Winter...and East Coast Week Memories

Winter...boatless...no snow on the ground to speak off under 800 m.

I once did a winter season in Scotland and I am glad I do not have to do such again! It sleated on the last day, 12 December. We only had frost a couple of times and by in large, saying that we had enough wind to sail in was an understatement.

Here I think back and admint to propose a bit of a miscarriage of justice: In fact I seem to have taken off the rose tinted as I remember very pleasant conditions sailing with Simon Jackson (ex North's Seattle HQ) against Goacher, who bent the rules a wee bit IMHO. We had a fair bit of mild weather and even sun. No real planing conditions until there was too much for the bloody kite, unliike the summer the following year, when there was just enough often under Wednesday-warfare.

I had never thought much of East Coast of Scotland Sailing at all, which was a bit stupid since Chris Bonar and Sir Keith Miller are both east coasters. Of course there were reknown dinghy clubs. But sailing in the N Sea and estuaries did not appeal in the slightest to a Clyde, Irish Sea and Solent sailor like me.

However the licensing authoroties of Dun Edin had always seen fit to keep the good ol' boozer open til the wee small tiny times, while in Glesga you were night club bound. Futhermore, I had planned to set up in the family way with a rather sweet Irish girl at the time, us both being Edinbra'philes. That romance foundered, but having actually had a 20 year love affair with Capitus Scotias and her opening times,  I finally took the plunge and gave up Hamble and Pwhelli for sailing in the murky ditch under the two Forth bridges.

I sailed over at Port Edgar, Royal Tay, Granton and Dalgety Bay in 1999-2001. In fact it all gave some quite challenging sailing all be it with few decent courses being set: round the nav marks most often. Tide was a big challenge, or rather combination of tide and narrow estuaries. Also there was a lot to bump into under the water.

I had the slight mirth of such an incident, the water being inadeqaute while the keel being of perfect proportions. Damage was caused and so it was a frightful  shame for the then owner of the previously infamous Dehler "Rhett Butler" ( " frankly my dear "....still on an old sail cover somewhere). I had organised the web site - FOC -  for the event, East Coast Week, a cross border collaboration with 30 odd boats plus a squib OD fleet.  I asked nicely for a sail but did not committ to the whole event due to lack of hol's. Before the longer event, I took a tour or two on board in the pit of all sweaty places, and did a bit of trimming, probably taking someones job. Anyhows and much to my chagrin,  once I turned up on day one, and no doubt due to my temporary state of employ, Dave Suttie the diminutive owner, gestured me forward with a slightly rude finger beckoning signal and ordered me to do runners with an outright patronising thumb wagging: get on the back "you're doing runners."

Day one went okay IIRC, we were up river of Broughty Ferry, the squib fleet causing some consternatioon by coming on mass to our class 1's second beat. Day two and we were blessed with a sunny summer day, enough wind to sail and not a hang over on board. We also had a brisk tide with a skewed WL down to some mark off the steep beach east of Broughty Castle with this stiff flood tide agin' us on the eastwards beat.

Hunting in to the sides to keep out of the tide's worst perniciouness,  andfor the possible fortuity to perchance upon a back eddy from the Castle's little harbour, we found ourselves rather more conducting a geological field trip than sailing a race: the keel being the rock enthusiast's hammer which found some ancient strata on which to practice the rough science upon. "Oh that's a well known shelf, you want to avoid it until near high tide at springs" we were told, in the Royal Tay, that evening.

We struck at only about 5 knts but it must have been a good meter over lap to a sheer angle,  as it found its target like the clapper of big ben strikes one. The stern came a good meter and a half up and I involuntarily slid with a considerable momentum one may expect of a man in his prime who was trained by a pro rugby player in the less than subtle art of weight lifting. Dave was on the helm to my immediacy and the effect was pretty much like that to be seen in from the executives favourtie 1970s ball bearing game: with my good self coming to a near hault against him, knocking him clear past the cockpit crew, his face planting itself on the instruments some two meters forward of him. I dare say they were reading depth at the time.

Come to think of it, Let Us Not Go East Coast of Scotland Sailing....'t'is a silly place.