A passage is planned

We'd been thinking about a trip further south and discussed whether Tom Colt might join the crew. He'd been pottering about the estuary between the two rivers; his red sails making a pretty picture as he tacked this way and that, between buoys and fishing boats. We thought he'd fit in; he had our take on life, or sort of, and he was an experienced chap on many levels. He been seen crewing with a local lad on his lugger as he tended pots and shown himself to be an able hand on the traditional rig. I'd been cautious as to his ability and even his story at first but Colt soon put all doubts to rest as we watched him handle his tiny boat expertly among the yachts and tenders. one evening we caught up with him in a bar.
'Do you fancy the Morbihan?' I inquired eventually. 'Vannes is nice and an extra pair of hands might be useful backing headsails.'
'I hear its a challenge, The Morb', he smiled. 'But I ain't going far this week. I'd say why not?'
'Tides are good,' I added. 'Past the springs, so not too much race through the entrance.'
'And less in the way of eddies and back currents. Even for a boat like The Promise,' he nodded. 'There's places I'd like to see down there. Old places; prehistoric, made of stone by a forgotten people,' he sipped his frothy Blonde and sighed. 'Nice beer.'
For an American, he seemed to have a scholarly interest in early European culture. I asked him, why so interested?
'Oh, I guess that's it, an interest. I did prehistory at UW Seattle. Native American and pre Columbian, then Europe and the Middle East. Love it. Love to handle a spear point someone made four thousand years ago. Touching earth, man.'
'Did you see much in Iraq?' I eyed him over the edge of my glass.
'You don't get to do much archaeology from the gun sights of an Apache. I've seen more stuff destroyed than you'll ever see in a museum. Bastards.'
'Who's that?'
He snorted cynically, 'All of 'em,' He sauntered out to a table on the quay.
I watched him slump into a seat and puff his cheeks. Best not go there then, I reasoned. Let the bugger be. I don't care where he's been or what he's seen; I liked him and thought we'd all get on. 'So how about a run then, Are you on?'
'Hell, yeah,' he half turned, squinting in the evening sun. 'You just say, Cap't. Give me the nod,' He raised his glass and we joined him in another round or three while the sun set the river ablaze in bronze and the swallows entertained us by skimming across the ebb tide to catch tiny flying things, invisible to our eyes and lost in the haze that softly deepened in shades of indigo against the wooded distant shore.

