Mirror dinghy with centreboard modification

I was sick. Seasick! Emptying my breakfast over the side. Followed by last night's meal. Followed by vile retching and the water I swallowed between spasms. I'd always been a "poor traveller", as they say, sick in everything from a tramcar to a plane. Even been sick two or three times before in a dinghy, but always at anchor under the tent after a heavy evening meal.

Now I was cold, shivering. Dressed in full sailing gear, jersey, anorak, oilskins, woolly hat and even an old army cape wrapped round me, I still shivered. Little Mischief, my 10' 10" Mirror, sailed on ignoring me with her new self steering making me feel unneeded, a passenger. My eyes were going out of focus, drowsy, like going to sleep at the wheel of a car - possibly the seasick tablets I'd taken. Felt miserable; dying to see land again. Any land, even Rhyl which had disappeared in the misty haze over two hours ago. Around me the visibility was about two miles and everything was dull and grey, a gloomy wilderness of seas which were high enough to sometimes break my horizon, but little white as the westerly wind was only Force 2-3.

This was the second day of my first cruise for two years. Missed out previous summer because I was working six days a week including Bank Holidays. Unemployed since the autumn, I'd planned and prepared thoroughly for a longer cruise than my annual week. And now I was seasick!

The first day, Wednesday 22nd June, '83, had started well. Up at 6.30, after three hours sleep due to final packing, and with my wife and a friend we drove from my home in Holywell overlooking the Dee estuary in N.E. Wales, down the hill to Greenfield on the S.W. side of the estuary at 7.45. Little Mischief was unloaded from the roof-rack and carried over the rocks to a mud patch to await H.W. about 10.00 hrs.

It was hot and almost flat calm with visibility about two miles, so I couldn't see the other side of the estuary just over three miles away. After drifting a while with the ebbing tide, N.W. towards the Irish Sea just over three miles away, I rowed until at noon a N.W. Force 1 got us sailing and finally out of the Dee estuary past the old Point of Air Lighthouse at 13.00 hrs. Here the wind proved to be W 1-2 so it was a beat for six or seven miles to the west off the sandy shore of North Wales until Rhyl at 17.00. A mile short of the harbour at the mouth of the Clwyd the tide changed and at the end of an inshore tack I met the sands of "Sunny Rhyl" extending way out to sea. We tried, but opposed by wind and tide, couldn't get round them. For the last few hundred yards to the perch which masks the outer end of the harbour approach I gratefully accepted a tow from a fisherman, then sailed in up the river to an empty mooring opposite the small Yacht Club. I was tired and after usual wash and shave (too cold in mornings) followed by a good meal, I was in bed and asleep at 22.30.

Awake at 6.30 to walk on the sand around the boat inspecting the first use of my new drying-out blocks. Despite strengthening Little Mischief's bottom with extra rubbing strips and an interior layer of ply and glass fibre, I had never been happy to take the ground and dry out while my 160 lbs. of weight was on board. So I'd taken four blocks of polystyrene, 7" x 4", that I think had been used as packing material, and after melting a hole long ways through each block with a hot poker I passed a 3' - 4' length of blue polypropylene rope through each hole. One end of the rope had a bowline tied; a stopper knot at the other end of the hole kept the rope in place, leaving a tail 2' - 3’ long. Fastening the tail inboard and putting the block over the side gave me a useful fender. But as supports under the hull to dry out level on sand, mud or small stones they proved their worth. They were used in pairs, each pair attached from bowline to bowline by a length of heavy shock cord with a hook on each end. Each hook was bent to make it difficult for the hook to accidentally come free of the bowline. If expecting to dry out, then after removing the rudder and before putting up the tent, I'd pass the blocks under the boat from the stern, one pair at a time, pulling forward with the rope tails. The first pair were positioned under the forward end of the cockpit just under the turn of the bilge each side, and the rope tails secured inboard to a shroud plate. The second pair went under the aft end of the cockpit, secured each side to a jam-cleat. So she balanced on the four blocks, keel and skeg.

