Monday 4th September 2000.
"There's frost in North Wales tonight!". I shudder at the thought of miles of cold dark sea between me and my home-port of Bristol. Then I remember the Nelson charcoal burner and the three sacks of charcoal briquettes under the forepeak.
The outboard worked well for 5 hours, as Juggler "juggled" around in the overfalls off the Pembrokeshire cliffs. Despite a light wind and fair to smooth sea state the tides kicked up the water into uncomfortable wallops and occasional holes, at various points on the route. What I mean by "holes" is where the water dips into a hollow caused by an uneven seabed and a strong tide passing over it. The only good thing about overfalls is the speed of the tide which is usually quick, so the boat is not involved with them for too long. Having said that, overfalls can extend for several miles.
It is alarming to see the approaching white broken water, looking like a reef. Ones instinct is to grab the binoculars and swing the tiller to steer the boat away from danger. Close study of the chart reveals depth changes and proximity of headlands and rocks. It is awe inspiring to imagine what areas such as these would be like in heavy weather. Ships have foundered (sunk) in such circumstances.
My route avoided the charted overfalls so that I passed safely by, some effect is felt even so.
I am a cautious sailor, so I am in Tenby still, the wind is fresh (force 4 to 5) with strong winds forecast for tomorrow (force 6 to 7). Fog obscures Caldy Island and hangs heavily over the headlands. The decisive factor in my decision to wait a while was the tide which runs towards the West all afternoon while my destination lies to the East.
Arriving in Tenby from Milford the outboard stopped and would not run without full choke, I guessed it was a fuel problem. After having it serviced in Milford I was perplexed but first I had to get Juggler into the harbour. I had nudged up to the harbour entrance in flat calm, almost being able to turn behind the wall into the inner harbour. Juggler grounded and I waited a few minutes for the tide to make a few more inches, giving sufficient depth to get to the wall at which I would moor.
The very slight swell nevertheless pushed Juggler inwards and prevented me from moving in the direction I wished. The swell was so minimal that it was undetectable that is until I was aground, at which point the boat was lifted a few inches, for 10 or 15 seconds and then placed firmly aground for a similar period. I decided that a heavy wake from a passing power boat or distant ship, could bump Juggler too much and damage the rudder, so I rowed a very long rope to the harbour wall. I then pulled Juggler gradually into the harbour like a toy yacht on a string, this impression was strengthened by the height of the harbour wall, I looked down onto juggler from about thirty feet up.
This procedure worked well apart from the complication of getting around various boats moored to the wall. I spent an hour working with my extra long lines and dinghy, climbing various steps and ladders while on-looking tourists probably thought what a "lark" sailing can be! They looked warily at slithering coils of rope disappearing over smooth stone edges with twenty-five foot plunges. I managed to moor Juggler eventually against a part of the wall which had a ladder.
I felt like company, after the social milieux that was Milford, and, the remote 25 mile stretch of Pembrokeshire cliffs, I was in need of a waitress's smile or any human company. The Tenby Yacht Club had people in so I went to enquire about outboard repairs, as good an excuse as any for a little conversation. Three whiskies later I had a warm readiness for bed and the telephone number of a Mariner service centre in Tenby, fine.
Monday morning Ty, on a parts delivery in Tenby, came smiling along the harbour wall to greet me again. The outboard had been taken away in a pickup truck to cost me money. But at least I knew it would be fixed and the engineer was a pleasure to do business with, relaxed, interesting and an ex small yacht liveaboard. He admitted to being envious of my position, cruising around in a tiny ship, with no pressing engagements. It must appear idealistic and so it can seem to me at times.
The outboard arrived back within a couple of hours. It had dirt in the fuel system. So, what had been done in Milford when it was serviced I wondered? Actually I believe that the tank had accumulated some muck and that had made its way into the carburettor. There is a lot of sand in these parts, which gets into everything. It is likely that the funnel I use to fill the outboard tank had sand sticking to it. The service in Milford did not include a fuel tank clean out. Any sand resting in the bottom of the tank would have been dislodged when I took the outboard to Windjammer Marine. This would then have settled temporarily but found its way into the carburettor with the movement of the sea. I was lucky it kept going around from Milford, during which time there was very little wind to sail.
The outboard cost me £41.16p and added to the £25 in Milford that is quite a bit. What price safety at sea though?!
The Spinning Wheel just above the harbour is where Ty and I had a pot of tea yesterday. I visited again today because the double eggs and chips was particularly enjoyable. The waitress has a non-Welsh element to her accent and a friendly approach.
"What can I get you?" she stands holding a little notepad and biro.
"Oh, the usual please" I reply.
"I'm sorry I don't know what you have.." she questions.
"Neither do I, I've only been here once before!" I say with a grin. "Double egg and chips please" I add.
"Egg and chips" says the waitress.
"DOUBLE egg and chips" I emphasis in precisely the same way as yesterday!
