“Edna,” my Hebridean wind-vane build, is finished.

Away from the boat, it’s been an unreasonably-busy fortnight of perpetual motion and some dark moments. It’s been difficult to feel happy, at times.
But there is some good news…
The construction of my Hebridean wind vane is now finished. Yay!
But I haven’t had time to test it yet. It’s sat in Emmelène’s cabin… I ran out of time aboard and literally just had time to bolt my mount onto the stern before heading back into the city. Here are some photos taken during the last week of the build.
Let’s start with the turret, which is going to support the vane; and it will swivel and lock, according to which course I chose to sail:


I also bolted-on the fittings to the pendulum (which is the piece of oak that goes into the water and is shaped like a wing / rudder)

Then it was time to set the whole thing up on the Workmate to see if it would “steer”. There was almost no wind in the garden, so initial performance was lacklustre. As you can see, the pendulum is much too long at this stage, because I had no idea yet where the waterline would be, so had to postpone the cutting.

Furthermore, there’s a bolt inside the turret, the head of which will need filing down to avoid snagging the push-rod. But these are all tasks to do later.

My first impressions are that the vane (that blows in the wind) may be a little too heavy. The counterweight-balance instructions I found difficult to understand and it may be that I have not set up the adjustable weights correctly, despite having taken care to make them exactly the right weight.


In my haste, alone on board Emmelène, to draw a transom template, I had measured slightly inaccurately and Dad once again came to my aid in order to rectify my mistake.



My mental fragility seemed to be getting the better of me. I blamed myself for such slow progress, and having to re-do work. I’m very grateful to Dad because I was a bit dispirited on that day and he cheerfully showed me that I was nearly finished on the project.



And when the time came to fit my transom-mount, he taught me how to use a 90-degree chuck, because the pushpit-rail fouled my standard drill. You can tell that his cheerful demeanour was infectious!


Then it was time to shorten the length of the pendulum and we measured down from the waterline (twice, “to be sure, to be sure, to be sure!”) and then made the cut, using a Japanese saw.


A chiseling competition followed (won by Dad) – we each amended one of the two support strips that strengthen the pendulum on its hinges.


Then I painted the cut on the pendulum and the whole assembly went into the car boot for the final time, for delivery to Emmelène. The build is done! At last, I can actually say I’ve completed something.

On board, I had some Deks Olje (Nordic wood preserver), which made an excellent finish on the transom-mount. This stuff isn’t varnish – more a kind of “soak-in” treatment and you brush as many coats into the wood as you like; as the more it impregnates, the better. I’m not sure where to buy it because this particular tin came second-hand from a boat jumble. It does a nice-looking job, when you contrast it to the raw wood:

Inserting the trunk into the transom-mount was a bit tricky because I hadn’t correctly understood the drawing in the plans. It fouled the trunk, at first. Dad made me a polypropylene washer, on his lathe, and I dry-fitted the assembly using a drill through the pivot, in place of a split-pin, of which I had none aboard. Yes, the drill did inevitably drop out, into the soft, low-tide mud! Lucky the stern ladder was there – I managed to retrieve it.


So, in the next post, I’ll tell you how “Hebridean Edna” performs on her initial sea-trials.
Meanwhile, Dad has been rigging his Wayfarer dinghy with a view to launching soon. Here he is, contemplating the fruits of his labour.


Remember my folding bike? When not being ridden, it stows away, in its bag, in Emmelène’s head / cupboard beautifully.

In a bid to reduce chafe around my “boom” (on a junk, the boom is nothing more than the bottom batten), I used the materials available aboard to good effect: a bit of surplus plastic tube from the cockpit drains and some cable-ties managed to cut down the squeaks.

It’s true that it’s a bit lonely sometimes, living on Emmelène. On a social note, I visited my friends from NHYC in Sandbanks, who were on a weekend cruise to Yarmouth. We enjoyed a cuppa with Peter and Heather in the capacious cockpit aboard Karenzi.

Company being important whilst afloat, I took my parents for a quick day-sail before I hopped on the train back to the metropolis. And a very enjoyable sail it was, too, despite light airs.

To conclude, this rather meandering post is to say that time ran out once again, and “real-life” called me back before I could actually try my self-steering system. It’s dawning on me that I’m just going to have to sail away, next time, undertaking the sea-trials as I go. My personality isn’t organised enough to ever be “ready”. I’ll never be “ready” to go.
So, sail away I must, and soon.



Sailing onto the mooring


When I’m aboard Emmelène, I feel as if I’m living life how it should be.  The lack of Internet is the main advantage.  Being disconnected is like stopping smoking – the phrase implies that you are sacrificing something, whereas in fact there is literally nothing to lose and everything to gain.  The quality of life replaces that of mere existence.  These days, I have taken the decision to limit my “connected” time to two hours per week – even when ashore.  So, I’m typing this offline, in MSWord, and will start the stopwatch when I log on to WordPress to post it.  Initially, it felt a bit weird not being permanently online, with an urge to keep “checking” for messages and news updates: but that particular, meaningless, search for dopamine soon was replaced by other, more real, sources of interest.  We managed perfectly well, just twenty years ago, without all this distraction.  Whatever happened?


