Sun, Silence, and Still Water

A cool thing about moving around the UK (no, we still haven't left it yet) is the extent to which you get a sense of an area from its local news. Instead of BBC South, we've moved on to BBC Spotlight, covering the south-west of England. There's a sweet, slightly amateur-ish vibe to its titles, and the presenters rather give the impression of believing their audience to be a dozen or so people clustered around a TV in a local pub, several of whom are direct family members.

Devon and Cornwall aren't so very remote, but it does seem as though a lot less happens here. One of BBC Spotlight's recent features involved a reporter going to visit a charity shop that had an unusually good selection of designer clothing in stock. As I write, they're doing a feature on hedges. It's quiet, sleepy stuff.


Admittedly, our first stop after Weymouth was rather less quiet and sleepy. We had anchored overnight in Portland habour, just south of Weymouth, and had a very disturbed night thanks to a dolphin deciding to play with our anchor chain - seriously. We were woken by a series of very strange noises - splashing and the grinding of the anchor chain moving about - and something rubbing against the hull. The only explanation I could imagine was that someone was trying to come aboard (not generally a positive thing in the middle of the night), so it was with some trepidation that Peter went out to investigate and was amazed to see a dolphin flip itself out of the water by the bows. At the time, it seemed rather worth the sleep loss.

Less so the next morning. We had an early morning start to get across Lyme Bay to Torquay, and we were both a little dopey and grumpy, but for once the wind treated us kindly. We tried out our spinnaker for the first time, and while it doesn't exactly match Excessive Penguin's colour scheme, it works pretty well for a sail that had been sitting in a damp locker for a good ten years.

We arrived in Torquay feeling rather pleased with ourselves, but were less pleased to discover there was powerboat racing event that weekend, which included jet ski displays right beside where we were berthed. Twenty or so high-powered phallic vessels careered around the bay for two days in a row, and while the little town climbing steeply up the hills rising from the sea was not unattractive, we left earlier than we'd planned to get out of their way.

Our next stop was the River Dart, a short, somewhat bumpy journey away, which we were forced to make under motor thanks to the wind being right on our nose. As soon as we turned into the river, though, the water became flat, and we were able to enjoy the stunning scenery. We went some distance upriver, with wooded hills and extremely expensive-looking houses either side of us, until we reached the little village of Dittisham, where we hoped to take a mooring buoy. Few of their buoys, however, could handle a boat of our size, and all of them were taken, so the harbour master suggested we anchor a little further upriver and come back later in the day, when fewer boats should be around.

Well, once we'd anchored we had no desire to move at all. Having gone round a bend in the river, suddenly there was nothing in sight but rolling countryside and a few other boats, and nothing to hear but birdsong. We'd have liked to stay longer, but the weather forecast dictated that if we wanted to get anywhere in the next week it had to be the following day. So, slightly forlornly, we pulled up our anchor (taking a giant block of river mud with it) and motored gently back downriver. The harbour master stopped us partway down the river, and we groaned internally, thinking we were about to be charged the nightly anchoring fee - but instead he gave us a Dartmouth Harbour brochure, a quick warning that a naval ship was about to start manoeuvring up ahead, and the night on him. Even with the anchoring charge (which always strikes us as an outrageous concept), it would be well worth going back.

We knew we weren't likely to sail, with zero wind predicted, but we needed to get to Salcombe before the southerlies kicked in the next day, so it was another journey by motor. The sea was flat, though, and the sun came out every so often, making for a pleasant sort of journey. Salcombe turned out to be almost as lovely as Dartmouth, although the only available anchorage was crowded with boats out for the day. I have to confess that I failed to get any pictures of Salcombe, for reasons I'm about to describe, so I had to pinch this one from Google.

We didn't manage to evade paying to anchor that night, but when the harbour master came to ask for money, he also explained that there was a free short stay pontoon available in town, with a hose for water, free toilets and showers nearby, and a co-op a short walk away. Suddenly, the anchoring fee seemed much more reasonable, and as we were running short of provisions we decided to avail ourselves of this opportunity that evening. Salcombe itself turned out to be as delightful as could be imagined, with twisty little streets just wide enough for one car to get through, and almost no chain stores. We loaded ourselves up at the co-op, and were feeling very chipper about everything when we got back to the boat.

Inevitably, something was going to spoil our good mood. So it was more with resignation than surprise that we greeted our starboard engine's failure to start. Peter did everything he could think of, but the starter motor was resolutely non-functioning. We couldn't stay where we were - we'd already exceeded the half hour limit with all the messing about - so we were obliged to leave and re-anchor under one engine (not the easiest of tasks, although fortunately it was an easy berth to get out of) and head for Plymouth the next day as we'd planned, where we could get the starter motor fixed.