When my meal is served the waitress, tongue in cheek, says "your usual" and beams at me.
The sun shines brightly outside and the wind has dropped a little. I could have sailed today, but I'm certain I made the best decision. The tide has left the harbour.
Yesterday on the beach I found a long curved stick, like Merlin's staff. Carmarthen, in Welsh, means Merlin's castle. I pick up the romance in the form of the stick and draw long curves, waves and circles in the flat, hard, drying sand. Eyes, sailing boats, teardrops, a yin and yang symbol emerge from the point of the stick in a grand scale on the "clean slate" of the beach. I look up to see a high bridge connecting the lifeboat station with the cliffs overhead. There were several people watching my emerging curves, which virtually became a piece of performance art.
I particularly enjoyed carving a circle because the stick was five feet long giving a diameter of around 12 feet with my outstretched arms. Perfectly round these symbols lay in the sand like crop circles.
I explored the bottom of the cliffs where there were creatures flicking out of view in rock pools, and, clumps of barnacles. These nodules of barnacles hung loosely but immediately clamped themselves onto the rock, as firm as concrete, at my touch. In a gleaming sea cave, I peered into the back where it dwindled to a small, salty, black hole. There, clung a deep red anemone, the size of a plum. If one could crawl into the cave and reach out and touch this organ like growth, I'm sure the cliffs themselves would let out an involuntary gasp of surprise!
I made another stick drawing on North beach, deserted in the late afternoon, now the school's have "gone back". I drew a square the size of a house as a frame and put a large teardrop shape inside it, with a tendril leading around like a Privet Hawk Caterpillars hooked tail. I added my e-mail address like a signature following one of the curves.
It gave me great pleasure to draw on such a vast scale and with such freedom. As I dragged the stick around I repeated to myself "you can have MORE". I had become aware of the way in which our expectations are limited by the medium with which we work, in a general sense, in life. Such an abundance of space had educated me as I framed my canvas generously and drew in giant curves, I repeated to myself "You can have more, you can have more!".
Later on the bridge to the lifeboat station, overlooking the beach, I surveyed my markings. I heard a voice behind me,
"clarissa at ukonline dot co dot uk, aw, I shall haf' to 'ave a look at that when we get owm, sounds interesting".
I chuckled to myself when I heard my e-mail address being read out, and at how the personal can become public so easily, if only until the next high tide. The next development gave me great pleasure. A boy found the stick, which, earlier, I had hurled at the cliffs in a flush of free spiritedness, and drawn his own square next to mine! The square was slightly smaller, and had written inside it, in graffiti style, "DAVE and dad".
Today the sand is as smooth as glass again apart from little bunches of muscles and squeaking Herring Gull chicks.
I'm on the bus to Saundersfoot, £1.80 return. A schoolgirl, blooming, unpacks her new mobile phone, places it into its leatherette holder and says "Ooh, it looks weird". She is absolutely polite and helpful as I ask her which bus-stop will be Saundersfoot.
The dissonance set up in my mind as I wait for the right weather to sail is wearying. A pattern of strong winds in the morning and moderate ones in the afternoons are frustrating. Carmarthen Bay is not a safe place in strong weather. The tides act as a gate, allowing exit from the harbour's protection only within 2 hours either side of high water. That point is currently early afternoon and in the early hours of the morning. There are too many mooring lines criss-crossing the harbour to attempt a night exit. The best thing to do is leave the harbour and anchor outside or at Caldey Island. Both of those places would place me into an uncomfortable position with no access to land except by long rows in the dinghy, not much fun in a breeze.
So, I wait for developments in the weather and another high tide slips away from juggler's keels. But at least the decision is made and so the dissonance goes. I congratulate myself on being such a cautious mariner and quietly feel pleased that my holiday is extended as a result. I will (hopefully) be back in Bristol before I know it, suffering the damp, aggressive, bus ride up to university, surrounded by coughing undergraduates.
Prior to my Saundersfoot jaunt I entered a gallery in Tenby, with lovely paintings by a Tenby artist. After savouring the pictures I asked where the three large pebbles, laying under a table, came from. The artist told me that her dog put them there! But, I would be able to find others in Saundersfoot. So that decided my afternoons mission, to get a stone.
I was shown a photograph of a Collie, "She moves them around as she likes, I don't position them". I thought the dog matched the owner, the eyes being the strongest feature of the face. I avoided the temptation to over complement her work, I merely said "I'm so glad I popped in to have a look". I thought that the postcard reproductions on sale were not large enough after enjoying the originals so much. I left her in peace, marvelling to myself at the way fine details had been included in such a precise, observant way, such as seagulls and tiny flecks of cloud. Light was rendered superbly, it is an ever fluxing element at the seaside. I felt the artist must have seen the cliffs from a boat, not just from a common viewpoint.