I’ve just got back from a week living aboard Emmelène, which included several day-sails, to get back into the swing of things; and quite a lot of boat maintenance.  I also spent a few days with my parents, whose garage and garden were, once again, used to take forward the build of my Hebridean wind-vane.

Let’s start with the sailing.  I was lucky to get a lift to my boat from my mate Peter, upon whose splendid Westerly Pageant “Karenzi” we sailed from Poole Harbour to Bembridge in ideal conditions.  We rode the tide all the way, which made for some impressive speeds over ground, particularly on the return trip, a few days later – up to ten knots through Hurst!



I then went food shopping, walking quite a way across country (about 4 miles) to find a supermarket.  I took the bus back, because this cockpit full of provisions was pretty heavy!


Then it was time to clean up Emmelène’s hull.  We careened her in Bembridge and Peter kindly scrubbed the decks (me hearties!) whilst I lay in the mud at low tide and removed the sheets of barnacle growth, below her waterline.  This was a strangely satisfying task.   I had a bit of antifoul left over from last year and I slapped this on, as the waters rose.  She sure looks cleaner overall:




I took my parents for the best sail in a long while, in a decent force 4, with a bit of sea, to keep us entertained.  What a brilliant day.  Dad took the helm throughout and was – at last – able to take some measure of the advantages of the junk-rig.  He knows plenty of theory about the rig, but last time we went sailing, the wind was too light to really make any judgement.  I think that the photos clearly show that a good time was had by all – see below.




At the end of the sail, Dad sailed Emmelène smoothly back onto her mooring (without using the motor), which was a piece of seamanship rarely seen these days, especially in small, shallow harbours.  The junk rig came into its own as I was able to raise and lower just a couple of panels within seconds (or less – say, one second), allowing more control even than the outboard.  And all this, in total silence!  It was quite amazing to tack calmly through moored yachts and arrive in exactly the correct position, having effortlessly struck the sail completely, in the last few moments, to slow our momentum.  The bow came to a stop just above the buoy, and I reached over the gunwale and picked it up.  I’ll never forget it.  I felt alive: this is how life should be.


Emmelène is now beginning to look like a little cruising yacht – as she should.  My Hebridean is ready for painting, and now has a coat of primer.


The push-rod and fittings are also taking shape, again with Dad’s guidance and lathe skills.





I must give Dad credit also for fairing the plank of oak that has now become the pendulum.  These photos give the impression that I did most of the work – but the work was his, really.  The profile looks like a perfect “wing” shape and will soon be slicing through the water, pulling the tiller back and forth.  We will obviously need to shorten it to the relevant length for the Coromandel: but all of that in due course, aboard.




My huge new 12V battery needed a secure home on Emmelène.  As you may recall from my previous post, I built a “flat-pack” kit which I could epoxy into three dimensions once aboard.  I did this work in the cockpit, and kept in mind the importance of being able to remove the box quickly, in order to gain emergency access to the cockpit drains, in case of through-hull failure.  Thanks to you, Peter, for that tip – good thought.  I’m well pleased with the results of the work under the companionway steps.  See what you think:






Furthermore, my 20W solar panel is now connected and is keeping the battery healthy, as well as charging my phone.




I was pleased to see, albeit briefly , Richard and Tammy Norie in Fareham, where that fine little boat is also beginning her season, in capable hands.


Finally, I’ve bought a second-hand folding bike, to enable me to shop for food and be more mobile when I arrive in unfamiliar harbours or anchorages.  It’s a Dahon Mu with 8 Shimano gears, and is in beautiful condition; as-new.  The previous owner, sadly, waited for their retirement and invested their savings in an expensive, huge motorhome as well as two of these new bikes.   But illness prevented them from setting out on their dream journey, and they were selling everything, completely unused.  They were a lovely couple and I felt a bit guilty buying their second bike; however, they graciously said that they were pleased that the bike would be ridden, as intended.  Once folded, it will, I hope, take up very little room in the Coromandel “head” (WC) that I use as a storage cupboard.  As soon as I rode the bike (which is really fast) back to my parents’ place, Dad wanted to test-ride it – and loved it so much that I’m not sure I’m ever getting it back!




This beautiful week of sailing and boat-maintenance was a little chunk of “quality time” which no government can ever tax away from me, and that I’ll remember forever.   I’m beginning to appreciate how important time is.  Thank goodness that I’m healthy and able to make the most of it.  Carpe diem!


An unfinished symphony? – The maintenance of a small cruising yacht



Tomorrow, I’m back aboard Emmelene with my to-do list ready.  Coupled with the excitement for the start of the season is a sense of trepidation.  Will the tasks ever be finished? That’s the question so many sailors ask themselves at the start of the season.  I try to reassure myself by thinking about how rushed I was, this time last year – the mast-extension was only just finished in time for launch, and because the crane was booked,  we had to lower the mast into her socket with the white paint still drying on the spruce, at the top!

