You start out with luck and no experience and hope to get the experience before the luck runs out

popular sailing proverb

With first year drawing to a close, I felt its time for a little summary of the journey to date. And yes, since everybody from the Arabs to the Catholics have come to enjoy their own calendar, this year shall henceforth be known as year 0 of the age of the Republic.

Journey facts:

Months lived aboard: 9
Distance covered: 265 nm
Countries: 3
Ports: 5
Crew members: 5
Uniforms on board: 4
Incidents of sea sickness: 2
Worst hangover: Blankenberge
Best party: Brighton
Belgian waffles consumed: Lots and lots!

Engine failures: 2
MOBs: 0
Max wind: 6 bf
Min wind: 0 bf (duh!)

This photo was taken from Cherbourg castle when MS Queen Elizabeth visited Cherbourg the other day - monster is just visible in the Port de Plaisance below.

We've had a rather soft landing in Cherbourg; the winter rates are comparatively affordable, and I soon found myself some party friends in the form of a crew of international English teachers on Couchsurfing. Not that helpful for immersing self with the Frenchies of course.

Cherbourg facts

Boat projects started: 3 (macerator (shit) pump, bilge pump #2, pressurised water sys)
Boat projects completed: 0
Local friends: 5
French skills: Still pathetic
Parties thrown: 1
Parties attended: 2
Oysters to date: 42

Have a good winter solstice and a happy new year! :)

Ich glaube, jeder Mensch lebt sein eigenes Leben und stirbt seinen eigenen Tod, das glaub' ich.

Jens Peter Jacobsen
I was once again rewarded by an oddly satisfying sense of achievement for having made it to Cherbourg. I guess all that responsibility-bearing stress on what is after all a fairly insane mission culminates in this sense of "it may have been absurd, but at least we survived to tell the tale".

Perhaps a bit like the people who partook in and survived that other famous amphibious invasion.. Ok, ok, we weren't greeted by Nazi armies, but do note the Allies did their landing in mid-summer!

Having arrived in the morning, we slept all day Friday, went out for a few lagers at night, and decided to set off for Guernsey at 0300 Sunday, aiming for Brest or Saint-Malo as an end to my tour with Gebard.

It was still internationally freezing, and I had heard that England was enjoying it's annual stint of full-blown snow chaos. My slight hint of schadenfreude was immediately rewarded when I woke up on Saturday with a sense of something being deeply wrong.

The freezing temperatures and a quick glance out of the captain's cabin portholes confirmed that it had indeed been snowing quite a bit.

Shock horror - snow on deck is NOT my idea of fun.. It brings up snowsport feelings really. I could just see myself sitting around in thawing sludge for hours on end.

We spent Saturday walking around talking about doing pre-departure preparations before somehow settling back into the same bar as the night before. We then mutually agreed that any further sailing under these conditions would not be a good idea at all.

I am now holed up at Cherbourg for the next few months, doing some work on my bits and pieces and hopefully polishing up my pathetic French a bit. There's a bit of a snowstorm raging outside as I'm writing this.

Not all is bad, wine and cheese are much more affordable than in Brighton. In difference to English cheese, they are not all some variation of cheddar either. The local fish shop sells No3 Oysters at EUR 9.50 for two dozen. I have also found a gym, located a bar with good music, and gotten the Internet going. Simple things hey :)

I will be assembling a crew for departure towards Spain in spring - I will send an email around to interested parties. Do keep an eye on the crewing section also.

I spent two long weeks on the guest pontoon at Brighton marina, which is famously known to be a bit of an overpriced dump. Around it, there are "a large Asda supermarket and two groups of boutique shops, restaurants and bars, plus a hotel, a bowling alley, a health club, a casino, and a multiplex cinema with a multi-storey car-park built over and around it", plus "several gated communities consisting of townhouses and apartments" (thanks wikipedia!). The long and short of it being, I was suddenly living in the middle of some type of mall environment, a constant reminder of the late capitalist quagmire Bill Hicks referred to as the "Third Mall from the Sun".

In spite of the lack of organic community, I set out using my tried and tested participative anthropology method, joined the local "david lloyd" gym on a trial, ate asda chickens every day, and sampled all the real ales that were on offer at the local wetherspoon pub in the scope of a CAMRA-sanctioned real ale festival. They actually gave me a t-shirt for my troubles. I was the only true local in my local; most liveaboards were apparently huddled up around the Eberspacher diesel heater I can't afford.

I only went to town on the odd occasion, and depressingly, I had become a stranger in my very own former stomping ground. Luckily I some friends from elsewhere in the country came to lend me their company (thanks Danielle H, Becky C, MJ, James G and Clive!).