It wasn't ideal, and to make matters worse I woke up the next morning with a bug, which caused me to discharge my breakfast before we'd even gone out to sea. Just perfect before a long sail, with complicated manoeuvring to come at the end of it. The wind was with us, but too light to sail at any significant speed, the sun was hidden behind clouds, and it was cold. I shivered my way through the long, slow sail, not wanting to take refuge inside for fear it'd upset my stomach, and we both entertained a lot of 'Isn't this supposed to be fun?' and 'I'm not sure I like sailing very much' thoughts.

We cheered up a bit when we got to Plymouth itself, where an enormous breakwater outside the harbour guarantees flat water within. We sailed all the way up the harbour and into the river on which Plymouth sits, and felt like proper sailors when we turned on our one working engine only a few hundred yards from our destination. We were planning to visit the Multihull Centre, a marina and boatyard that specialises in multihulls (well, duh), which seemed like an obvious place to sit while we sorted out our engine. Plus, it's extraordinarily cheap for berthing. On the downside, it's a tidal marina so only accessible at high tide. We therefore had a couple of hours to kill before making our way there, which we spent anchored near the channel entrance.

We'd told the marina that we had only one engine and consequently needed an extremely easy berth to get on to, as our manoeuvring capabilities were basically nill. They promised us a large space partway along their long pontoon, so this was what we headed for once we'd reached the end of the channel. Only to find that the space we'd been promised was occupied. There was another spot we might just squeeze into, but we'd already passed it, and we were fast running out of water deep enough to navigate.

The only option was to reverse but, as we quickly discovered, reversing in a straight line under one engine wasn't really an option. Our one remaining engine pushed our rear to the right, sending us into an anti-clockwise spin. This would have been fine, except that we were also drifting towards a couple of tiny buoys in the shallow water opposite the pontoon, and I couldn't spin us quickly enough to motor forwards and into deep water. At this point I was pretty convinced we were going to end up stuck in the mud, but Peter yelled at me to power forwards and, not at all sure it was a good idea, I obeyed. We skimmed the buoys and kept moving, despite the depth gauge telling me we got down to 0.5 metres, which meant we were definitely mud surfing. We took a second pass at the empty berth and, with the help of a very kind couple who pulled us in despite the rain, got ourselves safely tied up. Finally, we could relax - we certainly weren't going anywhere until we had two working engines.

Once the weather cleared, the marina turned out to be an a terribly pretty place, with greenery all around and a delightful little village a short walk away, complete with a millpond occupied by ducklings, goslings, and a pair of nesting swans. We stayed long enough to acquire a new starter motor and have a nose around the largest collection of multihulled boats we'd ever seen in one place, before moving on to a nearby anchorage that rivals even the river Dart for beauty.

We woke in the morning morning to sun, silence, and still water. Looking at the weather, we might be here for a little while, but really that doesn't seem like too much of a hardship. For all that we were planning to be further south by this point, we're not exactly heartbroken still to be in England.

Have we inadvertantly moved to Weymouth?

I mean, as you can see from the picture above, Weymouth is by no means a bad place to be. It's just that we weren't exactly intending to stay here for the best part of two weeks. We're fast being reacquainted with an eternal truth of sailing - that the weather is a total fuckwit.

But I'm getting rather ahead of things; I've got some of catching up to do. When last I wrote, we were dripping in a marina in Portsmouth. Things cleared up beautifully the next day and, expecting perhaps a little more wind than was ideal, but nothing too troublesome, we headed off again, this time with an anchorage on the Isle of Wight by the name of Newtown Creek as our destination. The wind was, indeed, definitely brisk as we left Portsmouth harbour and tried out our mainsail for the first time. Meanwhile, the sail was not cooperating. It's a style of sail we haven't used before, and it took a good fifteen minutes of wrestling to get it up; even then, it was caught at the bottom and not at all the shape it was supposed to be.

Well, we didn't have far to go, and we really didn't have the patience to pul it down and try all over again. We stuck out the headsail instead, turned the engines off, and basked in the quiet of sailing - and at a good speed too! Even when the wind died off (the exact opposite of what it was predicted to do, naturally), we were still moving at a pretty remarkable pace. If this was what sailing a large catamaran was like, we were enthusiastically on board.





By the time we reached the entrance to the anchorage, Newtown Creek, the wind had disappeared altogether, the water was absolutely calm and the sun warm on our fifteen layers of clothing. We selected a spot with care in the narrow river and once again allowed the cats out to explore, which they did with excessive confidence, as the picture to the right shows.

Newtown Creek was a wonderful place to spend a few days. It's sheltered from all directions, incredibly beautiful (it's a National Trust nature reserve) and extremely quiet. We even got to watch seals from the back deck as they basked in the sun.

We couldn't stay for long, however, as our calorifier had started leaking. Unless we fancied living without hot water - which, in the UK in April, we definitely didn't - we needed to get somewhere a new one could be delivered. With mild regret, we headed out of Newtown Creek again a couple of days later towards Poole Harbour, which was about 30 miles down the coast.