So, it’s true that this year, at least there are lots of things that I don’t have to worry about. But that doesn’t mean that there’s not a lot still to do.

Take the wind-vane self steering, for example.  My Hebridean build has been progressing sporadically, as I have made the most of visits to my parents’ house on several weekends throughout the winter.  However, that only means a maximum of a day or so of actual work, by the time all the parts are layed out, and the epoxying jobs syncronised to maximise time-efficiency while minimising waste of raw materials.  Just “getting back into” the instructions takes a while. And then it’s time to clean up and leave.

There’s also the solar panel that I need to install… And the halyard that I want to replace… And I need to scrub the winter’s weed-growth off, below the waterline.

It all goes to prove that I could easily maintain my boat full time, even with no other constraints such as work or family – and still, I think I’d never finish.  Maybe I have to accept that my little floating home, Emmelene, will forever be a “work in progress.”

Another way of reassuring myself is to look at blokes (and ladies) doing some REAL boat work.  Their to-do lists surely must dwarf mine! Youtube is a haven of boat-renovation and boat-building heroics; videos abound of projects that put my little jobs sharply into context.

Here are three of my favourites (click on the channel names):

  • SVTapatya – I’ve mentioned Tony’s videos and blog in a previous post.  What a guy: he’s building a Benford Badger in his shed in Germany. His matter-of-fact explanations, his tool-tips and efficient, environmental  work-ethic are very refreshing and his progress seems very quick to me. He’s built a 32’ hull more quickly than I’ve built my wind-vane! I actively encourage you to subscribe to his channel.
  • Sail Life – Some would say that Mads, who is Danish, is appropriately named. But the truth is, he’s anything but “mad”.   His videos of his restoration of “Athena” are simply compelling viewing. He relishes difficult work and is, it is fair to say, a perfectionist.  His boat will be pristine when finished – and believe me, finish the job, Mads will. I sometimes shudder at his ambition, for example, as he cheerfully rips up a tired deck-core that, personally, I would have just… used, for a few more seasons.  But unlike most people, he actually refits (or replaces) entire systems aboard his yacht much better than they ever were, originally. He claims to be an “amateur” – yikes!
  • Samson Yacht Co – Personality-wise, Leo is like an English version of Mads; but he’s a professional expert in classic wooden boat-building, rather than GRP.  He’s restoring a 1910 English schooner, from a site in the USA, and his expertise and video-editing skills are addictive to watch.  But most inspiring is the sheer scale of tasks that he is prepared to do on his own – such as building a new keel timber, weighing several tonnes, from a dense wood called “purple heart”; and then manoevering this massive thing into place using only trolley-jacks and levers, which have to be meticulously threaded around the legs of the cradle he built to hold the hull up in the air.   There are many other examples of his can-do attitude. It’s simply inspirational to see such energy and positivity.


Back to reality – how is my wind-vane build going?  Well, here are a few pictures taken this spring. As you’ll see, I had a lot of help from my ever-willing and skilled parents.

The first 4 photos below show how I built the turret, which is the part that you adjust to change direction.  It’s a sort of metal-and-ply sandwich, which is bolted together, then sawn in half.





The wind-vane base was my next step, involving drilling and chiselling two grooves for the ends of the carbon-fibre tubes that will support the vane itself.





Then Dad carefully and accurately marked out degree-divisions (I think they are 45-degree marks) on the turret, so that changing course can be done with a bit of precision. For this, he used a punch and hacksaw.




Finally (for now) – the whole steering system turns on a stainless-steel rod, appropriately called a “pivot”.  This is seated in a semi-circular groove that we made by drilling a hole at the correct angle, using a 15-degree wedge to support the job; having clamped a sacrificial oak block on the other side of what would become the resultant hole.  Having drilled, when we removed this block, only half the drill-hole remained on our wooden mechanism – a perfect place to seat the pivot, using bolts and epoxy. It’s strong!






I also made, for the mechanism, some counter-weights with lead-shot and epoxy – and some yogurt pots.  




Finally, the carbon-fibre push-rods had a dowel insert epoxied into each end, ready to receive their stainless-steel fittings.



Here are all the consituent parts that I built during the three weekends – and this is how they fit together.  The stern mounts are in the background – the shape of these is obviously dependent on the shape of your boat’s transom, so it’s a question of measuring up and cutting out a template.  



The weather is finally improving – here are the fruits of my labour!


Making the actual wind vane was a breeze!  (-I couldn’t resist it) I found a sheet of 1cm-thick polystyrene thrown away in the city street, cut it to shape, taped it onto the carbon-fibre frame and then handed it over to my lovely Mum to sew a cover far better than I ever could.  Cheers, Mum!




Many thanks to both my parents, who not only personify skill and kindness, but also don’t mind too much when I fill their house and garden with bits of wood, metal and wet glue!


