Kilmore Quay to Scilly, 21st - 22nd June 2022
It was 21st June, the day of the Summer Solstice. Midsummer is a bit of a misnomer, as it's not really in the middle of summer, but it is the day with the longest period of sunshine. And the sun really did shine for us.
From the Sunny South-East of Ireland down to the Isles of Scilly is about 130 miles (nautical ones, remember - that's something like 150 land miles). We normally plan to do 6 knots, so it was going to take us about 22 hours. This is the longest single stretch so far on the Two Summers circumnavigation, beating the 110-mile passage from Wells to Whitby back in May 2021.
Coming out of Kilmore Quay, we passed between the Saltee Islands, a pair of low-lying islets looking idyllic in the sunshine. There was barely enough wind to ruffle the surface of the sea, so we were motoring.
Once through the islands we turned our prow southwards and engaged Marvin, the autopilot. On our way down to Scilly, the tide would push us first eastwards then westwards, with pretty much two complete cycles during our passage. Rather than try to correct this sideways motion, the best policy is to allow the boat to go off course one way, only to be brought back again later. In this way the distance travelled through the water is actually less than if you tried to make your course appear as a straight line. The trick is to calculate, or estimate, what heading will combine with all these tidal nudges so as to land you at your destination. Over such a long passage it would be tedious to work this out exactly, so we did an approximate assessment and went for it; we only made a couple of small corrections en route.
There were some light clouds in the sky, but these gradually receded as the land sank below the horizon, and we were all alone on a calm blue sea, beneath a clear blue sky. At times the surface of the sea was glassy smooth, gently undulating but unruffled. Occasionally a tiny bit of wind wrinkled the water, but never enough to sail in.
At about 12.30 a group of about a dozen dolphins came leaping towards the boat, and for at least 20 minutes they sported in the bow-wave. They love to swim right up to the front of the boat, where they can spend a few seconds getting a free ride from the pressure-wave coming off the prow, before they get pushed aside by another dolphin eager to have a go. As they ride the wave, they turn sideways and look up at us with one eye. It's impossible not to imagine that they recognise in us a fellow sentient being. I know that in reality they are vicious hunters, and our delight in seeing them is partly due to the apparent smile on their faces; but still, there is something magical about encounters with these beautiful creatures.
Shortly after they left us we saw another dorsal fin, and the back of an animal much bigger than a dolphin - a whale, possibly a minke. He or she was attended by a couple of dolphins, like motorcycle outriders in a procession.
Later that afternoon we had another meeting with a group of dolphins. Both these and the first lot had many individuals with scratches and scars on their bodies - the result of a brush with propellers, or rocks, or teeth of another dolphin?
This is the Atlantic Ocean. For much of our passage we were out of sight of land, and when we were halfway across, the nearest dry land was well over 50 miles away; though of course there was wet land about 100 metres below us.
To cope with sailing (or rather motoring) continuously for 22 hours, we divided ourselves into two groups or 'watches'. During the daytime (which for this purpose means 8am to 8pm) we did four hours on and four hours off; then at night we did three-hour stints. In this way everyone gets at least a few hours of rest-time.
The sun set at 9.40 pm, blazing gold for a few moments before disappearing over the north-western horizon. It takes a while for it to get completely dark, but when it did we were treated to a spectacle that is almost unknown on land. Away from any hint of light pollution, our view of the stars was breathtaking. The Milky Way was clearly visible as a pale band above our heads; and the stars that could be seen were far more numerous and brilliant than we are used to at home.
We saw very little other shipping during our crossing. During the day we saw one other yacht valiantly trying to sail in the light breeze, and during the night the lights of a handful of ships were seen, none of which came near enough to us to cause concern. A strange red light appeared on the horizon about 2 am, which caused confusion for a few moments until we realised it was the moon rising. While it was still low in the sky it had a spooky orange-red colour, but as it rose this turned to its usual white. Thanks to an app on my phone I identified the two points of light that accompanied it as Jupiter and Mars: one bright and the other more muted.
Near 4 am, when the sky was already beginning to lighten, we saw a flashing white light ahead: the lighthouse on Round Island in the Isles of Scilly. We still had a few hours to go, but our destination was in sight.
As we approached the islands in the morning light, the shapes we could see on shore could gradually be related to the shapes on the charts. We entered New Grimsby Sound, between Tresco and Bryher, went past Hangman Island (complete with a gallows and noose) and found a vacant buoy, where we made fast. It was 6.50 am, ten minutes ahead of our ETA.
It had been a long passage. We had motored the whole way, though for a short time we tried having the mainsail up too, which can help. It had been peaceful and we had been rewarded with some beautiful sights.
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