H.W. was 10.15 that morning, but I got away from Rhyl a little late due to my foolishness when rigging the boat after removing the tent. I tried to raise my mainsail without re-attaching the halliards to the gunter rig gaff. Both the halliards (I'll explain later why I have two halliards) ended up at the double dumb sheave in the mast top, stopped by the shackles. Took a long time and an oar with shackle key attached by elastic band to bring them down again.

Then we sailed down the river to find a mass of white breakers crashing over the sandbanks at the entrance. Circled round at the river mouth having a look and saw that the narrow deep water channel heading north to the perch about - mile away had a heavy swell but no breakers, so managed to slip out close hauled passing the perch at 11.00. With L.W. around Conwy to the west about 16.00 I had about five hours of the ebb tide to use, fourteen miles in a direct line to go to reach Great Orme's headland behind which lay Conwy, and a westerly 2-3 against me. As the coastline nearly all the way forms a shallow bay I decided, instead of beating inshore, to make one tack well offshore in the main strength of the tide, and one board back again, hopefully arriving inshore near Great Orme's Head or more hopefully a little past it.

So for three hours Little Mischief and I sailed close hauled offshore. The Rhyl seafront disappeared in the poor visibility after an hour and a fishing boat near a buoy disappeared soon after, and no other sign of man or land appeared until 16.00. It was during this time that I had several bouts of seasickness and so I was very glad to see land again. Unsure where it was until I was closer, about 17.00, by which time the tide had already turned an hour and the wind dropped off to 1 or less. The land was the Great Orme, but I couldn't get past it, so I headed into Llandudno Bay and anchored near the pier in the west side of the bay at 18.30. Not much shelter, but I was glad to be near land. Putting the tent up in a slight swell rolling in to the beach upset my stomach again and I lost the snack I'd forced down earlier. All I could face for the evening meal was a mug of warm Oxo.

I got into bed at 22.00. Now unless you're a skinny five footer it's not possible to sleep on a Mirror floor. But from the mast to the transom is almost seven feet. This is at deck level, a few inches below the gunwales. I carry an ex-army stretcher with strong wooden poles, rolled up along the forward port side when sailing (the starboard side has my long sea oars; both stretcher and oars held in place with shock cord and a hook to unused forward shroud plates). The stretcher, which cost 50 pence, needed little modification; a scrub to remove what I presume were bloodstains and two short lengths of wood, each with two notches cut, to take the stretcher poles and keep the canvas very taut. A thin yellow back-packer's mattress for extra warmth and because the canvas frequently gets wet with spray or rain, sleeping bag on top and I have a most comfortable bed. The next day was Friday 24th June and I was sick again before breakfast. But I had to eat and drink so I got down a light snack of well-chewed muesli, Ryvita and coffee. With some difficulty I took the tent down as I was threatening to lose my breakfast, and went ashore on the beach at a small wooden landing stage to phone my wife. Found a phone-box on the promenade but couldn't remember my phone number or the code. Had that number five years. Finally after about the fourth try I got through. This incident made me realise that the seasickness was mentally affecting me and I'd have to consider carefully all my decisions to ensure no important mistakes.

Back on Little Mischief, we set off out of the bay under the towering cliffs of Great Orme’s Head at 10.30. The westerly ebb didn't start until 11.00 so I was glad of the N.E. 2-3 wind. Thus began a good day. We were leaving a dull coastline behind which I'd never sailed before this cruise, having always taken the boat on the car instead. By sailing I'd saved the cost of the petrol and, cruising on the dole, was determined to be economical. But we were now heading into the familiar sailing waters of, the Menai Straits between Anglesey and the mainland of Wales. Visibility still poor at about two miles, little sun, rather overcast but a good following wind as we headed S.W. Best of all, no further seasickness (until much later in the cruise).