With my three grey pebbles in my bag on Saundersfoot beach the afternoon had a memorable quality, I would place those stones next to my charcoal burner, and the brass Dolphin from Ilfracombe. In this way a new solidity was emerging in my life, growing outwards from a central point like a new island in an old sea. Life aboard Juggler is extremely limited for space, this produces a powerful selection process. To remain, a thing must compete with other things such as clothing, food and safety equipment. It is understandable that most incoming things get ejected quickly, or eaten. The three stones, the dolphin and my little brown teddy have stood the test of aesthetic appeal. The trouble is my brown teddy was left in a recording studio in Leeds, a sad loss and one which I shall have to do something about. Usually, such a loss of a "thing" is surreptitiously welcomed by myself as a helpful reduction of clutter. This is known as flotsam, on a boat (that which is lost overboard). Jetsam on the other hand is what has been purposefully flung overboard, usually in an attempt to save a ship in danger. I would prefer to have my brown teddy aboard, those little black eyes have a way of making me laugh!
I walked around Saundersfoot feeling sad. It was smaller than Tenby, not pretty but bland, devoted entirely to mass holidaymakers. I found myself browsing through beach shops, looking at sports sandals, inflatable toys and crystal dolphins. I spent fifteen minutes in a seconds clothes shop full of ugly wishy-washy pastels (the clothes were not pretty either!!) in sizes that were either S or XXL. I wanted a strappy top but managed to escape without one and headed for the bus stop.
There is a coastal path signposted with "acorn" symbols and instead of bussing back I embarked on a walk. Two miles as the crow flies, but climbing up and down the bluffs added generously to the effort needed. I took a wrong turning which took me inland up a deep wooded valley. Eventually I worked my way around and back to the coast.
Being alone was slightly alarming and I looked for a stick to carry. There were none, without tearing a live tree apart, which were not rotten, so I carried on defenceless. I remembered the three large pebbles in my bag and felt effectively armed!
Monkstone Head, half way between Tenby and Saundersfoot, had fairly difficult paths. I noticed a thick rope which plunged over a rugged precipice to the beach below, but was relieved to see the path continued in another direction. I do not like heights. 20 feet high harbour ladders are quite hazardous but one gets used to using them daily. I suppose climbers get used to giddy heights too.
A view of Tenby from the South side of Monkstone Head had me riveted to the spot as breaking waves could be heard far below on the beach. Occasionally the path edged around slopes, so steep, that if one fell it would be impossible to hang on, while further down, the incline plunged vertically to the beach. It was all very dramatic but I am sure that if I took friends there to see it the cliffs would shrink, the view would moderate and the distances would diminish. Part of my wonder comes from my solitude and freedom within that.
My mobile phone rang deep in the steep sloping woods, I scrambled amongst the contents of my bag to answer it. Annemarie's voice cheerfully entered my leafy, salty world. We agreed that this holiday is a good thing and she regretted not getting away herself. "Can I paint my boat?", she asked. "It's your boat now, you can do as you wish with her", I assured her. Annemarie is a fellow undergraduate at U.W.E. with me. She lives aboard a boat too, but has the sense to stay in port!
I realised that there must be a mobile phone transmitter nearby. For 95% of the time in Tenby my phone has been without a signal. As I can see Monkstone Head from Tenby I reason that my phone will work while in that view, which was correct. That evening when I returned to Juggler I sat for an hour on the harbour wall with a solid connection to my mobile phone. This was a relief after days of repeatedly losing the connection while trying to upload web files.
Thursday 7th September.
My three pebbles nestle at the foot of the stove. I am beset by rhythmic rolling after moving out of Tenby harbour and picking up a mooring in deeper water. I have escaped the shelter of the drying harbour in order to enable an early start tomorrow morning. The weather is forecasted as being suitable then, although, for now I feel mildly sick with the movement. Gusts rattle at the ropes and rigging. I am too far off the beach to safely row ashore, the wind is offshore so that if I lost an oar, the dinghy would be blown out to sea.
The weather forecast depresses me with gales in the North and rain here tomorrow. I am uneasy about heading to sea in the morning.I would rather be back in Bristol by now. I feel as if Autumn has a grip already and I should not be hanging about in the Bristol Channel still. All it takes is a calm day with a touch of sunshine and I shall be on holiday again. For now I feel anxious and vulnerable to a deep low somewhere West of Scotland. The wind moans at me as it passes "what are you still doing here?" as it rushes off to fill a hole up in the North
This morning I went to the Spinning Wheel cafe', where I completely won over a small cat, having her dribbling over my hand in my lap. I engaged with the waitress on a less physical level, talking about her Law degree and her Bournemouth origins. I overheard two other snippets about her as I sat writing; She has a pierced belly button and her name is Claire.
While I was out on the mooring Ty phoned to see how things were. At one point the connection was lost. I stood up to regain the mobile phone signal and saw a grey seal next to Juggler, sniffing the air and rolling his/her eyes like an old retriever having it's belly patted.
Ty said "I've got a girl in every port...the same one" meaning me!
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