At last, I had an opportunity to get down to Emmelene and even spent a night aboard in March.  What a joy to, once again, feel the water rock the boat as I went to sleep.



I had changed my engine oil before I went, then run the engine in the bin (it ran perfectly):


And I have a new leisure-battery.  But before I hit the waves, it’s going to need to be fixed in position in the empty inboard-engine bay, so I’ve built a flat-pack battery box ready to take to the boat tomorrow:




Here’s Bembridge at very-low tide:  I think the message is, follow the channel markers on your way into the harbour!


Finally, here’s a Westerly Centaur that I spotted while out on an evening walk from my boat.  She looks like a perfect liveaboard, and would be ideally-suited to the junk-rig.


Talking of junks, I managed to raise Emmelene’s sail last time I was aboard.   Doesn’t she look great? Here’s wishing all my readers a wonderful start to the season – and fair winds!


Building a Hebridean wind-vane self-steering system

This winter, I began building a Hebridean wind-vane self-steering system for Emmelène; again following the example of Tammy-Norie, my sister-ship.


There are many good resources online relating to this system, and I’ll link to them in this post.  Initially, I wasn’t going to blog about this build, thinking it a bit superfluous: but my mate Tony, who is building a junk-rigged Benford Badger, nudged me to post about it, so here I am.

Incidentally, Tony’s blog for his Benford-Badger build is here and please help him out by subscribing to his excellent Youtube channel here (for free, obviously):

My Hebridean: Edna

As a single-hander, cutting this wood and screwing and epoxy-gluing the pieces together, I feel as if I’m witnessing the birth of a new helmsman for my boat.  Or rather a helmswoman, in this case, as this Hebridean will be named after my beloved, late grandmother: Edna.  As somebody who remained admirably cheerful in adverse times, she seems like the ideal personality to steer my little boat in a storm.

Hebridean Basics:  It’s a self-build system, designed by John Fleming.  It’s been well-proven over the years and John uses his aboard his Contessa 32.  The design seems to be adaptable to most lengths of yacht, as a variety of different LOA boats are being steered by Hebridean wind vanes.  And it represents excellent value for money, as factory wind-vanes run into the thousands of pounds.  Whereas the Hebridean, you can build for a few hundred, or even less if you re-use or re-cycle the constituent materials.

Previous builders of the Hebridean seem to have spent quite a lot of time cutting and shaping the stainless-steel fittings themselves, and I admire them for their tenacity: however, John now sells a complete kit that includes all the wood and stainless fittings necessary to go ahead and start construction without much extra work, machining or trips to the lumber yard.  It’s a bit like an Airfix model kit.  That said, there is still some wood-cutting to do, and a small amount of lofting (a new and interesting experience for me): but the principle of the kit is that you have everything you need in one big box.  It’s an exciting moment when it arrives!




The first thing I did was to lay out the parts and read the two comprehensive booklets included – the instructions and the plans.  My Dad, who had suffered a severe medical episode only a week previously, valiantly helped to decipher the drawings, too.  I admire him for his persistence and he was, as ever, very useful throughout the project.


To be honest, I found it all a bit inscrutable on paper, but as soon as I began to loft out the angles, it became clearer.  I considered reducing the size by one-third, whilst retaining the all-important geometry, but in the end, I defaulted to the recommended size.  If I find the system too cumbersome aboard, I may shrink it next season.  The main variable appears to be the length of the pendulum, which is the oak fin that dunks in the water off the stern.  It looks very like a rudder; however, its role is to swing between port and starboard, rather than directly turn the boat itself.  It’s this swinging movement that pulls lines which alter the tiller position, hence steering the boat.  It took me a while to understand this.



The next step was to cut the lengths of oak to size and glue them into position using West-System epoxy.  The photo below shows the trunk of the wind-vane: which is the “middle bit” that is below the vane itself, and above the pendulum.  This trunk ends up attached to the transom of the boat by a pivot.


For now, I have only managed to half-finish my Hebridean.  Workshop time was running out, as I only had a few days available: the last part I was able to work on was called the “extension” – it’s an oak beam that links the vane (flapping round in the wind at the top) with the trunk mentioned in the paragraph above.  Its external dimensions are important, so I had Dad working on his bandsaw once again.  As you can see from the photos below, he also wields a viciously-sharp chisel with dexterity – and uses weird cutting tools that I didn’t even know existed.  Cheers, Dad!





Here are the resources I used to start my Hebridean build, which is now about 50% complete:

  • The homepage of the Hebridean, by John Fleming – a very-helpful man:


  • An excellent summary review from Richard on Newbridge-Coromandel “Tammy-Norie”:


  • A five-part series on the building of the Hebridean by “IanKFR”:



Meanwhile, it has been a long while since I visited Emmelène.  It has been a tough winter, for various reasons.  That said, on Christmas day, my family and I paid her a visit and had a celebratory “cuppa”, along with some delicious French chocolates, in her little cabin.  It was quite a squeeze, but a lot of fun, and considerably warmer than outside, where the winter wind was howling.