Two severe gales, a rebuild of my sprayhood and various miscellaneous repairs later, I was ready to move on. Rescue came forth in the form of Gebard, who flew in from Germany to give me a hand - he also took most of the photos on here. Thanks Gebard! On the night before his arrival however, temperatures crashed by 10° from an autumnlike 12° to their lowest level at this time of year ever. It started snowing in the north of the UK that very night, and when I nearly slipped due to ice on the dock that morning, I knew we were in for a treat.

Coming out of the shower that day, I overheard someone shouting "you saved my life mate"; I then almost choked on my sigh of outrage at this hyperbolic phrase when an entirely wet and very cold looking man entered the toilets. Incredulously, I stared and asked stupidly "did you ACTUALLY fall in?". Apparently he did, and now I know why marina staff wear life-vests on the docks.

Since conditions were quite good (NE 5-6, no gale warnings, not snowing - yet, tidal arrows hopefully pointed the correct way for a change) we left Brighton at 1430, as soon as my co-sailor arrived. Since it got dark soon after that, there are no photos, but rest assured it was a long and harsh night. We spent hours once again meandering around the traffic separation scheme, doing good speeds under sails.

After we had negotiated the traffic, I settled into the first night shift. Since it was overcast, it was a cold, moonless, pitch black night, but when the moon did come out occasionally, the silvery reflections on the water around monster actually gave the whole ordeal something of a poetic dimension.

Sitting around in the cockpit on my own, there was plenty of space for melancholic contemplation. A faint memory popped up from the pubescent years. Yes, I had been to Normandy before, on a school exchange many moons ago. We visited some island off the coast and I found myself sitting there all alone with a local girl, someone's exchange partner. I wish I could say I did anything other than babble nervously until she initiated what would be what the Angloamericans call a French kiss - my first, in France, with a French girl, whose name has been long forgotten.

In spite of not being on top form, Gebard did a heroic shift from 1230 to 0430, waking me up with the magical words "land sighted". I sent him off to bed and spent the remaining leg shivering and humming in turns.

I set the Frenchie guest flag at sunrise, marvelling at this pathetic bit of evidence that I had moved on, survived the cold, and, best of all, that we were nearly there.

The wind died down right in front of the outer Cherbourg breakwater, so there was no motoring apart from the docking maneuvres - great!

20 hours, 85 sm, and countless Belgian waffles later, we entered Cherbourg marina.

After arrival in Dover, I started troubleshooting the engine. It turns out the water separator filter was totally stuffed with algae from the tank. I'm inclined to blame the Belgian uniforms again - having had the red diesel pumped out there, I only took a 100 litres of expensive white diesel in, as I was planning to once again fill my tank with red diesel in the UK.

Sounds like a big ironic joke, only it turned out to be one with a nasty side effect: What little fuel there was had been sloshing around in the near-empty tank, and together with the full steam ahead motoring around the traffic separation scheme, I had sucked most of the dirt out of my tank and into my diesel filter. So I started my search around town for alternator belts (can never have enough of those) and "Baldwin" diesel filters; sadly neither was readily available in the chandlery or car parts shops.

I have to say Dover is much prettier coming from the sea; when driving down to the ferry, you just see some ugly dual lane infrastructure going down to the concrete ferry port. Approaching from below, you get to see the white cliffs, the castle and a charming looking town (appearances can deceive observer at safe distance as it turns out).

Walking around this 30 thousand inhabitant village I was quite shocked by the amount of toothless faces, even the kids with kids (teenage mums) seemed to be younger and chubbier than anywhere else I'd seen in my long years of inhabiting the island. I decided that this was also due to sailing across from the continent - the normal transitional scene of an airport or eurostar train station to prepare one for the shock was totally absent.

The next day my co-sailor Ernst informed me that his pain levels were just too high to go on (bad hip). This was rather bad news of course, as I can't really dock monster on my own yet, and I don't fancy single-handing her anyway really. So I started some serious online research for diesel filters and crew, and luckily I was successful on both counts. I also got some data on Dover, apparently its got some of the highest child poverty rates in the UK (and its not just the children!).

The first potential crew member I found on the ybw forums sadly had to cancel only hours later due to a mishap (broken ankle), so the journey was off again. Having by then spent a week in "charmin" Dover, I was actually quite keen to move on to my old stomping ground of Brighton. As in really really keen. Luckily a replacement quickly came forth in the form of Colin - thanks Colin!

