Blow by blow

Once the rain began, no-one else fancied the walk, so I chose the coast. Where could be more beautiful on a damp and windy February? I drove to the sailing club, to walk the estuary there.

Low tide I was expecting, but there was more mud than I had thought and the boats, although all pointing to windward, were not playing in the wind but nestling in the soft ooze, curlews and oyster-catchers at their rails.

The flooded meadow's flock had made inland to escape the blow, but the next field up held a thousand or two of huddled geese, slowly beaking away at the rough grass that appeared to be their only shelter. A few folk were out braving the elements and as is the way in such weather, we all exchanged mad grins.

Across the stream by bridge and over the spit to meet the full force of the South-Westerly. I ventured over the tide-line - all cuttle bone and wrack, to the slope of the shingle specked today by foam and slammed by the waves driven by gale and tide.

I turned South-East, out along the spit, to enjoy the full force of nature. My feet crunched against the loud wash of waves, the hiss of stones and, when my hood was blown hard against my ear, the percussive ping of rain drops driven into the fabric.

Walking out I took the roughest route, deep shingle and the strongest wind. Occasional respite came from crossing the spit track to gaze over the lake there, where the ridge lifted wind came back down before deciding which way to proceed. At the deepest point of the lake, the moored boats bobbed against their restraints.

For a variety of reasons I had never walked the entire length of the spit (about a mile and a quarter) and, once I had passed my previous best I half decided that today was the right day to do it. I wondered about the wisdom as the castle drew closer. I appeared to be the last person out there and, after fighting the wind and the shingle my legs felt like someone else was in control.

Out to sea the Needles lighthouse was visible in the misty rain and I could see the line of breakers as the seas were forced over the Shingles Bank. Walking the front of the castle for the first time I went far enough to cross the transit of two buoys, North and East Shingles I would guess without a chart to hand.

A few minutes in shelter, a photo and I turned back, lest the rain worsen. I followed the much used path at the lee side of the spit and, other than a span of muddy weed and some loose shingle it was far easier than the path out, although the sounds of high seas just a few yards away were ever present.

The final stretch on the sea wall back to the car allowed the rain to begin to seep through my jeans and I'm sure that as soon as I got into shelter, the rain redoubled its efforts. The light was softening over the estuary's returning waters before I drove home.

Blow me tender

Successional storms sweep the Solent whipping waves up down and across this well-used waterway. This weekend the Beaufort scale leans towards the galey end of the spectrum and our boating is restricted to the river mooring, next the ferry.

Yesterday even the row out to the mooring was a bit of an epic voyage, as despite the wave barrier down-river, the 40-60 knot Southerlies are sufficient to create a wave system on the river itself. In the wind-mill of moored vessels and a swell the inflatable tender feels like a cork in a sink with the plug pulled. A few gusts are enough to cancel the force created by the oars and, back bent we paused episodically, waiting to be pushed backwards.

The tethered boat, once we arrived, was still quite mobile against the ropes and buoyage. After flask-chocolate and a bun and a thorough check above and below we stood on the deck to enjoy the spectacle of the ferry fighting against the wind to leave its ramp and set off back to the Island. I took a brief video on my phone thinking that it was unlikely to convey the sensation of movement and noise, but watching it again on dry land it is obvious that stuff is bobbing up and down quite a bit.

We noticed, after the ferry's departure that there was a cruiser, down river of us on the same mooring line, that was sideways to the wind and, apparently, unmanned. Weighing the threat of an escaped boat in the harbour against the upwind row to check it out, I decided it was possible to have a look. So we made fast and had a brief, windy reconnoitre. The bow-line had obviously snapped, but with no suitable line evident to remedy this we had to make to shore and report it. Fortunately the sailing club still had a rib in the water and sent three strong chaps to sort it out.

This morning broke bright, with gusty overtones. Flocks of jackdaws and seagulls wheel in the blue. No sign of yesterday's damp and ragged cloud.

Misdirection

Too many door signs.
I'll make one. "Here be dragons"
We'll see who reads them.

A reliable cycle?

Almost without fail, every three or four years, the high water pressure that arrives at my house eventually blows out the flexible hose connecting the cold water feed to my washing machine. Ever since I installed the plumbing 20 years ago, turning off the stop-tap on the washing machine feed has been getting more and more difficult.

Roughly 38 years since buying my first washing machine I have had to shell out for my third. I did consider the alternative of spending a hundred pounds and a day fixing the old one, but I had become a bit bored with its mechanical foibles and fancied a change. The old one, even with refreshed motor brushes, would occasionally refuse to operate (normally aborting a programme after just a few minutes), when asked to rinse it would leak. The killer blow was the disintegration of the drum bearing to the extent that cycles would halt immediately at random times with a loud thump and the whole machine would leap within the confines of its den.