Colt's plan

Over fish stew and the remains of this morning's bread, Tom Colt continued his tale. He'd cruised Guernsey, Sark and Jersey in good weather before crossing to mainland Europe via the Minkies, making landfall near Ille Brehat, west of Paimpol. The coast of Brittany is notorious along that reach; peppered with lighthouses, towers and buoys, and justly so. The rocky edge of France will rip your keel off soon as look at you. I know a British naval officer who grounded his yacht when there was water on the chart and he drives warships! This casual American actually went to Les Minquiers for fun. He'd made the most of the westerlies and sailed back along the coast, heading for St Malo and the Rance there by entering the cross-Brittany canal system; Dinan; Rennes; down the Villaine to Redon but there turning right to hit the atlantic at Lorient down the river Blavet. The Scorf estuary, where that river emerges, is a nice place to hang out; he'd sailed to Port Louis and the shallow waters to Riantec before having to adjust his itinerary.
'I'd planned to see the Morbihan but the winds weren't right, so it was up the coast to Concarneau, and here we are.'
'Some trip,' I said. 'You must have a lot of confidence in your boat?'
'Boats are wonderful things, aren't they? Folks have crossed the atlantic in boats smaller than Sacagawea. You have to do your homework; thats all.'
'So, where you off to? The Med?' It seemed to best option to me, August is getting on and he'd want somewhere cosy for the winter.
'I was thinking of hacking down to Nantes. Get back in the canals and head east. You can sail right across Europe; from side to side, y'know? I reckon be on the Rhine by Fall.'
'Now I know you're mad,' I laughed. The Rhine? Germany? I imagine you're used to the cold. Why not lay her up here? Like Vannes. Bloody nice port and lots of placed to potter for days out,' I suggested. 'I did that last year. Summer up the Odet, then a nice snug marina with great French coffee and croissants on every corner.'
'Someone said you'd have it sussed,' grinned Colt. 'Anyway, boat like this, you wouldn't know what was going on outside.'
'Don't believe it,' I reached for the bottle. 'My rigging fair rattles and hums up there. If you're after a quiet life, stay clear of boats - full stop.'
He smiled and held out his glass. 'Didn't you ever want to see the alps? Or some of them great European cities?'
'Not yet; no.'
'Ah, Cap'n Treliven, the beauty of Paris, the mystery of Berlin, the style of Milan and Turin. the galleries, the theatres. Don't you ever wonder?'
'What makes you think I haven't been? Paris? Been there plenty of times and done Italy on a Motor Bike. Right now I'm sailing around the edge and it looks fine to me.'
'Well, I'm planning to go right across the middle; to the Black Sea, Istanbul - Constantinople -  by way of every stream I can find.'
I thought for a moment. At least he had a plan. 'There's a lot of them rivers run uphill,' I suggested.
'Sure, but there's a network of canals that run west to east with some mighty interesting things along the way.'
I was beginning to see more than a cowboy adventurer in Tom Colt. I weighed him up. Fit, resourceful, educated probably. Overgrown college boy? He seemed a little old for that. Rich kid wasting time? Didn't think so. I said, 'How come, Tom. Why Europe? Why now, and why a canoe called Sacagawea?'
He undid the top buttons of his faded shirt and pulled back to collar to reveal a long, jagged scar that creased his skin like a dried up river bed. A line of vicious looking white staple marks ran across his right chest and carried on around the back. I frowned.
'Iraq. First time. After you get blown out of a jeep doin' sixty, you kinda take stock. Life is for living, Cap't and you're a long time dead,' He buttoned up and swigged his wine, slapping the glass decisively down on the fidded saloon table. 'I'll be going for now but I'll be seeing you again. You and your black boat.'
The crew let him slide of the settee and he courteously thanked her for supper. A moment later we shook hands and he clambered over the gunwales into his canoe; with a salute he was gone. I stood in the cockpit, finishing off the bottle and listening to his whistling fading away in the darkness. Thomas Edson Colt. Interesting.

The Canoeist's crossing

We sat in Promise's cockpit supping English tea and yarning as the sun went down. My guest, Mr. Thomas Edson Colt, was an amiable and capable young dude. He'd been impressed by the journals of Rob Roy MacGregor and tales of canoe pioneers from his native shores as a lad; impressed enough to try several "boats" of his own, before settling on the bobbin that quietly nudged beneath my taffrail. She was not big, not for voyaging. Fine for a camping weekend but the sea? I'd say not, yet this confident smiling yank had bought her and fitted her out on the Thames, crossed the Channel and was decided on circumnavigating Europe by way of any lake, river, canal and ditch.
'How d'you get here?' I inquired, squinting at him through the Twinning's steam. I was more than slightly curious. I imagined the canoe came as deck cargo on a Brittany Ferry. Sailing to France in such a craft was a tall order, dangerous to put it mildly, though not impossible. If he had sailed, then by which route and in what weather?
'I took my time getting to Salcombe,' he started.
'Salcombe? Devon?'
'You know it? Great place. I don't know many folks in England but I knew some there, so I went a-calling on their hospitality while I got the charts and waited for the right spell of weather,' he smiled.
'I expect you had a wait then. April was good but May was a wash out and June not much better.'
'I needed good daylight too. My nav-lights ain't too high above the sea.'
I smiled at this understatement. The canoe yawl was about eighteen feet long with two stubby masts; one carrying the gaff, or gunter main; the other a springy mizzen set well astern and reefed to a bumpkin. She was almost all deck with a heart shaped cockpit. Pretty but tiny.
'So when did you go?'
Crack of dawn, as soon after the solstice as I could get. A bit of calm off Les Hanois, an hour or two dodging crap-pots but got clear across in daylight. Salcombe, St Peter Port, eighteen hours.'
'Good going,' I nodded. 'I bet she shifts, your boat.'
'Sacagawea. Yeah, she flies. A good beam reach and not too gusty mind, but she'll fly.
I laughed at his enthusiasm and sheer guts. 'So you hopped across, island to island.'
'Of course; How dumb do I look? No, don't say Capt'n,' he slurped his tea. 'It was a long passage, and not without risk but it's what we do, us adventurers, take risks. Life's too short.'
'Taking of short, where are you hanging your hammock tonight?' I was eyeing the canoe yawl. There was a berth inside but this friendly six footer was due a comfort break.
'Oh, I'll be fine,' he smiled. 'There's beach behind Cap Coz I've earmarked. I gotta bottle of wine; looks perfect.'
'Go get your bottle, Mr Colt,' I pushed open the hatch with my bare feet and nodded at the glow as the crew lit the brass lamp. 'Welcome aboard.'