She seemed to be quite OK on her pontoon and there was hardly any rainwater in the bilge.



Jobs that remain on the list are:

  1. I need to secure the stainless mask-foot fitting with coach bolts, to replace the loose-fitting metal bolts currently “screwed” into just the plywood block (and, unbelievably, no embedded retaining nuts) where the mast meets the keel-line. The new screws will be in holes that I’ll fill with epoxy first.  Access will be the main challenge, particularly for drilling pilot-holes.
  2. Scrape Emmelène’s weedy bottom and repaint the antifoul
  3. Check the mast-head pulley fittings for the halyard
  4. Replace the halyard (?)
  5. Remove the old sail-number, to avoid identity confusion

Other than that, she’s ready to go voyaging this spring.  I can’t wait!  My tentative plans for this summer are for a longer cruise than in 2017; with Edna the wind-vane there to steer when I get tired or hungry.  Or even if I just fancy reading a book, while sailing along.  Richard tells me that it takes at least a season, having fitted the Hebridean, to fine-tune it to a given boat – so that’s good to bear in mind.

I’m really looking forward to taking Edna out and teaching her how to steer.  Maybe she’ll teach me something, also.  More soon…

Junks sail across the night.

My junk and I were one.  The tiller, invisible in the darkness, felt fine in my hand; and ink-black waves cradled us forwards, as we surged joyfully through the empty Solent under the dome of the night sky.  “Empty” Solent?  – Not exactly, because up ahead of us, the silhouette of Tammy-Norie’s junk sail coalesced as the clouds cleared and the sky provided an ambient glow.  On the horizon lay the jewels; scattered all around at almost 360°, orange and white points twinkled on the coasts; and certain lights, green and red, were gliding almost imperceptibly across the blackness.  You’re never truly alone on the Solent.

“What a perfect night for sailing,” I thought, snuggling low into the comfort of Emmelène’s cockpit and peering upwards at my sail.  All but one panel was up, and we were making excellent way.

Richard, skipper of my sister-ship, Tammy-Norie, had kindly offered to guide me through my first try at nocturnal sailing.  We’d dropped in to the mouth of the Beaulieu River at the start of the evening; having sailed in, that day, from Poole Harbour, in light airs.  We could have stayed overnight: but I mentioned that I’d never sailed in the dark and Richard immediately offered to give me a quick tutorial, over a cup of tea, in my cabin.  We would then sail into the night.  This was especially decent of him as he generally takes care to avoid becoming too tired on account of his suffering from CFS (chronic-fatigue syndrome).  He gave me a quick “Night-sailing 101” course and we agreed to rest for an hour, and then see how far we could sail.  With that, he went back aboard his Coromandel, which was rafted-up alongside mine.

Here’s what I recall from Richard’s introduction:

  • When sailing at night, firstly put on all your clothes. It’s always cold.  Gloves, hat, boots, all your jumpers and storm gear.  Bearing in mind that we were both single-handing, it’s true that it’s easier to already be dressed than to start searching for warm clothes once you’re cold.  Of course, a lifejacket is indispensable.
  • Preparation included a look at the section of Richard’s almanac, entitled: “Ships’ lights” – this was all new to me and there seemed to be a bewildering array of combinations of red, white and green lights, either above or alongside one another. However, these need to be learned and I discovered that Emmelène’s combination, which was a tri-colour masthead and sidelights, serves only to confuse shipping as the two together have no meaning.  It’s one set, or the other: not both.  So while Richard rested, I disconnected my sidelights.
  • I placed a box of snacks in the cockpit, along with a big Thermos of tea. I checked both of my VHF radios were working, and that both boats were on the same channel.  We also each had a phone.
  • I attached my lifeline to the strong point in the cockpit, in case we hit rough weather – though the forecast was quite good.
  • Richard, of course, had already checked the night’s tidal flow, using his phone. This is something I am still struggling to fully understand.  I need to practise.
  • We had carefully looked at the chart, and planned two “safe havens” to which we could head easily if it all went wrong.

Unlike during the rest of our cruise, I did not write an accurate log during the night.  It was simply too hard to see my notebook.  However, I believe that we cast off our anchorage in the Beaulieu-River mouth at about 22h30.  I do remember that we sailed off, in wonderful silence,  without using our engines.  I took my camera out of my “offshore-jacket” pocket and struggled to turn it on with my gloved fingers.  Here is the only photo that I took, the whole night:


We were away at last.  Although I was nervous, it was also very exciting and reassuring to discern Tammy-Norie, as she silently took the lead.  It meant that I had no worries at all regarding navigation.  We were bound for Fareham Sailing-and-Motor-boat Club, and it seemed that we had this ghostly, black seascape to ourselves.  From the shore came the occasional loom of car headlights, but the water itself was empty except for the waves.

