Sail in Stunning Northumberland

KWSC News Articles

(Article from July 2004)

Alec Mamwell's 100 Best Sailing Days (Minus 90)

The other night I finished gardening and came in with a view to having a brew and watching the box. As usual there was nothing that really caught my fancy and, almost by chance, I ended up watching one of those “hundred best” programs. It could have been about the hundred best left handed opening batsmen for all I remember but with our esteemed editor soliciting copy, any copy, a connection was made and the germ of an idea created. The literature of some of the sports that I am involved with - climbing, skiing and walking - are littered with articles that have similar lists. Indeed they seem something of a national phenomenon at present and I thought in that case I might as well have a list and that it might as well be about sailing.

One hundred seemed a great deal and, given that it would probably be beyond the scope of my memory, the reader’s patience and the space available you will see from the title that I have curbed the original idea somewhat. I had thought originally to write simply about racing situations but that seemed too narrow and of limited interest so the list is a little bit wider and cheats a bit because it involves some actual “sails” which have been duplicated at various times with equally pleasant results which are mentioned in the article.

So for what it is worth and bearing in mind that next week it could be completely different here is my list:

OUT FROM NEWLYN

It had taken the best part of a week to drift down the Irish Sea and round Lands End. The engine had been well used and we had had many opportunities to catch up on maintenance. I hoped never to see another wire brush and my knuckles agreed with me. The trip had been, so far, well removed from the advertised excitement and adventure but nevertheless we had managed to swagger ashore in Penzance as if we had crossed the Atlantic in wild weather. Most of us chose to wear our navy blue sweaters with “Sir Winston Churchill” emblazoned across our chest. In 1967 the words were perhaps more significant than today and there is no doubt that pride played a part in dictating our fashion sense as, like many before, we headed for the bright lights in search of entertainment and refreshment.

The next day, especially for those who had not over indulged, was a cracker. Sun and fluffy clouds as we took the schooner to sea on the afternoon tide in a brisk North Westerly. Newlyn quickly receded as we set full sail and creamed across Mounts Bay and out past the Lizard. The mainsail alone was 2,000 sq. feet and the boat responded to our display of canvas averaging 8 knots. This was more like it!

As we headed south into the Channel bound for Cherbourg the wind shifted into the North and increased in strength. It was dusk when we handed the Square Topsail and proceeded under fore and aft sails alone. Our Gaff Topsails followed shortly afterwards as the wind and following seas continued to build. Average speed was now 10 knots and rising. There was something definitely exciting about sailing at this speed on a dark night and when it came my turn to take the helm about 11 o’clock the experience became much more intense. The only thing I could see was the light of the compass but I could feel the boat through the wheel and my feet. The wind by this time was well into Force 6 and as I struggled to maintain the course we were sailing you could feel the boat lift on the waves and surge forward. Not bad for a vessel over 100’ long and well over 100 tons. At times we were touching 12 and occasionally 14 knots and although the boat was well balanced it was a mighty struggle to maintain the proper course. When I was relieved after half an hour I was ringing with sweat and ready to stand down. Normal stints were an hour long and nowhere near as exhausting as this one. Although this list is in no particular order helming the “Sir Winston” at this speed on a pitch black night and feeling it surf down the waves has to be my personal number one.

LAST TWO DAYS OF THE OSPREY NATIONALS 1997

Pwllheli is one of the great venues - open water, minimal tide and great views back to the mountains of Snowdonia. After 4 days of our first Osprey Nationals when the sailing had been pleasant if unremarkable we suddenly discovered on the fifth that it had waves and once adjusted we began to relish the thrill of driving the Osprey off what felt like the top of a house into the next trough. We swam several times as the waves tripped us up but the downwind legs on the last two days of this event opened our eyes to the thrill of racing the Osprey in a seaway. There might be many faster boats on the market nowadays but, I suspect, few that can deal with big conditions in open locations as well as an Osprey. If someone had not lathered the boat with sufficient lubricant to make standing up impossible we might have enjoyed the first 4 days too!

MORECAMBE BAY BLAST

Walk the course then sail it goes the old wisdom with respect to competing at Morecambe - sometimes with tragic results for the unwary. Once a very popular holiday resort and sailing venue Morecambe has fallen on hard times and very few experience the unusual method of approaching the launching spot dragging a boat along the main road and then the promenade. At one time the club boasted a fleet of 20 Ospreys racing regularly on the bay and at various times in recent years we have returned as a class to try and kick start some modern enthusiasm. The first time I sailed a dinghy on the sea was at Morecambe in about 1962 and I was impressed. In more recent times this had not been the case and on our last visit with just the last race to go I still thought it a mediocre venue at best.