We had, for the most part, a good sail, although the wind was annoyingly prone to wibbling about from almost dead downwind, causing our sails to require changing every ten minutes. A more significant problem came later, as we were about to enter the harbour. To the right of the entrance is a shallower patch of water - but still comfortably deep enough for us to cross, according to the chart. It seemed like a perfectly good shortcut. And yet, as we tried to cross it, the depth dropped alarmingly until there were only a couple of feet below us, our depth gauge showing we had over four metres less than the chart claimed, and the waves were getting quite lively in the shallow water. We veered south to go through the official channel, just about staying clear of the dangerous patch of water, and wondering what on earth was going on.

We realised later what had happened. Our charting software allows you to set a 'safe' depth, and water shallower than this is highlighted. Peter had told me he'd changed this from ten metres to five, figuring that a boat with a one metre draught could cope with a slightly less cautious safe depth. As it turned out, that wasn't exactly what he'd done. In fact, he had set the chart to add five metres to the depth everywhere. Oops, said he.

We stayed in Poole harbour for a few days being assaulted by high winds, including one night in a marina to pick up the new calorifier, when it seemed fairly miraculous that I managed to berth the boat successfully with the vigor of the wind. We spent the next, suddenly still, night in an extremely pretty anchorage right by (surprisingly) one of the largest oil rigs in the country (considerately disguised by trees), and woke to ethereal mist.

It was very lovely, but rather a concern, given that we were planning to sail to Weymouth that day. But the forecast promised it would lift, and as we motored slowly out of Poole harbour it seemed to be getting much brighter.

Our positivity was short-lived. We hadn't gone more than a few miles before we hit dense fog. Before long we could only see a hundred feet or so in any direction. To make matters worse, there was no wind at all, so we had no choice but to motor, and the cats had responded to the engine noise by expelling every bodily substance they could think of all in one go.

It's exhausting travelling in dense fog. We have AIS, which gives out a signal from Penguin and allows us to search for other vessels nearby, but not every boat uses AIS so we couldn't afford to relax our attention. We strained our eyes staring into the mist, hoping against hope that it would clear.

It didn't. We were crossing a point known as St Alban's Head, renowned for its turbulent waters in the best of conditions, and even in the complete absence of wind it was getting bumpy. Then, terrifyingly close, a fishing boat emerged from the fog, zooming towards us; we both swerved, but it was too close for comfort. Behind it, more fishing boats were appearing. A couple were stationery, but most of them were moving at high speed in conflicting directions, making it incredibly difficult to avoid them all. They seemed to regard it as a personal affront that we had arrived in their midst, and made no effort at all to reduce their speed as they shot by, adding to the confused waves with their wake. We had to dodge about ten of them before the stream of fishing boats abated, and we had only the bouncy waters to contend with. And, of course, the fog.

We decided swiftly that we had no desire to be out here for any longer than we had to, and pushed the engines harder. Only four hours after we had set off, we were rounding the Weymouth breakwater - quite ghostly in the mist - and motoring carefully (visibility was still pretty shit) up the harbour.

With relief, we took our berth on the town quay. It wasn't really necessary, as it turned out, but the harbour staff came out to help, one of them remarking that Penguin looked 'magnificant', which did a lot to cheer us both up.

Overlooking Portland Harbour (which just happens to be right next to Weymouth)

We were pretty sure we didn't want to have to do that again any time soon, but fortunately we knew we were staying put for a few days anyway. And then a few days more. In the end, it became more like two weeks, thanks to a combination of my work hours and Storm Hannah, but finally we've set off again. We're now in Torquay - but our journey here is a tale for a future post; this one's gone on long enough already. If we could just get some sun, everything would be grand.

Sea Change

It's been an odd couple of days, which have stood in stark contrast to each other. That's April in the UK for you, I suppose, but it's incredible how swiftly and drastically one's feelings about an enterprise (namely sailing off into the unknown) can alter with the weather.

We began our Epic Journey Into The Wilds on Monday afternoon. It was a highly promising day for us to make a beginning, with hazy sun and barely any wind. 'Barely any wind' isn't exactly known for its utility to sailors, of course, but we were starting slow and travelling only four miles to a nearby anchorage, and had no particular intention of getting the sails up at all. This may sound under-ambitious for any sort of trip on a sailing yacht, but our main aim was simply to spend a night at anchor successfully; real sail testing comes later.

We spent the morning making last minute preparations and saying a few goodbyes to various well-wishers. Finally, when the tide was at its highest, we untied our lines for the first time since last October and motored off. Like most humans, I tend to feel edgy and anxious immediately before leaving on any sort of trip, and this feeling is only exacerbated by the knowledge of leaving a place of comfort and safety for uncertainty and the unknown. It was therefore with some surprise that I felt a rush of exhilaration as we motored carefully along the little channel between lines of yachts on mooring buoys. We were off!


And, before long, we were stopping again, as we reached East Head, a beautiful spit of sand on the edge of Chichester Harbour. We'd anchored here in our previous boat five years ago, so it made for a reassuringly familiar first stop, as well as a delightfully pretty one.