Empty except for – whoops! – a huge, unlit buoy that came zooming towards Emmelène’s bow, having previously been hidden, in transit with Tammy’s shadowy form up ahead.  We just missed it.   I was surprised how fast we were moving, carried along by a decent tide and a force 3 or 4 from the NW.  We crossed the mouth of Southampton Water and followed the coast along Lee-on-Solent in a SE direction until we came to Fort Gilkicker; which, to my surprise, showed no visible light.

Pointing up to port, we tacked for some time to windward towards the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour.  We were in the shelter of Gosport; nonetheless, the wind was stiffening somewhat and I considered reducing my sail by a panel, but thought better of it.

By now it was after 4am.   It was very dark.  Several things happened simultaneously in the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour: I had wrongly assumed that Tammy-Norie had started her motor to proceed through the mouth of the harbour; a car-ferry chose precisely the moment of our arrival to manoeuvre; and Richard’s VHF died.

Seeing the ferry, I had started my engine as a matter of reassurance, though it was still in neutral.  To my surprise (but totally within his COLREGs right of way), Richard tacked across my bow whereas I thought that he would continue in a straight line ahead of me.  I took evasive action, performing a nice 360° pirouette and wishing I had reduced sail earlier.  By now we were fully exposed to the strongest wind I have ever sailed in, which was rocketing uninterrupted down Portsmouth harbour and out through the mouth.  Our previous shelter had disappeared.

So had Richard.  Tammy Norie was nowhere to be seen – or heard.  I had last seen him a few metres off my stern after I’d turned to avoid him, but he had not followed me through the harbour entrance.  My 5hp outboard, now in gear, was straining into the wind.  Thank goodness for the junk rig; with one hand, I could strike my sail quickly and completely.  My little boat inched forwards and I managed to pick up a Royal-Navy mooring, to port between Trinity’s Lightship and the Gosport Ferry.  Full of good intentions, I decided to wait for Tammy to appear and began repetitious calls to her on the VHF while preparing some hot chocolate on the stove.  The wind howled outside and sounded intimidating to my inexperienced ears.  I was tired, cold and worried about Richard. I wondered if he wanted help.

“Tammy-Norie, Tammy-Norie, Tammy-Norie, this is Emmelène, Emmelène, Emmelène, over.”   I repeated this call, to no avail, every couple of minutes.

However, Richard, though he had far greater problems on board, is not a man to fluster.  Having earlier avoided hitting Emmelène due to my being too close to him (especially his being under sail, whilst I had my motor on), he had been forced to bear away and head back out, away from the harbour, to gain sea room.  The ferry steamed quickly past, aglow with lights.  Now Richard tried his motor; but his pull-cord broke, so he had to use the emergency-starting system which involves partially dismounting the top of the engine.  Naturally, all this took time, in the dark.  He tried to call me: but his VHF had simultaneously died.

What I learned from this is:

  • Never follow a lead-boat too close or assume she has begun motor-sailing
  • Reef early
  • Problems occur in plural
  • Knowing in advance about those available Navy buoys enabled me to bail-out and wait in safety. Richard had done a great job during our pre-sail briefing, explaining safe havens.  I had never sailed into Portsmouth Harbour before, let alone at night.  But I picked up that mooring easily in the darkness, because I knew it was there.

BEEP! BRR! My breast-pocket buzzed and vibrated and I realised that I had fallen sound asleep in my cabin, on my borrowed-Navy mooring, in full storm gear, boots included.  Richard was calling me, using his phone instead of the VHF.   He had sorted his engine and was approaching my position.

We motored up to Fareham in the grey dawn, without further incident.  I was cold and irritable with fatigue when we finally moored up, and dropped into my bunk very quickly.  When I woke up, Richard’s cheery face was in Emmelène’s companionway, handing me a hot McDonald’s breakfast, steaming in its brown-paper bag.  The coffee smelt wonderful.  Our night-sail was over.

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Emmelène’s first voyage

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“Maybe this was a mistake,” I admit to thinking, as the Solent’s waves suddenly seemed to increase in size, and spray came over the cabin-top for the first time.  The steely sky frowned down and the wind, gusting in squalls, seemed to change direction all the time.  There were no other sails visible: just huge ships bearing quickly down the channel.


I pointed our bow towards Lee-on-Solent and scanned the horizon, hoping to catch sight of Tammy Norie, our sister ship and fellow-Coromandel.  She was nowhere to be seen, as yet.  My first voyage was under way, alone at the helm of Emmelène at last.

That was my first and only moment of doubt.  The rest of the trip was simply fun.

Even in that initial moment of worry, the boat was fine: Emmelène was having a great time; two panels reefed, she danced joyfully and powerfully over the waves and seemed to want to sail onwards for ever.  The only problem was psychological.  My inexperience seemed to be shouting insults at me, as if to say, “Ha!  Think you can do this, ya sissie?  Just read a load of sailing books and head off for a voyage, single-handed?  How’s ya breakfast feeling now?!”  And so on.  I realised how little I know.  But it was just a moment.