For the last race however they sent us, after a short beat and a reach alongside the “prom”, right out into the middle of the bay on a very broad reach. We were struggling to keep up with a well sailed RS400 and hold off an equally well sailed Scorpion and not particularly enjoying the situation. However once we turned the corner right out in the middle of the bay circumstances changed rapidly. We were so far out we could hardly see Morecambe. It was just a detail in a view that swept North along the Pennines from Winter Hill and Darwin Tower, past the Bowland Hills and Ingleborough to the Howgills before swinging west to include all the southern Lakeland Fells as far as Black Combe. Better still the wind had picked up to a good force 5, the sun was out and, as Ian lowered his adjusters, the Osprey came into its own on the long beat back. We quickly overhauled the RS400 driving under his lee as they hiked with vigour but to no avail. As we rode “Jennifer” over the waves admiring the view and watching the other boats recede from view everything felt just right. Although we were working hard the boat had taken over and was doing the business without us. Unfortunately for “Jennifer” all good things come to an end and as we approached the windward mark and the short blast to the finish by the “prom” we let her down by getting the tide and the shifts wrong and had to settle for 3rd place on handicap behind the Scorpion and a Contender. Position did not seem to matter on this occasion. It would have been a privilege to sail this course with these conditions and come last. We had also been given a timely insight into why Morecambe was once such a popular venue. We will definitely be back.

DAM TO DAM

Kielder Water is a fabulous place to sail and I think our members are extremely lucky to have access to such a venue throughout the year. Not least of it’s attractions for me is the size of the place and the fact that once you sail past Leaplish you could be in a different world. It provides the scope for not only long distance racing which we exploit regularly but also great cruising with just a hint of excitement. Similarly a lazy day pottering up to Leaplish for a drink or an ice cream can be just the panacea for a difficult week at work.

I have many vivid and usual pleasant memories associated with sailing the length of the lake although the one where I was becalmed up near 14 for three hours in the pouring rain is not at the top of these. Just when I thought it could not get any worse my pipe, tobacco and lighter fell into the puddle in the bottom of the boat. I arrived back just as the sun was going down and although Ken would have been proud of me these were not the sentiments expressed by Angela when I eventually returned home!

Some years ago there was mild sunny day in early March on my midweek day off. I suddenly had the urge, the first of the year, to go sailing so I threw the gear in the car and set off. The only boat available, given the time of year, was my old Finn. This was the “Black Pig” for those who remember and is now enjoying a far more apposite life as a planter outside the Anglers Arms in Kielder Village. Although the sun was out there were low clouds hugging the forest which, as I sailed up the lake drifted out onto the water. At times when I sailed into the cloud they were so thin that you could still see a hint of sun and everything was suffused in a golden glow. The whole experience was surreal and disorientating particularly up past Hawkhirst and, after going to Bakethin, was further enhanced when a Hercules started to fly low over the Lake and in and out of the clouds. I pondered whether my identification had been correct, whilst exploring the creeks around Leaplish, as the plane kept flying very low over the water and I had recently read something about Sunderland Flying Boats and their conservation. I decided that a course along the shore might be prudent! After a few more passes though the plane disappeared and I enjoyed a series of planning reaches back down the lake fully motivated for the new season. As a postscript it was a sad day when the Finn was retired because you can go places on the lake where you wouldn’t dream with a decent boat. One of the most unusual that we did together was to sail up the Lewis Burn under the bridge and out of sight. It took time but we went right up to where the burn was running over cobbles. What a pity you can’t sail uphill! (Also incidentally the island by the bridge is a great picnic spot with some convenient reeds for beaching the boat)

The best memories of sailing the length of the lake are, for me, associated with racing. Not in “Mickey Mouse” conditions but when a full on westerly boomer is coming through. Broad reaching back down the lake from the corner at Leaplish with the kite in the Osprey set heading for 2,3,4,5,or 6 and home is always something else. Ask those who sailed as recently as last weekend. Sometimes you even get the chance to race, and overtake, the ferry! Yes we are very lucky.

UNDERNEATH THE ARCHES

Racing in the North Sea with a boat that leaks and, after a capsize, comes close to sinking is not a recommended pursuit. You are haunted by a, probably irrational, fear that if anything goes wrong you could end up in Norway or Denmark. Several years ago however we found ourselves sailing at Royal Tay in a blustery north easter with just these fears. The Chairman of the Osprey Association had agreed with the Club that we should sail the Centenary Course for our second race. This took us to a mark off Broughty Ferry and then down the Tay to go under the road bridge and do a couple of triangles between this bridge and the more infamous railway bridge before coming back under the first bridge and heading back to the finish off the clubhouse.

