AZORES JOTTINGS

Tony Leatherdale

(Tony's reflections originally ran to over 10,000 words, but he gave me free reign to edit. Co-star in the production is Piquant, a Vancouver 34.)

William Golding in Fire Down Below had Mr Belbus say `More seamen have been surprised by the accuracy of dead reckoning than have ever been disconcerted by its imprecision'. My mother, who was a very wise old lady, said that you'll never catch anything unless you put a hook over the side. I'm sure both were right, but even so the only thing I've caught so far is my trailing log, and at the moment I've no idea where I am. Piquant is determined to steer 240, I have a feeling I should be steering 255°, but the boat is winning and I'm sure she knows best.

Last night we were boarded - over 300 miles from the nearest land - by a swallow. He flew round the cabin a couple of times and then took off, but ultimately returned and made himself comfortable on top of the Concise Oxford Dictionary (not only a gentleman, but a scholar to boot), where he slept soundly all night, departing at 0610 with a thank you chirrup. We offered him water and food, of course, which he politely refused saying that all he needed was a good night's kip - don't we all!

We're eight days out and it's total gloom. This has been the most sunless, moonless, starless (impossible to take a sight on anything) four days I can recall, and I'm merely relying on Piquant to get us there - a bit like the swallow.

During last night we managed to get another genoa wrap (`It's the movement you know' as the actress said to the Bishop). Christian and I spent an hour this morning trying to get it down, but can't budge it. I decided that we'll have to leave it until the wind moderated, so we're rolling along at an uncomfortable 4 knots under main alone. I've come to the conclusion that I'm too old for this sort of game. I'm taking up hang gliding, whatever that is.

Well, the flogging has stopped as the genoa has now wrapped itself very firmly all the way up the forestay. And, delight, our scholarly swallow has returned and is now roosting on the Oxford Book of English Verse. In the morning it turned out it was a different chap - a house martin this time.

Great excitement this morning - the sun came out, closely followed by an enormous container ship. He kindly gave us a weather forecast and confirmed our position, though I think mine was better than his. He told us he was going to New Orleans and disappeared. Won't make it of course - didn't know where he was!

It's Sunday 26th May and by my reckoning we're about twenty miles from Sao Miguel, but I can't see it. Wish I'd made a note of what the container vessel said. Oh well, he was wrong about the wind.

I was right! At about 1600 hours, Sao Miguel (well it might be somewhere else) sighted right on the nose about five miles off, a great volcanic peak reaching into the invisible sky. Must be Pico Verde.

It's pitch black again. Is there any colour other than grey and black? There are lights on shore, but I feel I am getting a bit too close and that nothing on the chart quite matches where I think I am on the Earth's surface.

0230: Tied up to a vacant buoy in Ponta Delgada, not quite 12 days out of Cherbourg.

Going ashore is a very wearying business. Even Christian has great difficulty in walking in a straight line - and he doesn't drink. Visited the Guarda Fiscal and Policia Maritima in different parts of the harbour. They were both very polite and efficient, but asked the same questions and wanted to see exactly the same documents - and then they didn't even stamp our passports. Off to Horta tomorrow.

Arrived at Horta 0900 this morning, Friday 31st May, after a most unpleasant 140 mile passage during which the genoa tore itself to shreds. I had of course done my sums to arrive just as it was getting light, but we went like a bat, surfing down mountainous waves at silly speeds with nothing to see.

Three officials this time, each asking the same questions, but they are all so friendly and polite - just time consuming while I am dying for some sleep. I had completed some Imray Foreign Port Forms to quicken matters, but these were ignored and the boat's length, beam, draught and tonnage had to be recalculated into metrics from the ship's papers by each of them.

Funny on a boat, isn't it? Sleep becomes a preoccupation, as if it's possible to store it up and go without for the next week or two. Thought I'd wander along to the Cafe Sport, where Peter Azevedo welcomed me like a long lost brother. Then back aboard like the swallow for a kip.

When I was last here the Clube Naval was a small building just to the south of the castle and had a marvellous restaurant. That's now closed and the club occupies rather imposing premises a few yards away with a bar and snooker table - but no restaurant. No matter, meals here are amazingly cheap. Sunday lunch ashore yesterday: half a chicken each, chips, rice, salad, bread, Coca-Cola, and half a litre of very piquant (by that I mean different) red wine, plus coffee, all for £8.00 between us. And marina charges are less than £3.00 per day (including water and electricity). Are you listening, Solent?

The pavements here are works of art - small stones of white and black, interlayed with carefully designed patterns of ships, anchors etc. And children, millions of them, chatters of children crocodiling along the seawall between a couple of teachers.

Today has been brilliant sunshine nearly all day and even Pico's peak has appeared through its coronet of cloud. In fact it's become so hot I have to retire below for my afternoon siesta. We've been here a week and I'm suffering from the most advanced case of harbour rot I can ever recall. Terceira tomorrow I think.