The Canoeist

I heard a soft bump alongside a bit earlier on and stuck my head out of the hatch to see what had contacted. I saw a right hand set of white knuckles gripping the gunwale, as a rat's tail of old blue polypropylene flew through the air in my direction. The canoeist was making fast, unsteadily and at arms reach. His boat, an open fifteen footer with a lug sail, was rocking under his feet but agile as a monkey, he was up and over The Promise's side in a trice. He was nut brown and sinewy and grinning like a chad; he stuck out his hand and introduced himself simply as "Tom Colt."

'How d'you do Mr Colt,' I replied seriously.

'I saw your boat and couldn't resist,' he smiled. 'Real pretty.' His American accent rolled like the plains of Dakota.

I nodded. 'Kettle's on. Take a seat.'

So it was I came to meet Thomas Edson Colt. Canoeist, Mountaineer and man of the New World. Interesting.

Scrub between tides

I've just revamped the design side of me blog. In an idle moment you understand. A gig-rowing maid suggested that the reversed out of black was hard to read. Not so sure but there y'go; have a look. The picture is borrowed from painter and occasional crew, Ian Heard back in Blighty. It's a rough, he says but still managed to sell it. Be nice when it's done, I thought. He tells me he has a stack of half finished boards and canvases under his desk while his old boat moulders in some backwater. I've told him to bloody sort it out. Boats is for barnacles, not slugs and snails. He has got a new mooring for next year and I hope to see him afloat when I get back for a trip.

Meanwhile, the crew and I took The Promise down to the estuary of the Belon river a while ago, intending it as a spring board for deeper water but Port Manech is a tranquil, sheltered spot and there's miles of creeks to explore. The oysters are the best in Brittany and friends I have on the Odet, drive a sixty mile round trip for them. They are French I should say. More later when the kettle's boiled I have some nice tales of this place and other bits and bobs. Cheers.

A sonnet and the story

The Squall

The harbour village shimmered though far out

white horses had begun to race the bay.

In our small boat we eyed the clouds and spray

a second reef was needed beyond doubt

Crashing black rock and castle canons spout

dark, tall sea and a half gale holding sway

as fingers grip on mainsheet blown away

she bravely leaps in ocean chorus shout

Tack beneath Trefusis’ gloomy shore

one more for Penarrow point was wanted

and into Dockyard pool outran the squall

high tide calm we solemn heavens emplore

as the deep creek welcomed, wind deserted

we are ducks forlorn beneath the rains fall.

Treliven

After the long hot and dry spring weather the skies are now very unsettled. Weekend Yotties lurk about the Marina bars and cafes, sipping short and pungent coffees; foaming chocolat chaud, cognac and pastis, reminiscing about perfect cruises, long summers and broad reaches across sparkling seas. Dream on; thick, impassive nimbus sits at masthead height and wind is flukey, sometimes here, sometimes not.

