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September 23, 2000
At Sea on the Way to Ireland
I really dig this bopping around the top of Europe in the footsteps of the Vikings of yore.
Up until now, our voyage has been mostly a straight shot from point A to point B. This trip, however, we came out of Oslo fjord, down the Skagerak between Denmark and Sweden, and into the ill-famed, cruel North Sea (past Devil's Hole and the Long Forties and Buchan Deep). Then we squeezed through Pentland Firth between Orkney, where Sir Gawain and his brothers came from, and John O'Groats on the Scottish mainland. After rounding Cape Wrath, we found ourselves in the Minch, with the Hebrides to starboard and Eddrachillis Bay to port. Past the Isle of Skye, where the terriers come from, lies the Little Minch, our next point of decision. Should we travel west by Stanton Banks and the Atlantic or East to the North Channel into the Irish Sea? It is my informed opinion, that the latter will be our choice. We'll pass Dublin and Liverpool, take St. George's channel into the Celtic Sea, and finally Roaring Water Bay and Baltimore, right by the old O'Driscoll castle. Simple as that.
That old "Debbil" North Sea. There's nothing to give you respect for the Vikings like a couple of days in their home waters. We were doing ten and eleven knots on just the foresail and staysail. We had a nice warm galley with herb tea and cocoa and fore and aft rigging to give us maneuverability. Just think of being out there in an open boat with one squaresail and a bunch of oars. Maybe some herring and a little meade to keep the chill off. We were tossed every which way, but mostly on a port tack which hasn't happened much up until now. We've gotten pretty used to being on a starboard tack, so we had some adjustments to make.
Dayle, whose bunk is below mine, came into the galley and asked me if my water bottle was leaking. So, we went into the foc'sle and lifted my mattress and doggone, it was pretty wet. We shook my water bottle and tasted the water, and lo, it was salty. We took out a flashlight and searched the bunk till we found a little row of droplets strung along a crack in the clamp. The clamp is the highest beam beneath the overhead. I don't know what, if anything, it clamps together. It's just more unfathomable sailor talk. As my fingers brushed the string of water droplets, they spilled down under my sodden mattress with at least a tablespoon of water behind them. It was all too clear where the water was coming from.
My shipmates were shockingly casual about my sheets and postcards getting all wet. The cook's bunk, aft and high as it is, is usually the driest bunk in the foc'sle, and not the least of the cook's perks. When a deckhand's bunk gets wet, that's just part of the job. But when the cook's bunk gets wet, it's a tragedy of Aeschylan proportions!
I went and told Jan my bunk was wet, and his delight knew no bounds. It seems this helps pinpoint the little leak we've been pumping out since Halifax. On our usual starboard tack, the water that seeped in would just slide down between the hull and the sealing to collect in the bilge (see previous column) without any outward evidence. But yesterday we were heeled over so far to port, the water migrated in that mindless, relentless way water does through the nooks and crannies of the woodwork to my hitherto sacrosanct bunk. So, when they tear the boat apart this winter, they'll know just where to look for that nagging little leak. So in a way, this leak is a good thing. Well whatever's best for the ship.
That's it for now. See you next week!
Andy the Cook
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