Although it was our first time using the anchor on this boat, it all went very smoothly, except for the fact that we realised we'd forgotten to mark the anchor chain, meaning we had no idea how much we were laying out. Never mind! Peter guesstimated, and he can't have been too far off, as we neither dragged (meaning, for non-boaty types, that the anchor lost its hold and allowed us to drift) nor hit anything else.

















The cats, who had been hiding while the engine was on, cautiously emerged and, for the first time, were allowed into the cockpit to have a look around. While wary in the extreme to start off with, they were keen enough to explore before long, and were soon peering over the edge of the back deck and climbing onto the coach roof. I spent the next hour or so trying to watch them both at once, as I had very little faith that they could be trusted not to fall in.

Feeling rather pleased with our day's adventure, such that it was, we settled down for our first night at anchor, only occasionally becoming sufficiently paranoid to get up and check we hadn't gone anywhere.

The next morning could not have been more of a contrast. The world, so bright and cheerful the day before, was grey and depressing, with the promise of rain all day. The wind, while still light, was blowing in the opposite direction to the tide, resulting in a disproportionate level of chop. Not that we were unduly troubled by this, in our boat not far off the size of a county, but there's something so much more soothing about flat water in an anchorage. We had planned on a 23 mile sail to an anchorage on the Isle of Wight, another past haunt of ours, but we weren't enthusiastic. With next to no solar power being made under the drab skies, we had to be careful with power; no hot water for now, and as little heating as we could get away with. We huddled under blankets and listened to the rain, with the sense that this cruising lark wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Did we fancy spending perhaps four hours sailing in the rain? No, no we did not. But nor did we especially fancy spending the day anchored in the rain feeling chilly. So we compromised and made for a marina in Portsmouth instead, with the promise of free, unlimited electric heating and very hot showers to spur us on.

In fact, sailing in the rain wasn't nearly as miserable as I'd expected. With five layers of clothing, including a hat and two hoods, I was, if not toasty warm, then at least not unbearably cold, and we were beginning to discover the merits of a very large boat. Where once we'd have considered five knots to be a good speed, now we were easily making seven, with the engines at low revs and only a foresail out. As the wind (still pretty gentle) changed direction to become more favourable, we were moving at more like eight.

In what seemed, miraculously, like not very long at all, we were reaching the entrance to Portsmouth harbour. Here was where our only real trouble came. It was our first time using the foresail, and we hadn't quite twigged just how heavy a sail can be when it's big enough for a fifty foot boat. Accustomed to our previous boat, Peter tried to furl the sail by hand, and was alarmed to discover it just wasn't possible from the cockpit, even in these light winds. To make matters worse, the line that was controlling the sail somehow managed to come undone and promptly attacked him as he wrestled to get the sail under control and away. Meanwhile, we were heading slowly into the path of a very large ferry coming out of Portsmouth, and if I wanted to avoid Peter getting battered by the sail again I needed to continue in the same direction, straight into the wind and straight into the ship's path.

For a couple of minutes, things were definitely dicey, but in the nick of time (and before the ferry started blasting its horn at us), Peter got the errant line tied on again and the sail furled away. I pointed us back into the small boats' channel with no little relief, and a few minutes later we were pulling into the marina. We stuck the heating on the very second we could, and hung our dripping clothing around the boat to dry off in the sudden swell of heat.

It hadn't been much fun, but we were warm, and dry, and the marina showers looked fabulous. Any other concerns could wait.

Bad Omens

Presenting Excessive Penguin, mostly finished boat

It was an inauspicious beginning. After a couple of weeks of glorious, unseasonably warm weather, the time had come for us to move aboard our beautiful new boat, and it was raining. It was just the sort of weather for curling up on a sofa, indoors, in a nice warm house with unlimited heating and no habit of moving about in high winds.

Instead, we were packing up all our possessions and hauling them down a pontoon, while attempting to keep things like bedding and clothing from getting too damp. The cats watched in consternation, and the rain timed itself to perfection - as soon as we were leaving the boat, hands free, it stopped, only to return as soon as we were heading back boatwards with armfuls of increasingly soggy boxes.

Indeed, in the almost-week we've been living on our boat, life has been characterised by strong winds and frequent rain - with only occasional bursts of sunshine. And to top it all off, yesterday our calorifier (hot water heater, for those who, like me, would have assumed this somehow related to food upon first hearing the word) started leaking copiously. It deposited a good quantity of water into our bilges, while I listened to the bilge pumps straining to pump it all out and gently panicked. We established that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to trust that a calorifier that hadn't been used for ten years would still work without a hitch, and that the supposedly stainless steel case was leaking from a crack - due to rust. Joy oh joy. We've got a welder coming along tomorrow who will hopefully fix the problem, and in the meantime we are hot water-less. The downsides to boat life are making themselves all too apparent so far.

On the bright side, the boat is completely transformed. When you look at photos from when we bought it, it's barely recognisable. Admittedly, from behind the differences aren't enormous.

