Going for a Sail: A Voyage of Love and Lust
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This was written a long time ago. It's not without its faults. Some may not like the first person narration. It might be a touch saccharine.
I considered changing things but have decided to just put it out there as it was written. To let it go.
Copyright of the author reserved.
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"Would you like to come on an adventure with me?"
We were lying on the bed, your head on my chest, your left leg draped across my thighs and fingers idly caressing my arm. It probably wasn't the first thing you expected me to say in the lingering glow of our lovemaking. During the ten minutes or so after reaching the heights we had simply left our communication to the non-verbal.
"Yes." That one unhesitating word spoke volumes, telling me that so long as it was with me you would do just about anything.
After a long pause, extended by the fact that you were kissing me softly along my collarbone, your curiosity got the better of you. "So, what's the adventure?"
"A sail to France."
"Wow. How long will we need?"
"Five or six days. I know that might be a tough call on the childcare front. It's just something I'd really like to share with you."
"I'd like to share too. I'm sure we can sort something out."
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The previous summer I had introduced you to my passion, well, the other passion at any rate. You had taken to sailing like a duck to water if that's not making things too watery. I can't say I was especially surprised given two things I knew about you. First, that you are ever determined to succeed at what you put your mind to and second, you are a good driver. A boat is a very different creature from a car on a road in many respects but it's a vehicle, driven by a person. Aside from the addition of a spaghetti factory of ropes, just like a car. Sort of.
My boat wasn't big, it wasn't fancy or luxurious but it was mine and I loved it. Boats, as every real sailor will tell you, if they're being honest, have personalities. It starts with having a name, Petrel in the case of my old Sadler 25. They acquire animate qualities and demand affection and respect. Oh, and they are always, always female. Of course, in a contest you'd probably come out on top, probably.
Despite your initial uncertainty borne of unfamiliarity you had come out on a couple of day sails with me since the first foray. I had tried to choose warm, gentle days that would make things fun but not too exciting. Whilst I might quite like the thrill of bashing into short, sharp, grey waves on a cold November weekend, getting soaked by spray, I had an intuition that conditions like that would be unlikely to win you over to the joys to be had from messing about in boats, sailing boats.
This trip was a different proposition to any of those days. Sailing is great fun; sailing across the sea to a foreign land is a true adventure. In this age one can board a tube with wings and be transported to anywhere in the world in a matter of hours with no real sense of distance, of truly travelling. A train ride to Europe is a little better but not by much. A road trip can be good if you don't simply join a motorway and keep the right foot down until you arrive. Nothing though can beat the sense of adventure, of achievement in the journey itself, as much as sailing through day and night and finally tying up in a foreign port in time for a well deserved dinner in a dockside restaurant, or breakfast in a pavement cafe. The world looks different when approached from the sea in a small boat. Every arrival feels like a new discovery. I wanted to share these experiences, which had been so important in my life, with you, hoping that you might feel the same thrill.
And so with my enthusiasm imparted to you, you took no persuading to take the plunge and be my First Mate on a trip across the Channel, a jaunt across the sea to 'la belle France'. Not at the narrow end, too busy with ships and too many sand bars for my liking. It might be farther to cross, but from the Isle of Wight to near the Channel Islands is easier on the navigation front and the ships largely form orderly lines of traffic at this point.
We had a week and I thought that was plenty to get over and back with a day or two to potter on the other side.
What had started as a post-coital fantasy sometime in the dark nights of February came around very quickly. Over the preceding weeks I had made sure Petrel was provisioned and ready to go. I had moved her over the course of a couple of day sails from Rye to Lymington, Hampshire. The appointed Friday fell free of court work for both of us, as luck would have it. So, after a morning drive down, we sailed over to Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight in the afternoon and had an early fish and chips supper in The Bugle on Market Square. We gave the ship a last check over and set off in the evening sunshine.
Slipping out through the Needles Channel on the ebb tide, we experienced the strange, slightly eerie, sensation of speeding past the glowing, coloured cliffs of Alum Bay and the white, chalk Needles themselves, whilst only sailing gently through the water; such is the wonder of the tides. In my slightly euphoric state I serenaded you with sea shanties! I had even printed out the lyrics to a few so you could join in. And, if the truth be told, so I wouldn't have to keep repeating the only verses I knew the words to off by heart! I was trying hard to make the experience fun and to distract you from any natural trepidation that might creep in. I think you entered into the spirit and were not just humouring me. No, I knew you did, that infectious smile was plain to see.
As evening advanced, I insisted that we donned waterproofs, lifejackets and harnesses. I didn't want to take any chances even if the weather was set fair. Skipper's rules; no arguments.
