16th June 2021
The Pentland Firth is one of the most notorious stretches of water in the British Isles. The tide moving between the Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea tries to squeeze itself into a gap only six miles across. The result is that this area has the second-fastest tidal streams in the world. At times it can reach speeds at least twice as much as the fastest Goldfinch could ever hope to make even with engine at full revs. Furthermore, in some parts of these waters there are tidal races known locally as 'roosts' such as the curiously-named 'Merry Men of Mey' (which sounds more like a troupe of Morris men than a danger to shipping). In such places, the fierce tidal stream meets a particular contour in the seabed, causing dangerous breaking seas that can be extremely hazardous to all kinds of vessels, not only little sailing yachts. The Orkney and Shetland Sailing Directions published by the Clyde Cruising Club, on the page dealing with the Pentland Firth, has warnings printed in red.
So you have to pick a day when the weather is benign, and get your timing right.
Fortunately for us, such a day arrived. The advice in the books, combined with advice from Wick's harbourmaster, gave us a suitable departure time, a surprisingly civilised 2pm.
About twelve miles up the coast from Wick is Duncansby Head, a promontory a few miles to the east of John O'Groats. The trick is to be there when it is high water at Wick: that way the tidal stream will be slack most of the way across the Firth and you stand a good chance of getting across without being swept away by the phenomenal power of the sea. For about an hour we tried to sail, but we were not making enough progress to meet our appointment with Pentland, so the motor had to go on.
We arrived off Duncansby Head at just the right time and started to cross the Firth. By now the wind had dropped to a very gentle force 4 from astern, as had been promised by the forecast. The waves were not big, but the sea had a confused quality, and we could feel Goldfinch's keel being nudged in all directions. Away in the distance we could see a ketch sailing from east to west, making slow but postive progress.
It took about an hour to cross the Firth. We passsed between the southern tip of South Ronaldsay and the small island of Swona, and then up through Hoxa Sound and into Scapa Flow.
Scapa Flow is effectively an inland sea, with only a few points connecting it to the outside. On a map of Britain it looks like just a speck in the middle of the smudge that represents the Orkneys; but up-close it is surprisingly big: around eight miles from north to south at the widest point, and twelve miles across. It was in these sheltered waters that the Royal Navy had their base during the two World Wars, and it was here that the Germans deliberately sank their fleet in 1919, fearing that the ships would be seized by the British.
Surrounding Scapa Flow are the islands themselves: mostly green, fairly low-lying land, with gentle hills. To the west, the towering hills of Hoy are prominent, rising far higher than the rest of the landscape. As we motored across towards Stromness, the water was silky smooth, with barely a breath of wind to disturb it. It was a magical moment.
It was early evening. We dined on some very welcome lasagne while underway, sitting on deck and gaping at the scenery. A few largish ships and an oil rig were anchored in Scapa Flow to the east of us. On the island of Flotta, nestled on the east coast of Hoy, there is an oil terminal; we passed close by SPM No.2, a structure in the water where ships can unload their oil and have it pumped ashore via an underwater pipe.
And then we were in Hoy Sound, and Stromness was in sight. By half past eight in the evening we were in the marina, all fast. It had been a good day.
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