Before

After

         

But once you get inside, the changes are a bit more dramatic.

The saloon - before 

The saloon - after

And when you go down into the hulls, she starts to look like a completely different boat - and not just because of the cats that feature heavily in my photos. For example, looking forward through our cabin, in the starboard hull:

Or the galley in the port hull:

What was once a pretty unpleasant heads (toilet) and back cabin is now my beloved book nook and Peter's mini workroom:

It took us a surprisingly long time staring at some of these old photos to work out which bit of our boat we were looking at.

And in place of a fairly unnecessary fifth cabin, we now have a much more appealing looking en suite heads.

Given that I had next to no part in it, I feel fairly comfortable saying that it's quite an incredible transformation. But the very best part is this:

Disco lights! On a boat!

OK, realistically we'll never actually use them, but if ever we need to host a slightly retro party we are set. 

And, frankly, does anything else really matter?

Getting There

Hello again, dear readers. It's been a while, I know. I've got a lot to update you on. We've been beavering away at this boat of ours for the last six months, and at last it's taking shape. I say 'we'; I mean 'Peter'. My role has mostly been as sympathetic (and only occasionally bored) listener to all the woes and troubles that come with turning a beholed wreck of a boat into a pleasant place to live, and, if I'm feeling very ambitious, holding a screw in place so a nut can be fastened on to it. A couple of times I've been mistaken for a boat builder, but I can't say that I've earnt the label.

This is not how a boat's hull is suppose to look

The boat has, however, been transformed beyond all recognition. Except for the fact that she's the biggest boat in sight wherever you go, which is, I suppose, one very easy way to recognise her. Otherwise, though...

The first thing on our long, long list of jobs was to get rid of the sheer volume of crap she was carrying. That and fixing the holes in her hull. We definitely didn't want to keep those. As Peter dug further and further into her depths, he discovered all sorts of things we absolutely hadn't expected. The cockroaches, admittedly, which we discovered in their hundreds, weren't too much of a surprise, even though Peter had let off three bug bombs when the boat was still in the Caribbean to try to get rid of them. The tree frog he found huddled in a forward locker, looking rather the worse for wear for its voyage, was another matter. What on earth do you do with a tropical tree frog that gets accidentally uprooted to the UK? Peter ended up taking it to the water and hoping for the best. At least with the heat this summer it won't have been quite so much of a shock compared to its usual habitat.




We went through three skips' worth of rubbish, and for a while the boat looked even more dispiritingly wrecked than it had to start off with. It didn't help that, once Peter had cleared all the obvious rubbish off the boat, like the multiple non-functional starter motors someone had for whatever reason decided to hang on to, he started tearing apart the interior fittings. The headlining covering the walls wasn't exactly pretty, but the bare fibreglass beneath, with bits of foam from the headlining still clinging to it, was even less so.

Halfway through tearing everything out. That's insulation
 that looks like someone's being chewing bits out of it.

Pretty much everything had to go, even the floors, which had become so sodden after Penguin's almost-sinking that they were positively dangerous. It took a good week of twelve hour days for him to get through it all, but eventually he had a reasonably clear, if not attractive, space to work in.




While a qualified professional set about making the holes in the hull not be holes anymore (we figured that was the kind of thing we didn't want to take any chances with), Peter began fitting new floors, which first involved re-fibreglassing in supports for all the floors, as all the joists were rotten too. It was messy work, but before long we were in a position where everything but the floors was a mess, which was a significant improvement upon everything including the floors being a mess.

With the floors in place, everything else was much easier, now that we no longer had to balance on the tops of water tanks to walk around. While everything was bare, Peter turned his attention to fully plumbing and wiring the entire boat, starting entirely from scratch. In place of a jumble of confused wires that were just begging to be turned into an electrical fire, he established a well-ordered system, every wire labelled, and returning to a dedicated electricity cabinet.

Peter took great pleasure in his system and his label-maker, but electrickery safety is important! The biggest risk of us ever running into major danger is from an electrical fire, which would probably burn down the entire boat to the waterline, so we aren't taking chances.

We also fully insulated every wall of the boat, and it took on a strange, spaceship like appearance thanks to the silvery foil backing on the insulation.

With these basics complete, it was possible to move on to some more fun bits, like putting in parts of the kitchen and adding worksurfaces. Things like a shiny new fridge, hob and sink made what was still essentially a shell of a boat into something that could plausibly one day be a home.

While Peter was slaving away all summer inside a very hot boat, our engines were serviced and a lovely old gentleman, who works part time to get out of the house (and, he claims, away from his wife), steadily filled in and covered over all the cracks and dents in our outer gel coat, until she gleamed again. We took the opportunity, while she was out of the water, to remove all her old anti-foul (a nasty but useful substance that theoretically prevents any marine life from clinging to the bottom of a boat) and replaced it with a new coating, in black. We also painted over the navy blue stripes down her sides with grey, and suddenly (from the outside at least) she was transformed into a boat that looked positively sleek.