Fifteen Osprey set off behind a fleet of Cruisers and Squibs and as we beat up to Broughty Ferry we managed to fill up with water. Not a good start or indeed one calculated to give any peace of mind and we rounded the windward mark a good last. On the long run down to the bridge with a following tide we got some respite but on the start of the first reach of the triangle we realised that this had been an illusion and the wind was very strong. Near the end we broached and filled up once again. We took the kite down having decided that survival was probably better than disaster and plodded round safely but a little slower than we would have liked. We were definitely not the only ones having trouble and we slowly started to pick off other boats and climb up the fleet. By the time we reached the windward mark the wind was up into force 7 and we were clawing Viola and Mike in Mistral back. Once round we set off on a breath taking close reach towards the prescribed arch of the road bridge intent on catching Vi. Circumstances had, by this time, got a little bit more complicated as we had also caught up the Cruisers and the Squibs. Everyone was trying to sail a direct line for the hole in the bridge and as the faster boats were not prepared to pass to leeward they got squeezed nearer and nearer to the bridge. Now from a distance the cutwaters look to be small but at sea level they are absolutely enormous and as Ian, out on the wire, started to duck every time we went past one I began to get a little concerned. The converging boats, the cutwaters and the wind had also served to create very broken water and an unusual, potential dangerous, wave pattern which could suddenly and without warning knock the boat several feet to windward. Not a good idea when next to cutwater. Just before the right hole this melee of speeding boats came across a rudderless Roger and Davey who had thoughtfully managed to bring their own brand of mayhem to the surrounding chaos. No one, even now, knows how they managed to retrieve their rudder and when quizzed Davey has always smiled enigmatically.

More by good fortune than skill we managed to get under the bridge but a few hundred yards further on the barber hauler pinged out so we sailed the last four miles to the finish, where we could, on the other tack. This intent was easier to say than do especially as close to the line we were short tacking up between the moored boats in a rising wind and 6 knots of tide (I got told off by the yacht club a couple of weeks later for drifting, in my ignorance, through their moorings in a force2!). We managed to hold off a recovered Roger to finish 6th or 7th which was a very satisfactory conclusion to a fascinating and incident packed race which is still talked about on a regular basis by all those who took part.

COSTA DEL NEWBIGGIN

Last year I got the opportunity to sail the “Windward Challenge” at Newbiggin in the Phantom. Unfortunately very few others made the effort and, apart from a little bit of pressure from an RS200 early on the racing was basically a sail over. Nevertheless it was a nice day with a bit of breeze and, as the course took us between the two windmills on the way to the bell buoy half a mile south of Blyth Harbour, not without a bit of fear and trepidation passing under the gigantic scything arms. Once the buoy of the Harbour was reached it was a long run back to a mark 2 or 3 miles out of Newbiggin. The tide was running north so it felt as though the wind had slackened and the leg was so long I struggled to stay awake. However once I gybed at the leeward mark the illusion was displaced because I found myself on super reach with enough wind to plane and waves that were ideal to surf. The glare of the sun hid the remains of Blyth Power Station and the sail hid the Alcan Smelter. Helped by these two facts and from 2 miles out Newbiggin almost looked pretty as I enjoyed a perfect reach back into the bay at one with the sea and the boat. Magic!

BEEN THERE, DONE THAT

Everyone who takes their dinghy racing seriously must dream about winning their class National Championships but, come dawn, they probably see the future more realistically. Indeed many keen and enthusiastic sailors have long and happy careers without winning a race at their Nationals, a Regional Championship, an Open Meeting or even a Club Series.

Two years ago Rob Shaw port tacked the fleet at the Osprey Nationals in Plymouth and his audacity was rewarded with a race win. Now although Rob had been placed in the top10 for individual races and overall he had never won a race at the Nationals in over 30 years of trying. I am not sure whether Rob celebrated that night but his friends from KWSC certainly did.

