid, melted holes in it with the heat gun, fitted it over the shackle and secured it with white insulating tape. It’ll do.
Track here.
#passage #maintenance
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