The Menai Straits, which lie S.W. to N.E., are about 17 miles long and the N.E. end is a wide expanse of drying sands, funnel-shaped, about five miles wide at the mouth and five miles deep, approaching Bangor. The deep water channel lies along the Anglesey shore on the west side and much of the area, the Lavan Sands, dries out over 10'. Coming from the N.E. side I determined to try a short cut across the sands to the Anglesey shore which I'd never had occasion to use before. In the poor visibility it was unlikely I'd be able to get the right line to find the unbuoyed channel and it was a falling tide flowing against us out of the Straits. But I was crossing on top of the tide and trusted my centreboard to warn me of trouble. Some years ago I'd removed the useless Mirror dagger-board and case and built a proper pivoted centreboard. Probably the biggest modification I've made to Little Mischief, but very worthwhile.

By 13.00 we had crossed the sands without problems and were rather slowly sailing up the deep water channel against the stronger ebb tide towards Beaumaris. My favourite Anglesey town. Old castle, narrow streets, lovely views over Snowdonia, a sailing centre with moorings and old boatyard. At 13.30 I ran Little Mischief onto the little beach in the lee of the pier and went ashore for water. Normally I carry 4 x 1 gallons of water and use about one per day. Had a snack on board and went off again to try and get as far as possible down the straits while the wind was fair.

In a couple of miles, though we were still heading S.W., the ebb tide was helping us. The tidal stream in the Straits can be very confusing because the flood stream coming north up the Irish Sea enters the Straits at the S.W. end and then later, after sweeping round Anglesey, enters also from the N.E. end, meeting at a variable point in the northern half of the Straits. So the ebb tide in a similar way divides and runs N.E. and S.W. from the northern half of the Straits at the same time, and we had passed the dividing point.

From Bangor the water narrows to about half a mile, narrowing still further in a couple of miles to a few hundred yards in the infamous Swellies. This is an area of drying rocks, whirlpools, standing waves and a tide race up to seven knots, almost a mile long with, at each end, the towering bridges that connect Anglesey to the mainland. I have been through many times, but never casually. However, it was about one hour before L.W. slack and the Swellies were fairly quiet, and we were through and passing the monument to Nelson at 15.05. As always I saluted him, as to show proper respect to the Admiral ensures a successful voyage. Of course he understands the limitations of small boat sailors and accepts a sitting down salute.

Then an easy and pleasant 5 - 6 mile run with Little Mischief’s sails goosewinged and the last of the ebb beneath us until at 17.00 we reached the mouth of the River Seiont at Caernarfon, two miles from the S.W. end of the Straits, to find insufficient water in the river even to row up to the harbour. So leaving Little Mischief at landing steps I went ashore through the town walls to the local Tesco for supplies. At 18.00 I rowed the short distance upriver under the swing bridge and dropped an anchor in the mud between moorings on the bank of the river, opposite the best-preserved castle in Wales and the old slate quay. I was careful not to put the tent up until after I’d had a wash and shave, cooked and eaten a light meal. Very satisfied with 22 miles made good.

After an excellent night's sleep of 10 hours during which we dried out on the mud, I was up at 6.30 and ready to go at 9.30. Time to spare, so I went ashore for water. Saw the Harbour Master on the quayside looking at the boat but I did not speak to him as I wasn't sure if there would be a charge to pay and I didn't want to invite it. Cleared the river mouth at 1000 to find wind not as helpful as yesterday, heading us from SW about Force 1.

Tacking slowly at end of flood, reached the S.W. end of the Straits at 11.15, just after the ebb had started. This end is quite dissimilar to the other. A narrow deep exit about 300 yards across between steep-to sand and shingle banks. The northern side is a long, finger-shaped line of sand dunes called Abermenai Point. The south bank, Belan Point, is crowned by a fortress built to resist the French and a year or two back some fool carelessly fired one of the old cannon and nearly dismasted a passing yacht.

The more open N.E. end of the Straits does not really have a bar, but this S.W. end does. However, at H.W. and wind light even if against the tide, it was not evident and I found myself in company with 15 other sailing boats all heading out on the ebb southwards. It was Saturday so presumed they were out for the weekend heading, like myself, for the popular anchorage of Porth Dinllaen (Forth means cove or bay) 14 miles to S.W. The only other open boat was a Drascombe Lugger and Little Mischief had no trouble keeping up with the fleet.