My chance came much earlier, probably at a time when I was too young to understand the significance. The year was 1965,the place North Berwick and the event the “Graduate” Nationals in the heady days when we all felt that dinghy sailing would continue to grow and when turnouts of less than a hundred were considered poor. I was 15 and coming to the end of the period when I had sailed amiably with my Dad before outgrowing the boat as well as the front end. The signs had been there earlier in the week when the wind was light and the arguments many. By the Thursday the breeze had picked up and a top 10 result had helped to restore moral. On the last day we lined up in a building wind and got a real flyer. Working hard up the beat we established a reasonable lead at the first mark but this had evaporated by the end of the first lap and although we were well in front of the main fleet we were being hard pressed by two other boats who had also broken away. Nothing for it but to work hard in what was now the top end of Force 5. On the beat we left one of the boats for good as he struggled with the heavier conditions but the other one was pushing us very hard and appeared to have better boat speed. At the windward mark he attempted to take advantage of the fact that we had over stood and slip inside but unfortunately for him he misjudged the tide and was swept onto the mark. As crew I loudly let my helm know what had happened but I need not have bothered because these were the days before penalty turns when you retired if you infringed the rules. The boat followed the correct procedure, lowered it’s racing flag and disappeared back to shore as we shot off down the reach on a wild ride. We now had a big lead and worked hard to keep our concentration especially at the gybe mark. Once on the beat again we started to realize how tired we were and how much stronger the wind had become. The contemporary reports said Force 6 gusting 7 and my screaming thighs would have agreed. It seemed as though the mark had moved miles further upwind and we joked that any further and we would be round the Bass Rock. As we approached however we saw the committee boat was flying the shortened course flag and a couple of minutes later we went through the line and received the winning gun. We immediately relaxed and, for our pains, nearly went in. It was however our day and the “Great Pal” spared us this ignominy as we ran back to the beach past the whole fleet still struggling up the beat. One abiding memory of the day was the smell of gun smoke and the view back down the course with over 90 boats behind. Another was the size of Dads grin when he received the “City of Plymouth” Trophy later that evening. It was a fitting climax to a lengthy partnership that came to a close shortly afterwards thanks to increasing weight and cap size.

I always thought I was a better sailor than my Dad but, fair play, he/we/I have never sailed as well since.

A FULL DAY

“It was only 24 hours to Tulsa” sang Gene Pitney in the 60’s (Ask your Dad!). He must have had a premonition regarding the 24 HOUR Race held at Southport on the Marine Lake and hosted by the West Lancashire Yacht Club. This event was initiated in 1967 originally, I believe, as a one off but with such immediate impact and popularity that it quickly became established as an annual race and, for the young of all ages, a glorious opportunity to over indulge in a little bit of what you fancy. For most this meant copious amounts of beer but some got lucky and ended up in the dunes with fellow revellers. My crew, at the time, was another Little, Micky Little, who enjoyed parties and revelled in this all nighter. We were privileged to be selected for Elton Sailing Clubs team in 1967 and 1968 and notched up two good results at second overall and 1st Enterprise both years. I can remember nothing, apart from the “buzz”, with respect to the first event but there was more breeze the second year and, as a consequence the sailing was more memorable. We were pencilled in for a midnight slot and the team was very careful to keep Micky away from the bar. Despite their not too successful efforts we enjoyed a couple of productive hours whizzing round the Marine Lake in the dark and when we changed over in the “Pits” Micky decided it was party time. After a few beers I curled up in my sleeping bag and slept under the stars. The next time I saw Micky he looked as though he had been to a really good party and there were some blatant clues, such as a pint in his hand and a girl on his arm, that it was still underway. Team planning at this stage indicated that we might not be needed again and Micky took this as an opportunity to carry on enjoying himself. The wind was building however and we were asked to sail the final slot. At least it would have been we if only we could have found Micky. The whole Elton team spent the next 10 minutes frantically searching the site for him until he was located emerging, rather sheepishly, from behind a sand dune with the aforementioned young lady. There was just time to throw him into his wetsuit and some coffee down his throat before we were bundled into the boat and set off to the next mark. For the best part of two hours he moaned and groaned about his head, his guts, his bladder and made it clearly known that life was not pleasant. Perversely we appeared to be sailing well and with encouragement from the shore kept driving the boat forward as fast as we could. This obviously had a beneficial effect on Micky and he gradually emerged from auto-pilot mode and began to take an interest in proceedings. As a consequence we began to pick up the tempo even more and Micky became enthusiastic. In the normal course of events this might have been useful but often enthusiasm, fuelled by beer is not always channelled in exactly the right place and there were signs that if the race did not finish soon we would probably be swimming. Fortunately after a particularly wild gybe the hooter to signal the end was sounded and we set off on a reach to the finish. Micky, who by this time seemed to be on a different planet, launched himself over the side completely missing his toe straps. A sober person would have fallen out but with the luck saved for those who are inebriated he managed to hang on to the jib sheet. I quickly sat on the nearest bit of his body still in the boat and we sailed flat out for the line which we duly crossed in a cloud of spray partially occasioned by the fact that Micky was more out than in the boat. Five yards later he fell out and when I had fished him out and returned to shore he was off like an Olympic sprinter. A few minutes later he reappeared with a grin on his face and a pint in his hand. “I needed that - and this” he said as the pint never touched the sides. A short while later at the prize giving we discovered that we had won a stopwatch for the fastest lap over the 24 hours and, being positive thinkers, always reckoned that it was the one where Micky had put that little bit extra into keeping the boat flat!