Because my little Coromandel junk took care of me.  These were not big seas, despite how they felt to me – it was just a bit of wind over tide and we sailed through it into fairer water.  Then I realised that I didn’t feel sick at all; just the remnants of slight fear.  Fear of failure.  But here we were, making excellent progress.  The fear evolved into elation.


Through the misty horizon came Tammy-Norie’s familiar Hasler-style crimson junk sail, making for Ryde and tacking westwards up the Solent.  Emmelène was on the opposite tack, a mile east, heading towards Lee-on-Solent.  We maintained our opposing courses.  Tammy leapt ahead, making way to windward, and it took me a while to realise that she was simply being sailed better:  Richard was making use of the currents along the north coast of the Isle of Wight, whilst I was fighting the tide, frequently crossing the shipping lane, and generally broadcasting my rookie status.  I humbly began to follow him.


And then, to my surprise, I overtook Tammy-Norie.  This is because of my new sail.  It’s significantly bigger than Tammy’s.   Mine is almost 20.4m² whereas Tammy’s measures, I believe, 18.3m².  Although I was reefed down a panel or two, I still had the bigger sail area.  This simple mathematical advantage improved my mood and confidence immensely, and I felt as if I could probably make it to the Polynesian Isles before tea!


We were now sailing close enough to call across to each other and we decided to try to make for Newtown Creek to anchor overnight.  In a good wind, we beat up towards the river, two junks waltzing to windward as the sun began to set.  We motored in to the creek as the wind subsided.



We anchored at the top of the “legal” area, where several other yachts had moored.   Rafting up our two Coromandels, we had some dinner and then I fell asleep in Emmelène’s quarter berth, looking up, through the open companionway hatch, at the clear stars.  It couldn’t have been a better day.


Day two started with a “re-positioning” of our two junks: we motored through the calm, sublime dawn from Newtown Creek to Keyhaven, to await the favourable tide westwards.  This photo of Tammy hasn’t been Photo-shopped or filtered in any way – the view from my stern was exactly this:


It was a timeless pleasure to hang around for a few hours on the sunny dock in Keyhaven, doing odd jobs aboard, making breakfast, and chatting to passers-by, who were intrigued by our strange sails.  Dinghies sailed past and children played on the little beach.  It felt like (I imagine) a summer’s day back in the 1950s.








Soon the tide swung in our favour, and we headed out past Hurst Castle and set course for Poole Harbour, where I have sailed a lot in the past as member of the excellent NHYC – North Haven Yacht Club.  As far back as 1983, I circumnavigated Brownsea Island (in Poole Harbour) as a Scout, aboard a “borrowed” Mirror Dinghy with a mate, returning two hours later to the wrath of our Scout leader who was understandably frantic with worry at the idea of having lost two of his troop.  (Being 11 years old, we had not mentioned our departure or intentions).



By this stage, Tammy-Norie and I were in VHF contact with Peter Brown, my friend from NHYC, who had sailed out to meet us aboard his well-found Westerly Pageant, Karenzi.  Due to his crew’s shore commitments, Peter had to return to Poole ahead of us, but we were grateful to him for organising us a comfortable mooring as guests of NHYC.


We were now on a beam reach, sailing due west across Christchurch Bay and Poole Bay in very light airs.  For most of the way, the tide was with us and we made 3 or 4 knots over ground.  Gradually, Emmelène drew ahead of Tammy-Norie, despite my choice not to trim the sail (or remove my 2 panels of reef) because I became happily distracted by my book, “The Idiot” by Dostoyevsky, which I sat in the cockpit reading, for about two hours, only looking up periodically to check our progress and to look for other boats in the vicinity.

This says a lot about the ease of use of the junk rig:  in light airs, it sails OK regardless of whether I faff with the sail trim; the rudder sits happily amidships whether or not the tiller is lashed, because of the balanced rig; and the whole setup is relaxed enough to enable an inexperienced cruiser (me) to read his book and drink tea while making a single-handed coastal passage.   I was half inclined to have a sleep, but Poole Harbour was coming into view.


We motored in through the very busy harbour mouth, with its strong counter-current and chain ferry to bear in mind.  As we made our way towards our mooring, two friends of mine, Bobi and Colin, drew alongside in their powerful fishing motor-catamaran and threw me a bag containing two freshly-caught mackerel for our dinner.  A wonderful welcome to Poole.  Thanks, guys!





We spent the next two days sailing around Poole, in the company of Amiina, Edward Hooper’s delightful Splinter 21 with the split-junk rig.


Edward’s previous sail is now on Emmelène, so the two boats look almost identical from a distance.  They even feature the same sail number, which is an oversight that I must correct this winter.  Edward’s main interest is in racing, and little Amiina is sprightly indeed, with her fin-keel and experienced skipper.  We had a lot of fun comparing boats and it was truly inspiring to see three small junk-rigged yachts sailing in convoy.  We caused plenty of interest!  We were lucky to have Karenzi sail along with us, acting as the photographer’s boat and providing us with some very nice photos of the three junks.  Thanks, Peter and Heather!