The light wind caused 2 - 3 yachts to start engines and pull away but the rest, once clear of the offshore sandbanks, the horns of the bar, started tacking S.W. But clever dick skipper of Little Mischief thought there would be better wind and current further out so took Little Mischief on a long tack to west until 14.00, when all the other boats and land had disappeared in the poor visibility of about 3 miles. Then he headed due south. It was a lovely day; warm sun. Enjoyed a folk music programme from Manx Radio. But wind died. Rowed on and off for two hours and finally at 18.00 came in sight of Porth Dinllaen and the back of the fleet two miles ahead entering the bay. Tide now against us and I had a hard row to get inside the long finger headland of Porth Dinllaen out of the flood stream.

Decided to stay overnight at Nefyn which has its own little headland inside the bay, so after landing to phone home, without success, I tied up at a spare mooring. A good day with about 17 miles made good despite the light contrary wind.

The following morning I went back to sleep after the 06.25 forecast and woke again at 08.00. No hurry as H.W. at 11.00 and 14 miles away to S.W. was Bardsey Sound which we could not enter until about 17.00 with L.W. slack at 18.30. The tidal stream in the Sound does not change until over two hours after H.W. and L.W. by the shore. We were now about halfway down the 20 mile long by 5 to 10 mile wide Lleyn Peninsula which projects S.W. out into the Irish Sea like a leg and forms the northern end of the 60 mile wide Cardigan Bay. Bardsey Island lies 1 mile off the tip of Lleyn and the Sound between their high rocky shores has a sluicing current up to five knots, with heavy overfalls in mid-tide. I'd been there before a few years ago when the passage through the Sound had been accomplished quite easily, then, after spending a night at Bardsey itself I'd attempted to cross to the mainland at slack water, but the wind had failed and I was pushed unwillingly through the Sound until a contrary current had helped me to row out again.

While washing up after breakfast under the tent, a passing yachtsman motored alongside my stern, showed a close interest in Little Mischief and asked a lot of questions on dinghy cruising. At 12.00 when we crossed the reef at Porth Dinllaen out of the bay into the ebbing tidal stream, I found him sailing his Jaguar 21 and waiting to see Little Mischief sailing. He sailed around us for about 15 minutes handling his yacht like a dinghy, looking at Little Mischief from all angles and asking more questions. Then with a friendly wave and good wishes he turned back and Little Mischief and I settled down to beating against a SW 2.

After about 9 miles, at 15.30, we went into the small sandy bay of Porth Oer out of the tide and hove-to while I sorted out Little Mischief and myself ready for Bardsey Sound. Wind against tide had caused a choppy sea but tide had now slackened so could expect smoother water. But just offshore from Porth Oer was the northern end of the Tripods, a two mile reef running south, well under water but causing noted overfalls in the wrong conditions. So I took one long tack to seawards for an hour to pass outside the Tripods until I could lay a straight course to enter the Sound from the N.W. Entered at 17.00, on schedule. No problems. Cleared it at 17.30 and carried on to S.E. until the lighthouse on the flat south end of Bardsey was bearing W and turned on that tack at 13.00 for the landing place in Henllwyn Bay.

Thought that was it. As good as there. Should have known better. Half an hour later realised we were further south and lighthouse now beating N.W. The end of the ebb in the light wind was pushing Little Mischief away from the Island. Started rowing and, approaching the small rocky bay at 19.00, saw that the tide had now swiftly turned. By the race off the point I could see that the flood was running hard and trying to force us north back into the sound again! The last 100 yards to get into the bay out of the tide was a hard struggle with the oars. Thought I wasn't going to make it but so near I had to fight and not give up, and finally we got in and dropped the buoyed fisherman anchor in 18' over rocks.

I had intended going ashore on the excuse (it's privately owned by an absentee landlord) for water, to meet Mr Strick again, the farmer lobster fisherman and his wife who are the only really permanent residents on the island. The others when I was here last were an ornithologist, the lighthouse keeper of course and an elderly solitary nun. The island had at one time supported over a hundred people. My 1902 Pilot refers to 80 residents. It's also known as the Isle of 20,000 Saints. A very holy place to the extent that three pilgrimages to Bardsey were equal to one to Rome. But it was getting late and I was tired after my hard spell at the oars so settled for a good meal. My log says, "Black pudding, beans and boiled new potatoes, followed by tinned pears with sweetened condensed milk poured over. If that doesn't make me sick I'm fireproof". It didn't! Woke briefly in the night to see the lighthouse casting its flickering beam over my head.