GO FOR IT

Green Withens Sailing Club no longer exists and the clubhouse is now used by a windsurfing school. At one time however it was celebrated as one of the venues on the Scorpion circuit guaranteed to provide wind. The club was situated near where the Pennine Way crosses the M62 and at well over 1,000’ it is easy to see why this was the case. Arriving for their annual open sometime in the mid 70’s we were met by a real howler and it was obvious that we would have some full on sailing. Boats were going over before the start and the first beat was a real struggle. When we rounded the first mark their were half a dozen boats in front and none, despite there being several National Champions amongst them, had set their kites. “Get it up” I said to Mick my crew at the time. Now it would be unfair to say that Mick never thought deeply about decisions in the boat but he had been a squaddy for a decade and was conditioned to responding without question. “Right” came the response and up she went with a resounding and satisfying crack. Mick laid paving slabs for a living in civvy street and despite being vertically challenged could hang on to anything and, once again, did just that with the kite. We tore off to the leeward mark and our actions had obviously galvanised the leaders into action as other kites started to show. Unfortunately he who hesitates is sometimes lost and the gust that sent us past the clubhouse at high speed and in the throws of a prolonged and extremely impressive death role ripped through the fleet just at the wrong time and completely skittled them. Two masts were broken and chaos reigned. Needless to say we joined the swimmers at the leeward gybe mark and noted that we were the last to remain upright. Before we recovered another boat came past but we followed them round to record a second place - our best to date in the Scorpion Fleet. Few ventured out for second helpings and we followed the other boat round again to record another second before the meeting was abandoned. Thus we were second overall in a fleet where normally we would have been happy with an 8th or 9th all because we went for it.

The moral must therefore be something like “if you’ve got it - use it” although , as a cautionary note, I can tell you from experience that this policy is not always successful!

ROMANTICS AFLOAT

In the 60’s even though we’d never had it so good disposable income was nowhere near the levels of today and, despite a boom in leisure pursuits such as dinghy racing, sailing was still seen as an elitist hobby. Asking a young lady if she would like to come sailing was a novel and sometimes very productive gambit which sometimes lasted right up until the lass in question actually got into the boat.

I came to the conclusion that it was probably wise not to issue such invites if you wished to carry on “seeing” a particular young lady.

Thus, it was with a sense of foreboding that, shortly after we were married, I suggested to Angela that we buy a boat. We could not afford much and paid just over £300 for a 9 year old wooden Scorpion which, given it was a Westerly and had been stored under cover for a number of years, I felt would be a suitable project to upgrade over time.

So it proved and was a much better buy than the suite the money had been intended for originally. Our early sails stuck to white sails only and we saved the spinnaker trial for a slightly bigger lake than our own club. We chose Coniston and a fresh northerly as a good place for our first attempt. The sports plan was to hoist the kite at the top of the lake and use it to get us to the bottom. We got it up and quickly discovered that all the blocks and gear would need renewing if we were to raise and lower it in race conditions. Towards the bottom of the lake we got hit by a gust and decided to drop it - right under the boat. There was considerable dramatic debate as to who was at fault before we managed to rescue it from the centreboard, centreboard case and finally rudder and bring it in over the stern. By this time we were nearly at the bottom of the lake and became aware of an old hulk tucked in a corner. We went over for a look and scout around. This was our first encounter with the Gondola which today, in it’s restored condition, ploughs majestically up and down Coniston Water.

After this adventure and the Open Meeting a few days later we came to a unanimous decision, like many before us, that it was probably not such a good idea for husband and wife to sail together. Thirty years later time has been kind to us and now we can sail and race together if we want. On my part I remember this sail as a window into a different time when we were young, had no kids and no wrinkles. As a consequence every time I see the Gondola these good memories stir.

Nostalgia apart to sail the length of Coniston on a good day guarantees great sailing and great views and I suspect that whatever might end up on my top ten there would always be one entry from this venue.

So there it is - my personal top ten as it stands a this moment in time. I hope that I have been able to share some interesting times with you which might also give you some ideas for the future or indeed inspire you to write about your own experiences and share them with us through the newsletter. We are participants in a fantastic sport that can be taken at many levels and we met some great people along the way. Writing this has reminded me of many characters and incidents that have made my life much richer and I look forward to the rest of my sailing career with eager anticipation.

Alec Mamwell

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