Oh well! Nearly. Let's say `tomorrow' again. We are leaving tomorrow, 9th June, for a voyage of at least five miles to Pico. Madalena to be precise.

Oh dear - another day. We'll go tomorrow, 10th June. It's bad luck to sail on a Sunday.

Slipped about 1100 and sailed at a spanking 2 knots over to Madalena. Anchored well clear of the ferries but seemed to be precipitously close to the rocks.

The last two days have been idyllic. Unbroken sunshine, dinghy sailing, too hot at midday to be on deck - but were is everyone? Apart from fishing boats coming in, unloading and departing, and children cavorting on a concrete platform (are they playing truant?) and spending all day in and out of the water, no-one seems to live here. Anyway we're back over to Horta tomorrow to (inevitably) fill in more forms, pick up mail and make phone calls. Then we'll decide where to go next.

We're now hooked onto a buoy at Vila das Velas in Sao Jorge, no more than thirty yards from the shore under great, looming, overhanging cliffs. And rolling - it's this big swell again. Already some harbour officials have come by in a launch and told me to report ashore by 0900 tomorrow morning. I will, of course, but in my own time - say 1200.

Usual confusion over the forms. I'm named on this one as Mr Clacton-on-Sea - now there's a name for you! But it's in my passport so it must be true. I've just realised that I've spent most of my working life filling in forms and it's only now that I'm beginning to enjoy it. They're enjoying it too, and they've nothing else to do.

Monday 24th June and back to Horta. Alison's flying out tomorrow, so today's been a bit like preparing for Captain's Rounds with Piquant scrubbed from top to bottom. The heads and galley are things of pristine beauty, and on no account to be used until her arrival - in fact I'm taking my sleeping bag onto the sea wall to sleep there.

Yesterday was spent shopping, sadly, for the voyage back, so here we are on Monday 1st July heading due north on the most beautifully sunny, calm day imaginable. We've seen some dolphins and life isn't bad.

1200 on 2nd July. It's very, very hot with no wind and we're obviously stuck in the Azores High. Have spoken to a couple of passing ships who have forecast south-west F 4/5, occasionally 6 maybe 8. I wouldn't like the 8, but the 4/5 would be more than welcome. We are surrounded by armadas of Portuguese men-of-war all going south, and leaping dolphins all going north.

I'm on first and watch the sun (big and red) go down. There isn't a breath of wind and we're still motoring on the calmest sea I've ever seen. There's a large Atlantic swell of course, but no a ripple and it's a bit like sailing a toy boat in a bath of grey blancmange. I am becoming concerned about fuel consumption and estimate we have only three days' motoring left. We shall see. After all we are a sailing boat, and within a day or two will doubtless be complaining about the superabundance of wind.

I must be a prophet, as on Thursday 4th July the MV Capina warns us about Ana, the first tropical storm of the year, located at 37°N 62°W and travelling on 065°. On current progress we should converge in exactly three days' time. Rapid change of course for Coruna about 850 miles to the east as the pressure drops 10 mbs in 24 hours. All slightly alarming, but here we are and we can do nothing about it.

Have you ever seen a whale? All sail up and sitting in the cockpit, when no more than ten yards away on the starboard side a creature three times the length of Piquant came up and started blowing waterspouts. He/she was very friendly, but I didn't want him/her to start making advances to Piquant so we started the engine (which I'm told dissuades this sort of behaviour). The gargantuan creature then ducked under the boat and came up on our port side, still spouting. We've seen so many whales this trip it's hard to imagine they're an endangered species. Frankly they frighten the life out of me when they approach too closely - but it's their water not mine. Even so, these monsters only need to nudge you in a friendly way and you're wrecked.

Ana seems to be chasing us wherever we go. We've all been studying the Mariner's Handbook and Sanderson's Meteorology at Sea with fierce intensity.

Gales. It's now Thursday 11th July and we're riding out our fourth gale (and by that I mean winds of F 8 plus) in a week. We've had a few days' good sailing but seem most of the time to be running, often in the wrong direction, under staysail or storm jib alone. Piquant behaves well enough but her crew, confined below and bouncing off every solid object, are becoming rather fractious.

To get back to Ana, which caused us such alarm. After talking to several ships on our way eastwards, and becoming quite expert on tropical revolving storms, the MV Commander was able to tell us that she had been downgraded to a 43 knot gale. Gales we can handle - we're in one at the moment. Celebratory drinks all round which immediately slopped onto the cabin sole. No wonder the wood is in such good condition.

Saturday 13th July and a grey, drizzly day as we approach the Approaches to the English Channel. Plenty of gannets and fulmars and, I jest not, another whale or two and a shark. A couple of merchantmen appear out of the gloom and disappear just as quickly. We head on up Channel.

A strong wind warning from Portland Coastguard causes some amusement, and then Portland Bill appears through the gloom. From there it's all downhill. We reach Hayling Island at about midnight on Monday 15th July, 15 days and 14 hours out of Horta. Oh and I lost my ensign and staff in the Channel. If anyone finds them I'd love to have them back.

(2101 words)