Once out of the tidal spate in the Needles channel, the true wind transpired as a steady Force 3, East South East, perfect. Full main and genoa set, more or less on a beam reach, we would be able to average 5 knots without effort. The waves were a reasonable size but benignly rolling rather than foaming white horses and anyway, they would decrease as we crossed into the lee of France and the Cotentin Peninsula in particular.
Once out to the Fairway buoy, we set course for the Alderney Race some 60 nautical miles away. You were to take the first watch. I had the autopilot set so you wouldn't have to steer, just keep a lookout and not fall asleep. You sat at the forward end of the cockpit, under the spray hood and out of the breeze. The standing orders were to step out and scan 360 degrees every 10 minutes, especially checking behind the genoa. I wanted to be up when we approached and crossed the shipping channels in the second half of the crossing. It was a mild night and, wanting to put you at ease, I put one of the long cushions from the saloon and a sleeping bag on the cockpit bench. You had strict instructions to wake me if you were at all concerned, no hesitation for fear of disturbing me. It was a glorious, fiery sunset; the sun appearing to sink into the sea. We half expected a cloud of steam to rise. Then the gradual appearance of fantastic stars with the whole sky just a mass of pinpricks from horizon to horizon. There was no moon initially but it would rise later. Across the sky swept the powerful beams of St Catherine's Head, Needles and Anvil Point lighthouses.
You woke me with a smile in time for the 00:48 shipping forecast, made coffee for me and then I tucked you up. I did offer to get you down below but you wanted to stay up top with me. As I sipped my hot drink I listened to you enthusing about the wonder of sailing through the night, the stars, ships in the distance and the phosphorescence in our wake. I grinned at the success of my seduction. Then you slipped into dream land looking serene.
As we entered the shipping lanes I took the autopilot off to hand steer around potential close encounters. Apart from one small deviation, out of an abundance of caution, it was a quiet night for shipping, no dramas with the behemoth's of the sea. The alien Cap de la Hague glow, thrown far and wide from the intense floodlights at the nuclear reprocessing plant there, dominated the horizon to the south and east of our course. Lighthouses on the French coast and on Alderney swept the sky. With sunrise came the rocky, forbidding countenance of Alderney itself, like a permanently moored battleship. I resolved to take you there some time, maybe on the return trip. Leaving the fortifications of that island to starboard we stepped onto the conveyor belt of the Race. It was on the early ebb, before the full stream had kicked in. Given the smooth water, courtesy of the wind direction, you would hardly believe the fearsome reputation that this patch of water holds. I put out a line with spinner and feathered hooks. A trio of mackerel bit within 30 mins. Fruits de mer for supper.
You woke as the sun gained strength. Kisses were shared. You offered to make breakfast and coffee and I readily acquiesced. Perhaps unsurprisingly you came up looking a bit green but soon settled. Bacon sandwiches, perfect; sea air makes you hungry! Sark appeared in the early morning light, dark and brooding at a distance. As we approached, we could see how it is a plateau raised above the waves. The cliffs all around are cut by indented bays and ravines filled with trees and shrubs. We stood off the coastline skirting the off-lying rocks. The growing warmth of the day caused us to start stripping off the layers, lifejackets and harnesses, oilies. We were down to t-shirts by the time we rounded into Dixcart Bay on the southern side of the island.
Mid-morning found us anchored in the bay, protected from the breeze by the high, steeply sloping land on three sides, the water glassy and sparkling. The engine, which I'd started just in case at the end, went silent. In the peace broken only by the occasional plaintive cry of a seagull I wrapped you in my arms as we stood on the foredeck. With my hand in your hair I tilted your face to mine and we kissed with loving tenderness. The familiar electricity flowed with the enhanced vigour that follows adventure. Suddenly it was hot in the absence of the relentless breeze. I led you back to the cockpit and pulled your t-shirt over your head and did the same with mine. I unclipped your bra and closed my eyes in simple pleasure as your breasts grazed against and then pressed into my chest. The cockpit was facing away from the land, we were hidden behind the spray hood and dodgers, so even if anyone was on the beach 200m away they couldn't see anything. Without speaking we undressed each other completely and then made love, languidly, with you stretched out beneath me on the cockpit bench, this was the consummation of our journey, not with great fireworks just connecting in our own special intimacy. Afterwards, we went down into the cabin to sleep, exhausted and happy. We came to in the mid-afternoon, inflated the dinghy and rowed ashore. A good stretch of the legs was called for so we walked up the gully at the head of the beach, through woodland that could be anywhere in southern England or northern France. Then turned to the left, up onto the isthmus, with dramatic sheer drops either side, linking Sark to Little Sark. Fabulous views stretched out over the rock strewn channels. I knew you could understand the lure of venturing by boat.
