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.'