The change of machine necessitated a battle with the stop-taps of course. The hot would slow to a drip, but the cold would not turn off. These tap connector devices are not helped by having levers of plastic all of three quarters of an inch long. Neither does it help that they are installed (rather cunningly I though 20 years back) right against the wall behind the sink unit. So I turned off the kitchen supply entirely and waited for the delivery.

It had occurred to me in the time between ordering a new machine and its arrival that it might be a single cold feed machine, but I hadn't bothered to check, in the hope that ignoring a problem would make it go away. The replacement is of course a single feed machine, so I had to redouble my efforts on the hot tap, eventually reducing the drip to a negligible level (I hesitate to say it has stopped entirely).

On a more cheerful note, my house it returning to a more acceptable level of laundry cleanliness. I even tested the wool setting on a couple of jumpers that hadn't seen soap yet this winter.

A turn for the better. (Lewmar 24 service)

I spent about three hours cleaning and lubricating one of the 30 year old Lumar 24 winches off the boat ready to either sell or refit it. Much of the time was faff: wandering back and forth to the garden to wash parts in paraffin, etc. But there was a job I had to ask the Internet about and since I didn't find a good answer, here is an uncharacteristic tutorial.

How to get the shaft key out of a Lumar 24 winch.
Here are a couple of pictures showing first the key and secondly the hole it fits. I didn't think to take a picture while it was stuck, and I was too greasy during reassembly.

The advice received from the web suggested levering the key using something thin. Nope. Doesn't work. I tried that and broke off the tail of a Swann Morton blade in the gap. The technique is to hit it - more precisely to drift it out from one side. I would have to recommend the use of a"soft faced drift", realistically half a clothes peg or the like, but I have to admit I used a cross-head screwdriver that I hit with a substantial pair of pliers.

The rest of the job was simple and self evident, although I have heard tell of folk struggling with the initial split ring. Just hook the tapered end out of the slot with a fine screwdriver, or a finger nail if you have any, and then chase the ring from the slot by following the gap created, clockwise until the whole ring is free of the slot and falls over the gunwhale.

I must add a bit of advice to those of you who consider winch maintenance to be a simple question of adding an extra layer of grease every year. Do take the time to strip down and clean from from time to time. The original grease stuck to the main spindle was doing very little good after 30 summers of heat, sailing seasons, water, grime and hair. I found it to be a gentle pleasure handling such a well made device of stainless steel and brass, especially now it has a single brand of clean grease and light oil on the pawls.

After all this service, the signs of wear are minimal. A bit of a shine on the outsides of the pawls, a little patina where the rough cast faces have ingrained oil stains. These mechanisms were only removed to obtain the ease of self-tailing replacements. I may yet decide to use one to replace the main winch since these 24s are dual action.

Electromechanical empathy

I am of the generation that lived through the emergence of the CD player as the dominant vector of music reproduction in the home; stuck then somewhere between the gramophone and the Spotify era. Brothers in Arms was not my first disc; probably my third.

I still use my venerable Technics SL-P220 attached to a tuner/amp of a subtly earlier time in my dining room.

The news, already absorbed from a BBC iPlayer radio app, had saddened me, as it has so frequently this year so far. I thought to regain some cheer by playing the Madness Terry Wogan jingle from disc 2 of The Business over breakfast. Uncharacteristically the machine took a half dozen attempts to actually play. I could only sympathise with how it felt.

Ducks in and out

A ferry was just leaving the ramp as I balanced first on one leg and then the other to don nautical clothing and boots behind the car. Carrying just a waterproof bag, oars and the pump I stepped down onto the pontoon to find the last week of rain in the tender, all six inches of it. Fortunately, this gave enough weight to allow the transom to overflow when the bow was lifted and I soon had the clear fresh water tipped into the muddy brackish water flowing out the river with the tail of the tide.

The breeze wanted to push me onto the moorings until I met the main channel, where I had to row back towards the line of boats to avoid the ferry terminal. Our yacht was fine, rain washed and secure. A cup of water in the bilges from wind-blown rain entering the vents, slightly low on electricity because the new orientation angles the solar panel poorly for the low winter sun.

Not much moving on the water, although it seems pleasant when the sun shines. As I ready the tender to return to shore the ferry looms back into view; shy of me today? I could have taken the same photo that I took two weeks ago, but without the ice.