All too soon, it was time for her to be returned to the water. Much as we like having a boat in the water, it's much easier to work on one when it's sitting stably on land. Plus, it was a very short walk from our flat to the boatyard. Still, there was no room for us to stay. It was both terrifying and thrilling to watch Penguin dipping her toes in the sea again before floating, just as boats are supposed to do. Very terrifying, in fact, given that the yard staff weren't keen to give us an absolute guarantee that they could even get her back in - she's about the biggest boat they've ever attempted.

Ready and waiting to return to the water

Thankfully, it was a perfectly calm day - not bad going for late September - meaning that she was  dropped with impressive precision into the water with no wobbles and at least an inch to spare on either side, and I had no trouble manoeuvring her into the distinctly tight spot she would occupy until we took her to her new home a week later.

Before that, though, we had one very exciting task to complete - giving her a name. With the utmost care, a fair bit of swearing, and the sacrifice of our knees on her hard back deck, we transferred the letters to her stern. Suddenly, she seemed to be coming along rather quickly.

A few days later, we proceeded out of Emsworth marina - very carefully indeed, as it was, if anything, even narrower than when we arrived thanks to the position of the other boats. It was the first time we'd travelled anywhere in her without slowly sinking. The trip itself was an uneventful hour and a half (to travel what was a three minute drive down the road), and although it was awkward getting in to the marina that was her new home, thanks to its shallow waters that left little room for manoeuvre, we were soon tied up and Peter was back to work, naturally enough.

We were starting to get to the point where we could do exciting bits - like putting walls and ceilings up. Even after months of labour, the inside didn't really feel much different, except for the spaceship-like effect from all the foil-covered insulation. As the bright white ceilings and walls began to go up, though, the boat was transformed - suddenly everything appeared brighter and lighter. It started to be possible to imagine her as a pleasant place to live.

Every time a new wall went up, the wreck she was when we first got her faded further into distant memory. Peter's had mental image of what she'll eventually be like in his mind all along, but it's taken a lot longer for me to be able to share his vision of our finished home. Now, though, it's unbelievably exciting to think that we'll be able to move on board in only a couple of months.

I am so excited about this bookcase

This brings us almost up to date now. Practically all the walls are finished, with the exception of a couple of particularly tricky bits, and Peter is working on the finer trimmings, such as white oak edging strips and mini penguin logos. Excitingly, he's almost completed my two bookcases - one of which doubles as a window seat - which will be the thing to really make the boat feel like home to me. The only major thing left to add is soft furnishings - which we'll leave until the last minute, when the boat has stopped being a workshop. Oh, and doors. We could do with some doors.








Now we just have to work out where we want to go. Perhaps it's the effect of being in one place in the darkest month of the year, but we're feeling quite adventurous. There isn't anywhere we can't go in Excessive Penguin, and at the moment we rather feel there isn't anywhere we wouldn't like to go. The open ocean is beckoning - who knows, we could even circumnavigate.

We might be getting a little ahead of ourselves - we haven't even tried out her sails yet. But the possibilities are endless, and that's what having a boat is all about.

That, and this.

The Sieve

Things were looking up.

Our boat was on a ship, and the rest was up to us. This was a very good thing in Peter's view, he being a person with no shortage of confidence in his abilities to fix any possible problem and the absolute determination to do whatever it took to get our new boat where she needed to be.

It was less of a good thing from my point of view, as it put the responsibility for not crashing our new boat squarely on my shoulders. As I may have mentioned in previous entries a few years ago, I'm the designated boat driver of the household. This is primarily because, being small, I'm less well equipped than Peter for leaping on and off pontoons or attempting to haul the entire weight of a boat on my own. All this is perfectly logical, and our time on Jade (our previous boat) has made me a pretty competent driver of 35 foot catamarans. Excessive Penguin, however, is a 50 foot catamaran, and also 20 feet wide, and our plan involved my getting her through a gap maybe 20 and a half feet wide, my very first time driving her. I was the best person for the job, and I knew this, but I really wished I wasn't the best person for the job.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we had to move from our much loved house in Ireland to a small and expensive flat in Emsworth, not far from Southampton, on England's south coast, where the ship was due to arrive. The bright side is that Emsworth, aside from sharing a name with P.G.Wodehouse's Lord Emsworth, is one of the most charming and quintessentially English little towns you could imagine, full of independent shops and cafes, and views like this:

This, incidentally, is the walk Peter now takes every day to get from our flat to the boat

Having settled ourselves in our flat, and made a start on testing each of the restaurants now within walking distance of our home (our new location is very dangerous indeed if you want to maintain sensible eating habits), we set off on a Tuesday around lunchtime for Southampton, where Penguin was waiting for us.

