Surfing Home
Peterhead towards Eyemouth, Wednesday 16th August 2006
We got up this morning at 5am to catch the tide with the intention of doing a short day down the coast to Montrose or Arbroath; I rather wanted to visit the home of the smokies However, the weather was looking good, the shipping forecast from the Met Office was for sylvan breezes so we have decided to do the rest of the journey today. Skipper says that the boat is going like a greyhound, she must know that home is in sight and apart from the earth's curvature, it is. Something about the winds, the tide and the sea state give the feeling that the boat is flying south, and we are hoping that the weather might warm up as we go, we can see blue skies ahead, and perhaps a little sunshine
It is sad to think that this is the last day we will spend on Heroine in her current state. I have come to love the awful scratched formica, the dreadful bakelite fittings, the rusty windows and doors, the appalling, flaking pegboard in the ceilings, the stink of hydraulic oil and Diesel and the aroma of Bilgex so reminiscent of a municipal men's lavatory.
Afternoon:
We have phoned ahead to get ourselves an 'otel room in Eyemouth and the sun is really blazing for the first time since Oban; sunglasses on, sunblock deployed, cigar lit and sparkling seas carrying us south.
There are large swells coming from behind us, the kind of waves that are large but far apart and give the "elephants and fairies" feeling. The movement starts with the stern being lifted and the bow dropping, then the boat seems to raise her head as she is lifted at the top of the wave, then she almost bustles down the slope and seems to sit waiting for the next lift.
We approached Eyemouth in the early evening, about the time that the fishing boats leave the harbour for the night's fishing. We could seem them all emerging ahead, like bees from a hive, and they all seemed to be coming past us to have and look and see who we were. If one had grander ideas it would feel like a welcoming escort, but trawlermen are too prosaic for that kind of daftness.
As we were getting close to Eyemouth the boatyard manager rang us to say he was standing on the cliff waiting for us, and in fact he almost talked us in through the tiny harbour entrance, with the same big swells shooting us into the harbour, straight in amongst the seals, pleasure boats and lads' fishing lines. Lovely to see all the tourists sitting on the harbour's edge in their deckchairs, just soaking up the fishy atmosphere.
Entering a harbour is never relaxing, and nor is getting the mooring lines on, so we were parked up and the journey complete before we really had time to realise it. I had the job of turning off the engine. 
A sad moment; the old Caterpillar had got us there eventually and we would not be using it again. The sound of a slow-revving big Diesel with the Cat's distinctive clatter was the background music to the dramas in our life at sea, and I wish I had made a recording of it.
We got up this morning at 5am to catch the tide with the intention of doing a short day down the coast to Montrose or Arbroath; I rather wanted to visit the home of the smokies However, the weather was looking good, the shipping forecast from the Met Office was for sylvan breezes so we have decided to do the rest of the journey today. Skipper says that the boat is going like a greyhound, she must know that home is in sight and apart from the earth's curvature, it is. Something about the winds, the tide and the sea state give the feeling that the boat is flying south, and we are hoping that the weather might warm up as we go, we can see blue skies ahead, and perhaps a little sunshine
It is sad to think that this is the last day we will spend on Heroine in her current state. I have come to love the awful scratched formica, the dreadful bakelite fittings, the rusty windows and doors, the appalling, flaking pegboard in the ceilings, the stink of hydraulic oil and Diesel and the aroma of Bilgex so reminiscent of a municipal men's lavatory.
Afternoon:We have phoned ahead to get ourselves an 'otel room in Eyemouth and the sun is really blazing for the first time since Oban; sunglasses on, sunblock deployed, cigar lit and sparkling seas carrying us south.
There are large swells coming from behind us, the kind of waves that are large but far apart and give the "elephants and fairies" feeling. The movement starts with the stern being lifted and the bow dropping, then the boat seems to raise her head as she is lifted at the top of the wave, then she almost bustles down the slope and seems to sit waiting for the next lift.
We approached Eyemouth in the early evening, about the time that the fishing boats leave the harbour for the night's fishing. We could seem them all emerging ahead, like bees from a hive, and they all seemed to be coming past us to have and look and see who we were. If one had grander ideas it would feel like a welcoming escort, but trawlermen are too prosaic for that kind of daftness.
As we were getting close to Eyemouth the boatyard manager rang us to say he was standing on the cliff waiting for us, and in fact he almost talked us in through the tiny harbour entrance, with the same big swells shooting us into the harbour, straight in amongst the seals, pleasure boats and lads' fishing lines. Lovely to see all the tourists sitting on the harbour's edge in their deckchairs, just soaking up the fishy atmosphere.
Entering a harbour is never relaxing, and nor is getting the mooring lines on, so we were parked up and the journey complete before we really had time to realise it. I had the job of turning off the engine. 
A sad moment; the old Caterpillar had got us there eventually and we would not be using it again. The sound of a slow-revving big Diesel with the Cat's distinctive clatter was the background music to the dramas in our life at sea, and I wish I had made a recording of it.
posted by Pomme at 9:54 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home