I spent the Friday getting the boat from liveaboard mode into sailing mode, and decided to go out for some traditional Friday night ales regardless of market conditions - I was actually more scared than partying around Rio and wasn't sure if I was going to survive. But survive I did, and our envisaged 0800 departure was once again on.

Turns out we got up needlessly early as the petrol station attendant was out ferrying some anglers around. I didn't mind hanging around as I expected us to reach Brighton at night anyhow. Got 200 litres of red diesel and had a good giggle at a neighbouring yachtie, who, having insisted complaining to the petrol station guy about his absence, got referred to as a "snob". He was a bit of a textbook snob actually.

We made it out to sea eventually, and were greeted by some nasty old swell that didn't combine all too well with the traditional Saturday hangover. So we started motoring into a knot or possibly more of oncoming current - the forecast 4 bf had not materialised yet again. I don't want to be at sea when they err by 4 bf into the wrong direction for a change..

My co-sailor Colin turned out to be excellent company. He put on a brave face when we were bopping around in the swell, always kept an alert lookout for lobster pots and landmarks, and did the first watch, allowing me to catch up on my badly needed beauty sleep (and sober up a bit).

I spent a fair amount of the journey at the bow to escape the horrible diesel noise, dreaming of endless trade winds and heat and bikinis and barefoot sailing.. I just hate motoring, I really do. We got pulled over by uniforms at Dungeness again (allegedly we were in the military training zone, but we weren't really). At least they weren't looking for Euros so I didn't mind them too much. Had a giggle at the implausible location of the power station built on sand (shingle actually).

The engine decided to pack up again at some stage, so following a brief adrenaline rush down I went to change the pre-filter again. I wonder how many GBP 10 filters it takes to clean out a 600 litre tank..

We finally made it to Beachy Head at night, which I later heard referred to as the Cape Horn of Brighton; its not just one of the most popular and scenic suicide spots in Britain, and separates the Coast Guard area Dover from the Solent, it also hosts the strongest currents of the entire area. My co-sailor Colin had mentioned something about spring tides, but we had inadvertently omitted the chartlet for beachy head during our careful (ehem) reading of the Reeds.

The long and short of it being, we spent the best part of 2 hours motoring full pelt into 2.5+ knots of current. I was constantly worried about my filter situation of course. Once past Beachy Head the currents lessened and eventually seemed to turn favourable, and we actually ran into some wind strong enough to give us 6-7 kn under sails along the coast towards Brighton. It all turned out nicely again!

When we finally entered Brighton in the dark around 2400, the gearbox decided to pack up, so I had to perform the docking manoeuvre with the two options of full speed ahead and full speed reverse.. Luckily I could still force the engine into the gears, otherwise it would have been yet another tug job, and Marcus the harbour master was there to give us a hand. The docking manoeuvre was followed by the mandatory docking ales in Brighton city centre.

I will be in Brighton for a while attending to my various problems and preparing for the journey to Brittany. Its good to be back home.

[Photos courtesy of my co-sailor Colin - thanks!]

In Blankenberge, I first made an express money transfer to the ACAB account in Belgium to pay my red diesel fine, which they then couldn't verify, so I had to sign more declarations and forms saying I swear I had definitely paid it up, bla bla. They say BOAT is an abbreviation for Bring on Another Thousand, and bring on another thousand I did. I was thoroughly entertained when the chief customs uniform gave me their official IBAN, which actually starts on BE666.. Coincidence? In any case, clearly a challenge to my superstition-rejecting atheism.

I then had my forestay done by a Wittevrongel guy called Steve, who reminded me of an old friend and seemed extremely competent. He also changed my anchor light and put a radar reflector on the mizzen mast whilst he was up there. Thanks, Steve!

Later, I had my diesel pumped off by a local boaty company. They were clearly going to use it for heating and charged me for the privilege of giving them 600 litres of fine free diesel for that purpose.. When you're desperate, people can do anything they like with you.

That same night, the uniforms turned up again. They seemed anxious I hadn't actually paid up, but apparently had to give me a receipt for the payment I might not even have issued, and give me my boat engine keys back. I was pleased to get rid of them and wrote a nice long email to their boss about them contaminating my tank with their receptacle, and the navy boat ramming my boat (their moronic driver had actually scraped along monster's stern), and so on, before venturing out on a serious mission to sample the Blankenberge nightlife.

The next day a suitable Belgian-lager-fuelled hangover helped me in my decision to cross the channel and get on with my voyage. Forecast conditions with a NE4 looked ideal for the 75 nm journey from Blankenberge to Dover.