Knowing that she was full of water, and leaking, we arrived an hour early, armed with two large batteries, two heavy duty automatic bilge pumps, one manual bilge pump and a lot of hose (to the bemusement of our taxi driver). Penguin didn't seem to have suffered too much for her Atlantic crossing, except for the unfortunate angle

her bimini (the blue cover you can see in the photo) was now sitting at. Peter hauled the batteries aboard and then began setting up our bilge pumps, so that we could counter the sinking process the moment we hit the water.

'She's been leaking water all the way,' the loadmaster remarked cheerfully. 'We nicknamed her "the sieve".'

'...great,' I told him, and he grinned at me. That didn't sound ominous at all.

Our Caribbean captain had been sure the the only reason she'd got as far as almost sinking was that she'd been waiting so long for the ship to arrive; that the leak was very slow indeed and nothing to worry about for a short trip from Southampton to Emsworth. Our abundance of bilge pumps and batteries was, we thought, a case of massive over-preparation. I was nervous enough already, but not so much about the passage. Now, my thoughts ran to whether the varied collection of flares on board would still work, and if not, in the absence of a life raft or radio, whether people often swam the Solent. I figured I could probably cope with the distance; the difficulty would be in not getting hit by ships (it's times like these when you really need the volume 'How To Avoid Huge Ships').

I wrestled with the bimini, which had lost a couple of bolts holding it in place, to try to make it less inconveniently positioned, while Peter delved into the bilges. Behind us, a monohull was lowered into the water and sailed off serenely.

'You're next!' said the loadmaster.

'What?' Peter poked his head out of the cockpit. 'We're supposed to be offloaded at 2.40. We got here an hour early so we could set up.'

'You're supposed to be offloaded by 2.40.'

'But we've got to set up our bilge pumps - there's three hundred litres of water in her.'

The loadmaster raised his eyebrows. 'Well then, get cracking.'

Peter set about his preparations at double speed, and about ten minutes later we noticed that the crane was hovering around a different catamaran. 'Sorry!' said our friendly loadmaster. 'You were right. That one's next.'

Boats really aren't supposed to do this

Disgruntled, but grateful for the reprieve, we were ready miles before our loading time, and I went and hid on the opposite side of the ship so I didn't have to watch. Something about watching boats moving through the air makes me highly uncomfortable, and I prefer to be out of the way until they've been safely put down again. The parts I did catch weren't exactly comforting. She was swinging from side to side in what seemed like a dangerously uncontrolled fashion, with two members of the ship's crew hanging on to her with yellow lines to limit her movement; if either of them lost their footing, or their grip, she could swing straight into the crane.

But, surprisingly enough, the professional crew who make their living lifting boats in and out of the water managed to get her safely off the ship again.

We were allowed to climb on board, and the bilge pumps were spewing beautiful, diesel-contaminated water into Southampton harbour before we hit the sea.

Then we tried to start the engines. 'Tried' being the operative word. The starboard engine started quickly enough, but the other didn't even make an effort. There wasn't even the exhausted chugging of the starter attempting to fire the engine - nothing happened at all. Diagnosing battery as the most likely cause of the problem, Peter hurriedly swapped the engine over to one of our new batteries, and we tried again. Still nothing.

Well, we couldn't stay sitting by a big orange ship forever. 'I guess we'll have to go under one engine,' Peter said and, with a gulp, I agreed, trying not to think about the prospect of manoeuvring this thing in the dainty Emsworth harbour with a single working engine.

A few hundred yards down the Hamble River, however, it became clear this wasn't going to work. Peter had been hanging out in the hulls, adjusting the bilge pumps to ensure they ridded us of water with the greatest possible efficiency (with the result that we'd almost got rid of it all after only about twenty minutes), and had noticed a fresh, exciting new problem.

'Change of plan,' he told me briskly, emerging from the saloon smelling of diesel. 'We need a mechanic. The starboard engine's leaking coolant.'

Sure enough, the starboard engine's overheating warning alarm kicked in almost immediately. There's nothing like a shrill, impossibly loud ringing in your ears to heighten your sense of urgency. I turned us straight in towards the nearest marina - thankfully this was just to our left - and slowed us down, knowing from experience that engines have a habit of stopping altogether if they start overheating. Peter poured our entire two litre supply of drinking water into the engine, the alarm stopped assaulting our ears, and, crossing our fingers all the way that our remaining engine would keep on chugging, we limped into the marina and docked without crashing (not a given with only one working engine). We'd made it perhaps half a mile from the ship.

Me, hanging out on deck while waiting for the mechanic, looking unreasonably chilled,
probably due to the much-needed Starbucks I'm drinking

The marina, entertainingly, told us that we weren't the first boat from that ship making an emergency stop, and the mechanic we called told us we were the fourth.

We'd hoped that we might still be able to make it to Emsworth that day, but the mechanic couldn't make it to us until half past six, and it quickly became clear that our boat wasn't going anywhere that night. We were there late into the evening while two mechanics cursed at our engines - inexplicably, the port engine, which had refused to start altogether while we were beside the ship, started working spontaneously, while the starboard engine was now the problem - and eventually, once our engines were finally fixed, decided to get a taxi home, collapse for the night, and get the train back early next morning. We pumped out the water that had trickled in while we were sitting at the marina and went home.