Some time back, up another estuary and in another boat, I'd gone off for what looked like being a perfect day; to meet up with some old friends and light a driftwood fire to yarn around. All was indeed pretty good until the time came to part. All experienced sailors in a variety of small craft but one or two of us had a fair old trip back on the tide and the sky was looking serious. Ours was a sixteen foot, clinker open boat, a classic in today's parlance, built in the fifties, not fast but seaworthy with a gunter and a snatch of jib. I set off with my crew, hoping to ride the flood back to the moorings four or five miles upstream on the other side of the estuary. We had a cracking sail from the beach to the first real turning point; a crenelated headland with a clear view of the open sea and from which direction a sizable swell had started to run. Rather than head up and put in another reef, enjoying the rumbustuous sailing I decided to thrash on. The sea was all behind us and though it was going to be a tacking game, our destination was clear ahead. Wind over tide then; a little lumpy. We weren't going to make one reach as the wind was strengthening and backing but one or two extra turns weren't off the books and we bounced along splendidly, surfing from wave to wave and enjoying the ride. Our first tack was going to leave us short but as we luffed for the turn I saw to my horror, the inboard end of the main sheet almost disappearing through the last sheave of the outer block. I lurched across the crew and grabbed the escaping end but had no time nor sea room to effect any repair. In other words I just had to grin and bear it, hold on like a limpet and my right arm become the main sheet extension. The crew hadn't noticed at first, her eyes fixed seriously ahead she worked the jib like a Thames bargee. We turned again and roared on towards home. We were soon soaked by flying spray though we didn't ship any real water and our little ship showed her skirts and fairly danced over the curling tops. By the time we entered the outer moorings in the pool, the wind and sea were subsiding and protected by the lee of our second point, we loped into the creek mouth. My arm was aching now; four miles of tugging and twisting was exhausting and I was glad to stop, though not quite yet. As we approached the final reach, mooring in sight, the wind which had hurled us across the bay died completely and the black clouds down poured in stair-rods. We drifted the final hundred yards simply steering towards the pick up. As we passed one of the creekside houses on our approach, I saw that we had been watched by the interested owner through binoculars. As the crew leaned over the side for a sedate mooring, I saw the man raise a glass from his cosy window view point. I waved, feeling cold water run down the inside of my sleeve. I guess he'd been there.

The ship's boat

I don't know about you but we're having a tropical spell of sunshine hereabouts. Yesterday, after several days below The Promise's buttock and futtocks - scrubbing, scraping, tapping and finally, antifouling - I decided to take the punt for a sail. My little tender is equipped with mast and spars, rudder and centerboard and sails like a little dear. I had a quick look over and shoved off the marina slip at Fouesnant heading, as I thought, out to the sparkling sea. Not so straightforward as before I rounded Cap Coz, the little forestay went off like a gun, leaving the pocket handkerchief sized mains't to flop to one side and lose all effective drive. A swift inspection revealed that the tiny bronze stem head shackle had sheared and gone for a swim. Now, I always like to keep oars aboard, so quick as a knife shot them out through the rowlocks to haul for the shore. The tide and wind was setting me westwards though, the wrong, or least best direction. Go with it, Treliven, I thought and before long drifted with the tide up a shallow bay that began to look interesting. These drying inlets are a haven of wildlife and a Mecca for shell fish hunters at low tide. That wouldn't be for a while but though I touched once or twice, the flood eased me over mud banks and shoals to a land of grassy marshes and quiet meadows. At the head of the estuary was a tide mill; castle like and ancient in appearance but to all intents and purposes in working order. I'd seen others, Ploumanach, for one, but this looked in good nick; not the usual ruin. A lake was dammed up behind the retaining wall while shady woods stretched away on either side. A path that ran on top, disappearing east and west.

I stamped my grapnel into the turf; determined to go exploring on foot, having left the sea so far behind. All I needed was a yard of decent nylon to make a jury forestay lanyard, but knew there was a little dingy hire place at the Cap. The sun was shining, I had a few Euros in my pocket, and if deck shoes aren't the best for rambling, they'd surely get me to the nearest cafe for a Pastis - once I'd purloined a bit of string. I'd reckoned on an hour before the tide turned. Easy...