We set out at 0400 and had a long, slow sail in mostly 2 bf winds, which the newly rigged Genoa proved ideal for. Approaching the French boarder we had to pass Nieuwpoort again, and I got some melancholic feelings about what had been my stomping ground for the best part of 2010. My anxiety of getting chased by the uniforms again did make leaving Belgium easier. I was half expecting them to turn up in a submarine and kept a nervous eye on the GPS-charted position.

In the evening, we crossed the traffic separation scheme just off Dunkirk.. Ernst was keeping a visual lookput whilst I was interpreting the charts and AIS plots on the free software chartplotter opencpn as best I could. The AIS proved invaluable; as you can see from the screenshot, it was rather busy and we had to zig-zag on occasion to avoid getting run over by the huge beasts. In the dark, trying to work out where these freighters were headed, I felt like I was on some mission in the classic German film "Das Boot". In the end, I lost my patience and starting motoring full steam ahead to get through it.

We did some more sailing up to Dover, where we had to wait for some ferries before being granted permission to enter - this being necessary as Dover is one of the busiest ports in the world - when the engine failed just inside the outer harbour. Instead of panicking, I just put down the anchor immediately and requested tug assistance. Textbook. The harbour patrol vessel's skipper greeted me with the words "can't stay there mate" and proceeded to bring me right to my berth in Granville dock. There was no fine and no fee, as he declared it "assisted docking", which is apparently free of charge. I was rather pleased with that.

The next day, Dover welcomed us with some nice sunny weather, and I felt quite chuffed to have made it to England on my own keel, before starting work on my various boaty problems.

"It was all a dream", as my local friend and occasional flatmate on monster Thibeaut pointed out (quoting the title of a Tupac song). And he was right of course. Only sometimes dreams turn into a bit of a nightmare. Especially when pirate vessels with half a ton of illegal diesel collide with the ACAB authorities.

But first things first. Following a rather positive test drive with monster outside the Nieuwpoort harbour (my friend Ernst at the wheel in this pic) and some more fiddling on the interior, we finally set out for Blankenberge at the end of October.

We had a lovely sail down without the Genoa making 6-7 kn in some favourable current, as the forestay was to be fixed in Blankenberge, and I was in a triumphant mood having finally started my hopefully epic journey following 5 months of camping on the hard (boat parking lot) in West-Vlaanderen.

Leaving Nieuwpoort, we had been approached by a military RIB requesting us to stay 2 miles offshore due to exercises, and I did notice we were being shadowed by a destroyer-sized vessel on our journey towards Oostende. Plus there were lots of helicopters around. The Belgian military doesn't seem a whole lot to do and the coastline is very short, plus we were the only ones out there. Why can't they dissolve the whole pathetic show and get people into real jobs?

When I noted yet another RIB approaching from behind, I pretty much expected it to be some form of uniformed harassment. And it was. Only, as I quickly found out, they were having some type of joint exercise, and I actually got a team of customs types on board. Now that didn't please me too much as I had around 600 litres of ancient red diesel in my tank, which is now illegal to use on pleasure boats in Belgium. I was actually aware of this, but sort of hoping I could talk myself out of it since I could prove this to be legacy fuel (as in from before they outlawed it).

So I was a bit anxious and started playing their paperwork game of filling in forms and showing them various bits of paper I had so they could tick all their little boxes (and bugger off please!), when the ugliest one of the uniforms produced a little diesel sampler. I showed him my tank in the vein hope that the 24 screws might put him off, but he just got out a longer tube to stuff down my tank inlet. He produced a small excited noise of joy for his colleagues when he had finally pumped some of my "roode mazout" into his receptacle. He then proceeded to lose his receptable down my tank inlet.

They pointed out that this would entail a EUR 1250 fine, payable in cash and on the spot. I was a bit shocked as it would be difficult to produce this much cash in one day even if there was a cash machine around since my bank cards have been limited to EUR 1K a day since the Brazil days in case of kidnapping etc. The uniforms thus decided to accompany us to Blankenberge and chain me up there.

Since I was to have them on board for two hours I gave them the warmest "welcome on board" I could muster given my atrocious mood, and actually offered them a Belgian waffle. Sadly I had no rat poison or laxative around to spice them up a bit. I spent the rest of the trip at the bow having suitably dark thoughts.

But make it to Blankenberge we did, and I was once again in the old triumphant mood. Boating seems to be a bit of manic depression, or as Goethe put it, "Himmelhoch jauchzend, zu(m) Tode betrübt“ (heavenly joy, deadly sorrow).