The idea was that we'd get some sleep, but lingering stress and nerves resulted in a night spent wakeful and restless for both of us. We left shortly after six the next morning extremely sleep-deprived and wishing only to get the day over with.

It was surprisingly cold, for a sunny day, and progress was painfully slow. We had two engines running - we should have been moving at seven knots - but we felt lucky to make five. We'd expected to reach Emsworth at noon, right at high tide, when we had the greatest possible room for manoeuvre, but at this rate we wouldn't make it at all. Emsworth Yacht Harbour has a sill at its entrance to keep the water in at low tide, meaning that we had maybe two hours after high tide to enter. If we kept up our current rate, we might just make it. Might.

Motoring up the Emsworth channel

As we reached the entrance to Chichester Harbour, we started to feel a little less anxious. Our speed crept up, with less of a current holding us back, and the air grew warmer. We joined a line of boats sailing up towards Emsworth, spotting familiar landmarks and thinking how strange it was to be in a boat again on such a familiar patch of water.

We reached Emsworth Yacht Harbour with minutes to spare, and held our breath as we passed through the extremely narrow entrance, as if it would make our boat slimmer, or shallower. Carefully, and highly conscious of the boats behind us waiting to get in, I steered her towards the nearest pontoon, where the harbourmaster awaited us, and got her safely alongside, breathing a premature sigh of relief.

Peter went up to the bow to talk to the harbourmaster, but from where I was, with engine noise in my ears, I couldn't hear a word. They didn't seem to be securely tying us in place, though.

'What's going on?' I asked when Peter headed back towards me, while the harbourmaster was still standing on the pontoon clutching one of our ropes.

'We're being hauled out now. It's too windy tomorrow,' he explained.

'What?!' I yelped. I was not mentally prepared for this. I thought I'd had another entire day to work up the nerve to try and get this beast of a boat into that tiny little slot.

'We're just letting this boat behind us past and then we'll go. Neil' (the harbourmaster) 'will pull you round this first turn.'

An aerial view of Emsworth Yacht Harbour, annotated to give you an idea of what we were doing. Penguin is about 10 feet longer than the pontoon we were on.

In some ways, it was probably a good thing that I had no notice of the change of plan, as it meant I had no time to agonise about it. With some rope-work and judicious use of both engines, we made it round the tight 90 degree turn, and then began moving through the marina towards the slip for hauling out.

'You'll need to spin her round at the end,' Neil called to me, as we passed him on the pontoon. He mimed a 180 degree turn with two fingers.

I stared at him for a second. 'Are you kidding?' It did seem like a genuine possibility.

'No,' he said, looking none too impressed.

'OK then.' There didn't seem to be any other possible response, but I think the squeak in my voice adequately conveyed my misgivings. Sure, this boat can theoretically spin in her own length, but there was a fair wind by this point and very little space indeed.

I made it safely between the row of moored boats and the island, skirting swiftly to port when someone on a nearby boat yelled that there was a shallow patch up ahead (we'd drawn quite a crowd of onlookers already).

Now came the really fun part. I was planning to use the reasonably sizeable patch of water before the slip to spin the boat, but the wind, and our shallow-patch-avoidance-manoeuvre, had carried us too far to port - if I tried to start spinning our back end would hit the boats we were alongside. On the other hand, I was running out of space; if I went too far forward I'd simply be stuck. The wind kept pushing us further to port, and, I confess, I slightly panicked.

'I really don't think I can do this,' I yelled to Peter, acutely conscious of the row of boat owners to my left, keeping very close watch over the ends of their yachts. I knew this wasn't a good idea.

Just as they're starting to lift her

I'm not entirely sure how, but somehow I did manage to get us turning, our stern skimming the other yachts and missing them by a hair's breadth. When we were approximately facing the right way, I reversed towards the guys perched on the edge of the slip with poles to fend us off and push us in the right direction. We needed more pushing than I'd have liked, and the gap was so tight that we had to pull our fenders out of the way when they caused us to get stuck, but we didn't add any new dents to our boat, which seemed liked a pretty major achievement.

Immediately, the team began setting up; with a falling tide they had no time to lose. I skulked off to feed the cats, mildly mortified having panicked in front of what seemed like half the marina. Later, though, when Peter got home, I felt a little less like I'd humiliated myself when he told me about all the onlookers who'd been expressing their amazement that we'd managed to manoeuvre her in there at all.

And all that really mattered was that she was safely ashore - no need to worry about leaks or engines now! We had months to get her seaworthy, and no immediate concerns but the cockroaches the size of mice that had somehow survived the bug bomb Peter had let off back in Tortola.

Best of all, it was a lovely day.

Safely on the hard. The black bags are a very small fraction of all the crap she had on board that we got rid of.