It was midnight and my finger was hovering over the transmit button on the radio microphone. For the first time in 40 years of sailing I was about to call the Coastguard for real. Suddenly without warning the static ceased and the speaker spluttering into life.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday…”
Someone else had beaten me to it!
We had been racing in Cork Week and were returning the boat to her base on the West Coast of Scotland. It had been a great regatta, our results weren’t outstanding but the racing against the cream of Irish sailors had been exhilarating and the craic as lively as we had been lead to believe.
Leaving Cork we’d had 20 knots of wind from the West, pushing us home at a good speed and we arrived at Dublin harbour with enough time for a meal, shower and short nap before heading back out to make the short hop back to the UK mainland.
The forecast was good, the wind had dropped and was on our nose but it was expected to swing right behind us and strengthen. A sailor’s dream, someone up there was smiling on us! We left Dublin Bay in good spirits.
The predicted increase in wind duly arrived but as we expected it to swing round, it didn’t raise cause for concern. However, as evening came, the wind continued to rise and seemed firmly stuck in the North West. The funneling effect of the North Channel whipped the Irish Sea up and the waves started to get very big.
We had too much sail up and the foresail need to come down. However, with the bow disappearing into the waves I couldn’t send a member of the crew up there. I crawled forward myself, ducking the crashing waves and hanging on tight the lifelines. After a great deal of effort, we had a small jib on – and I was soaked from head to toe! A change of clothing inside a cabin that was being tossed around like an out of control fairground ride was not easy but raised my spirits considerably. While I was below a check of the charts showed no convenient ports of refuge so we battled on up the Straenraer coast.
By now the waves were big and black, dwarfing our vessel. With breaking tops and vertical faces, she was climbing the fronts well but crashing full square into the troughs. Soon after midnight, having been at the helm for thirteen hours, I went below and left David at the wheel. For twenty minutes I lay on my bunk and tried to rest, wedged in with a duffel bag and some sails. David was doing a great job but every time we crashed into the trough my imagination ran amok. Would the mast stay up? Would the keel bolts hang onto the ton and a half of lead suspend beneath me?
And so I decided to call the Coastguard. Not a Mayday, not even the less severe PanPan. I would call and tell them where we were and what was happening. I’d let them know our status every couple of hours and I might even tell them what I thought of their weather forecast! So there I was, finger on the transmit button, Channel 16 and the VHF set on high….
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This Coastguard calling vessel Osprey*. You have sent a distress call, please confirm that you are in distress? Over.”
And so the conversation continued, although the vagaries of VHF radio meant we could only hear one side of the interchange. I noted the position of the distressed vessel as the Coastguard read it back and was alarmed to realise it was not very distant from our own. Would we be required upon to offer assistance, just as we were thinking we might need some of your own?
The speaker continued to emit half of the exchange:
“Number of people on board?”
“Could you repeat that please?”
“Could you confirm that you have two adults and TWELVE children on board?”
Twelve children, gone midnight in a Force 8 Gale. Suddenly our situation was thrown into stark perspective. We had a sound boat, four adult crew and the Coastguard had its hands full. I put the microphone back on it’s hook.
The Coastguard dispatched a lifeboat to escort the other vessel to safe harbour. “Escort” means they weren’t sinking and we wouldn’t be needed to help. Relieved, I returned to my bunk.
Through the night, the wind slowly subsided and dawn showed us the hills on the West Coast of Scotland. By eleven we were tied up in harbour and eating a late breakfast. Over our bacon butties, we all agreed that sometimes, after a little reflection, your troubles aren’t as big as you thought they were.
* name changed to protect their dignity.
LittleBigAdventure contributed by Alan Moore.
bad weather, little, LittleBigAdventure, sailing
