Still, playing

From the hush of a mooring by Buckler's Hard and on the first pull of an ebbing tide we followed a million small jellyfish down-river before the heat of the day began. A few other boats joined us. Some in a hurry; some just enjoying the free ride to the mouth

The air was still, the only wind apparent from our engine's gentle chug with the flow. We had hopes that the Solent would offer some power to our sails, but the last few trees and bushes before the shingle spit opened to the South stood in a silent pantomime of the prevailing wind, the Marcel Marceaux of Westerly gusts.

Past the sailing club; past the point where the ebb pulls the river South over the spit; following the posts out in silhouette against the rising sun (cans and cones now). Up to the lighthouse and then the channel out to round the Beaulieu Dolphin to starboard. The sun's intensity increased; the wind never even fluttered. We motored all the way to Lymington. That was quite enough engine use for one weekend.

At neaps, the flow past Lymington is quite sedate. Even so, we were in no hurry to actually arrive (other than an increasing desire to stand under a cool shower) and navigated on about 2/3 tide to 1/3 engine while the over-nighters decided to leave their berths before the noon deadline. There was a slow flow of leaving boats as we approached; sleepy Sundays and a few waiting for the breeze to make a show maybe. Just at the moment we cut inside the port buoy and headed in there was a degree of chaos reigning. Ribs towing toys, motor cruisers and yachts were jockeying for position to leave or refuel. We hung by the starboard post until we could see water between the obstacles and got quickly waved to a simple, starboard-to finger berth.

We cooked, we washed and some small amount of tidying and mending went on. We kept in the shade as much as possible until mid-afternoon when, at last, there seemed some chance of moving air; flags were seen to flutter, but still the only sails in the Solent were North, using the sea breeze to sail. As our short-stay time expired we could wait no longer and so set out again. By the last mooring buoy outside we turned 180 degrees to raise a hopeful main; the genoa went out and for a while we made a couple of knots with an angle to vector across to Lymington starting platform with the end of the rising tide.

That was almost the best of the wind that we saw all day, but not wishing to admit defeat we stuck with it; occasionally taking a broad reach due West to keep the window into the river open. Lyminton Bank, off to port, for quite a long time; a Beneteau on jib crosses us, aiming way off in the tide and turned on his engine ten minutes later; we watch numerous boats of assorted sizes motor in the river. There are several episodes of power-boating idiots passing at full speed; these come in small groups, leaving chop that flaps our flaccid sails. At Baverstock I drop the main, the wind now too far astern to make the main easy to sail. The genoa does all the work up to about the fourth port mark where we cut back into the channel from the shallows. Still maintaining over a knot, we have enough control to stay on the port side, out of the way of a ferry leaving for the Island. I cut straight for the last starboard mark on the entrance channel; anyone on engine can just get out of the way, though I time my traverse to be polite. A yacht on engine realises what we are doing and gives a thumbs-up.

One more mark before the lake. I cut again across the shallow corner towards the first mooring buoy and, as we turn East, I have to tack the genoa. I take the opportunity to start to furl it too. The last buoy before our mooring has a boat that is across the channel and I turn around its stern, testing the amount of control the rudder has at this slow speed and with an unknown amount of flow (has the tide turned here yet?). The final swing to starboard almost hits the mooring buoy and stalls us in what turns out to be slack water. We pick-up; tie off.

Not playing

Drumming, like the fingers of a dozen teenagers all bored in the same instant interrupts my reverie. The rain has come; the washing is on the line.

I rush, bare footed, up the path already polkadotted with drops, stepping over a slick steel drain cover. In the sky a small grumpy cloud eclipses the garden. I begin to gather in the near-dry laundry, pushing pegs (necessitated by the breezy conditions) into my pockets. The rain stops.

I glare at the cloud; it glowers back. I tentatively start to spread out the sheet I was pulling on and replace the pegs. A few drops fall, then a few more. I gather half the items from the line and the rain ceases, the small cloud is crawling past.

Uncertain, I return indoors with the items that seemed driest, although they still need airing. The path is wetter than the garden, but the sky is brightening. After ten minutes and no further rain, I restore the clothes to the line and find something else to do.

The forecast for the day says showers will die out towards the evening, so I expect to get my laundry dry eventually. I return to my office and my earlier thoughts. From time to time a half dozen teenagers set to with the fingers again, but I'm not playing.

That drinking earth

We interrupt this occasionally baking sun to bring you severe gales and rain curtains with a variety of raindrop sizes and wetness. It is nice to play indoors without the garden guilt though.

We let the boat dry out over the weekend, largely because a new shaft anode was needed. All looks well below the waterline. Waiting for the tide to do its cycle we also had time for other, more routine maintenance, such as an engine oil change, a bit of wood cleaning, a gel-coat repair. It is hard to fully relax and enjoy the wild weather, knowing that she will be bobbing about rather violently on her mooring, but, first world problems.