A R T I C L E S

Nicki Crutchfield's PB2006

So here we are 2245, weds 16th august leaving Watermouth in North Devon. Three days of frantic and highly undisciplined activity had taken the boat from being a near shore side wreck to purposeful ocean-ready yacht. Or had it? Off we went ten hours after launch with hearts full of hope and optimism and a tool kit the size of a small garage. Lump hammer included.

After an unscheduled fuel stop in St Ives, I attempted to suggest to Jerry that we would not make it due to the sudden presence of an arhythmic leak of inconsistent magnitude and no obvious source. One solid Jerry text later involving the words 'no surrender..... leak only small....' and we were on our way again.

Thirty three hours after leaving St Ives we found ourselves in Brixham charging batteries as fast as a 6 amp charger can after a near windless night with no lights and no engine off Start Point. This was now saturday late afternoon and even my most optimistic nav could not get me to Weymouth in time for the race start. Meet them in Aldernay I decided. Sunday dawned, the batteries were still flat and Aldernay, sunday became Guernsey, monday.

I arrived in Guernsey after an inglorious but pleasant 17 hour passage from Brixham and actually saw a member of the fleet. Lightning lay sleek and low a mere 5 yards to starboard. The fleet had been caught and I could at last join the race.

I awoke, went ashore, looked around. texted Jerry about start times. It was 0930. They had left at 07. I flew back to the boat, refueled from my supply of cans and roared off. Going down the east coast I read the little book from the harbour master of the night before. No refuelling anywhere but the designated spots and no going ashore without filling in forms. I hate forms at the best of times, so I was quite pleased to have avoided this one, and I had definitely spilt no fuel, but realising that I was now a fugitive I opened the throttle wide and made a customs boat defying 5.7 knots. Confident that I could outrun the clutches of officialdom, and that my crimes remained undetected, I reduced speed to 5 knots and settled back with a coffee enjoying the sun.

Some considerable time later, long after the breeze had died and I had used up most of my fuel, I re-read that little book to find that yes, St Peter Port did sell petrol and I could have got enough to motor to Treguier. This coincided with the realisation that I was going to have to sit out the lull in the wind by Les Roches Douvres going just north of east at 3 knots, as I had neither fuel enough to go back to Guernsey nor to go on to Treguier. The 'lull' continued for another eight hours until 2025. It then set in perfectly for treguier. A shout, a whoop, a can of bilge chilled, and flavoured, Heineken (last one). I sat on the bow at 4.8 knots with a fantastic sunset. The sun disappeared and so did the wind. I drifted on feeling increasingly removed from life and more specifically the race. Was I ever going to join it? I set to and got meself navved up ready for the struggle up the dark river to Treguier against the tide with absolutely no prospect of a beer at the end. My revised plan was to anchor just past la Corne light and wait the tide. A stylish, slack water breakfast arrival was envisaged to impress the fleet. Already I could smell the coffee.

I often think that if I knew what was going to happen between casting off and stopping again I would not sail anywhere, ever. At about 0500, 10 or so miles NW of the river mouth with 16 miles to the town, one gallon of petrol, two hours of flood left (springs) and a perfect WSW F3 blasting me towards Fowey, I made the decision to head straight back to Cornwall. This required a bit more mental preparation as, having already spent 20 hours at sea, I would be facing at least another 24. First things first. Put myself on the chart and begin those optimistic, pessimism overlaid, ETA calculations I always do, whilst pretending that I'm not really being so foolish.. Go Below. Splosh. Oh yes that St Ives leak. Nearly a welly depth above the sole. Forty minutes' bailing, during which, inevitably, I met the only ship of that entire night and the next day, gave me a good sweat on and an enhanced appetite. It also occurred to me that there probably was water coming in somewhere and that I ought to find it. Well find it I did and I'm not saying where it came from as it is a little bit embarrassing. Suffice to say a softwood plug and a jubilee clip sorted it out.

Off we set for what was arguably the only decent bit of sail-powered passage making of the 350 miles sailed so far. and us still not in the race, but now eleven hours ahead of the fleet. The wind was perfect for an on the limit ten hours of broad reaching which saw us cover a little over 60 miles. Feelings of incompetence and pessimism fell away as now I at least had some speed to show off about. I had got a little carried away with the wind abaft the beam thing and this became clear to me as Start point revealed itself to the NE just before dark. And dark it was. And windy. And I was very tired all of a sudden as nearly forty miles of beating presented itself on night two. I began attempting my beat, sailing as close to the wind as I am to George Bush. The absolute realization that I was not going upwind came as I put the helm down to avoid a coaster only to be rewarded with nearly hitting her as I shot off downwind with heavy lee helm. My main was no more than cheesecloth; the last of its meagre amount of remaining resin knocked out in my flight from Brittany. Only one thing to do as I saw it; set as close to the wind as I could under fully reefed main alone and reach at a knot or two, just north of the main shipping lane, until the angles worked for me to sail to Fowey with the wind on the beam. It was looking as if, eleven hour lead notwithstanding, I was going to get in last. Let's hope I would make supper. The night was long, windy and painful, with plenty of shipping. I leant myself against the hatch in such a way that I would fall over if I actually fell asleep. I fell a few times.

About 0500 came a reward. I looked to port to see QII tramping powerfully upwind. She looked fabulously purposeful against the still dark western sky as I sagged away to leeward. She inspired me, lending determination to go after her. My mainsail still, however, thought otherwise. I continued SSW. A short while later a yacht, Audacious I think, went by to starboard. This time I was resigned to my fate. Some time later the wind made sense for me to tack and head north to Fowey where I arrived just before supper. The pleasure of tying up with the other boats was enormous, and the welcome very warm. I had felt a little foolish about my performance but all this evaporated as I enjoyed food drink and good company in Fowey Gallants.

Next day, and my first proper leg. Well, more mistakes; this time having the VHF on 16 for some reason. Jerry frantically indicating that I should raise the genoa about 1 second before the start. Well I got it up pretty quickly, but the no windward ability sail re-asserted itself. I spent eight hours doing the 22 miles to Falmouth mostly in light headwinds. I missed supper, but managed a few drinks in Mylor Yacht Club.

The next day, the final race of the week, began with a perfect wind of 20 plus knots. Perfect that is if you have a main which will go to the wind. I crossed the line and retired instantly as I would have spent the next three weeks getting back thus missing the party. The fleet stormed off and I went to Falmouth for some retail therapy. I did, honest, sad as that sounds.

Prize giving and food back at Mylor brought tales of a fantastic days' sport with all the competitors raving equally about the leg and the week.The food was wonderful.

The work done to organise the race is immense and, as one who struggles to post a letter, I can only stand back in awe at the swift efficiency of racing@petitbateau Ltd. Thanks everyone. I can't wait for next year.

The other thing which shone out was the concept and execution of PB itself. As a bloke with no racing experience and the wrong boat in bad condition whose only real qualification is that I don't get sick and can make tea in most conditions, PBs main goal of promoting single and short handed racing carried through as I was made to feel a worthy competitor. It is hugely inspiring in the dark days of financeless non-sailing to know that there is the support of many for my cause. I am certain I would not have made it afloat this year without the incentive of PB2006.

It now only remains for me to bring her home from Newlyn. I plan on leaving on saturday morning. My crew has just dislocated his knee so the two-handed pleasure flight up the north coast of Devon in a 30 knot south westerly with 5m swells from the west has turned into yet another single-handed endurance excercise up a coast which scares me at the best of times. From Pentire Point to Hartland light is a watery grave by day or night.
Bugger.

Nicki Crutchfield