The following morning with a forecast of NW 3-4 we left Bardsey at 10.50 and set out for Aberdovey. If the Lleyn Peninsula is like an extended leg, Bardsey Island a ball kicked by the toe, then the heel of the foot is the headland Trwyn Cilan, 9 miles to the east. Once past that point in a NW wind and ebb tide I'd really have nowhere else to go but eastwards across the head of Cardigan Bay either to Barmouth, 18 miles, or Aberdovey, 21 miles, so Trwyn Cilan was my point of no return. Reaching there after three hours of good sailing in NW 3, I decided it was going to be too late in the evening reaching Aberdovey and so would head N.E. and shelter overnight behind Trwyn Cilan which I could see 2-3 miles away.

By 15.00 I was into quiet water under the cliffs of Porth Cairiad behind Trwyn Cilan having a snack and deciding to spend the night at the popular sailing centre of Abersoch. That was only about three miles away but the last two miles inshore of the small twin islands of St. Tudwals were a slow beat. Abersoch was a long beach full of holidaymakers with several lines of moored boats offshore; must have been about 100. And in the middle of the beach on a small promontory was the local yacht club. I moored to the lee side of the club's wooden slipway and went ashore for water, a hot shower and a phone call home. Deciding that I was better sheltered where I was than at a spare mooring, I settled in for the night after checking there were no objections.

Tuesday morning, with a forecast of NW 3-4 backing W.5 later, we set off again, for Aberdovey at 10.00. Tides are not as strong inside Cardigan Bay but with H.W. at 10.45 we were in good time to make the most of the ebb. After passing St. Tudwals Isles we made the longest open water passage we had yet done. It was 17 miles S.E. to the headland of Pen Bwch Point, which turned out to be quite an uneventful crossing. Wind was N.W. 2-3, an overcast sky and hazy mist giving no sight of land ahead or behind for the middle three hours. Two hours and 8 miles out from St. Tudwals we crossed the Sarn Badrig.

There are three "Sarns" (Welsh for causeway) in the northern half of Cardigan Bay. Each is a reef of sand and stones projecting out into the Bay. The other two are a little further south and project to the west. Sarn Badrig runs S.W. from Mochras Point north of Barmouth and is the longest, at over 10 miles, and most dangerous as it is the only one to dry, from 1' to 4' in several places. I recall watching a TV documentary on the coasts of Wales and the piece of film on Sarn Badrig had been shot on a calm day at L.W. Springs from a helicopter. The commentator had been landed on the Sarn, which looked like a long road with gaps in it stretching into the distance. He looked very lonely standing there talking about the Sarn. "Badrig" means "St. Patrick" and it was believed locally that St. Patrick used the causeway to walk from Ireland.

For me it was a useful distance run check to cross the quarter mile strip of swirling waters, quite different from the surrounding seas. There is a pillar buoy off the end of the Sarn, but if I was on course it would be about 4-5 miles away, so I wasn't surprised not to see it. At 14.00 saw land ahead which proved to be Pen Bwch Point. Crossed Sarn-y-Bwch about two miles off the point and ran the five miles down the coast past Towyn to the bar buoy at the mouth of the Dovey. The onshore wind against the last of the ebb from the estuary gave us some high seas on the shallow bar, but nothing vicious. Then a slow run following the well-buoyed channel between sandbanks brought Little Mischief ashore by the pier at Aberdovey at L.W. shortly after 17.00. Felt very satisfied with the 24 mile trip in 7 hours. Went ashore for shopping and water and after briefly looking around the rather quaint, pleasant village I had a look at the inshore moorings, but decided to risk anchoring between two fishing boats, close inshore just upstream from the pier.

(to be continued -102/20)