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
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.