Edward took these two photos from Amiina:



We rafted-up in South Deep, Poole Harbour for lunch:



Richard has posted an excellent video to YouTube about this informal “junket” as well as other scenes from our little cruise, and he has kindly allowed me to link to it here:

And thank you Edward, for being so welcoming and hospitable:





All too soon, after just a couple of nights in Poole Harbour, shore constraints meant that we had to leave and head back towards the Solent.  The wind was almost nonexistent but it’s amazing how a little bit of tide can carry you along.  My friend Jeremy sailed out with us, in his exquisite little Willow-Bay Shilling, Margherita, with her classic lines and gaff rig:


Because of our becalmed state, I plucked up courage to raise my entire sail – all panels – and was surprised at the difference.  “No wind” suddenly became “some wind”.  Her skipper learned another lesson – and Emmelène sailed forward…


Richard suggested that we enter the Solent via the Needles Channel, which was a new route for me.  It was exciting to be so close to these spectacular rocky outcrops, and Emmelène seemed pleased, too.


Richard took these photos as we sailed towards and past the Needles:



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Having already seen Newtown River, we opted to rest in the mouth of Beaulieu River this time.  As soon as we had sailed in and anchored, two blokes came over to chat about our rig, one in a rowing dinghy and the other on a windsurfer.  We certainly had a social cruise!

My never having sailed in the dark, Richard very kindly suggested that we make a night passage, and he spent some time explaining the rudiments of nocturnal sailing.  Cups of tea in hand, with books and the chart spread out on Emmelène’s folding cabin-table, we went through the different types of ship-lighting patterns, and arranged a passage plan and also points of safety to which we could head if it all went wrong.  I’ll cover our night-sail in a later post – but it was very-enjoyable experience and unforgettable for me.

All in all, an excellent first cruise for me and Emmelène; and I know that Richard and Tammy-Norie enjoyed it, too.  I gained confidence and knowledge in light winds – and now feel ready to try slightly heavier weather conditions.  I cannot speak highly enough of the split-junk rig that I have retro-fitted to my Newbridge Coromandel.  It is brilliant.  My boat performed impeccably.

Special thanks to:

  • Richard and Tammy-Norie (his excellent blog is here) and several of the above photos are his, as is the video
  • Peter Brown, skipper, and his wife Heather, of Karenzi, at NHYC 
  • Amiina’s skipper, Edward Hooper, of the Junk-Rig Association (which is a global community of quality “junk people” – I recommend that, like me, you join it – right now!)

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Emmelène meets Tammy Norie


I have been following Richard’s blog about his Coromandel Tammy Norie for several years, and it has been a source of inspiration.  As have his videos.

So you can imagine how pleased I was when he told me that he was sailing in the Solent and would like to meet up.  I sailed Emmelène out towards Seaview (my first trial single-handed with my new sail) and there on the horizon was a familiar, red sail: Tammy’s Hasler-McLeod rig:


We negotiated a vulgar and discourteous racing group of  scows, and headed towards Bembridge, against the tide,  in our convoy of two junks; a rare sight.





Once we were rafted up in the harbour, we spent several hours comparing our boats and doing maintenance.   In particular, I was very impressed with Richard’s “can-do” attitude.  His broad experience of the sea and of boat-maintenance in general is impressive, and in no time we had dropped his mast to check the fittings and to alter the course of his VHF-antenna lead.  He soldered some coaxial fittings and we changed a bolt at the foot of his folding mast.  These are all jobs that I would find slightly daunting, or would at least think carefully about before undertaking: but Richard leaped around both boats in his bare feet and was confident and un-phased by the various jobs we did (on both Coromandels).  I kept my note-pad handy as he chatted to me, because I want to remember the suggestions he made.  He had a wide array of useful tools aboard Tammy Norie.


We enjoyed dinner in Emmelène’s cabin.   Toulouse sausages, lentils and Chianti wine.

Next morning, we both went out for a sail aboard Emmelène in order for Richard to compare his rig with my split-junk rig.  Although my rig is more complicated and experiences higher tensions than the Hasler-McLeod rig, he was pleased with Emmelène’s ability to point to windward- and her balance: the helm remained utterly central for fairly long periods, even if unattended.  Richard pointed out that this may be a useful feature when I come to build my Hebridean wind-vane: a balanced rudder will make less work for the self-steering.


It was wonderful to sail together and very enriching to meet Richard and Tammy Norie. Here’s hoping that we will be able to meet again soon and perhaps involve some other junks in a rally.

Thank you, Richard, for making the effort to come out to Bembridge, and for all the advice and guidance!



New Honda BF5 outboard: how I resolved the stiff gear-change

Having experienced several problems with my previous outboard, a second-hand 2-stroke 6HP Yamaha which came with my former boat, I decided that I would buy a new one.  Brand new.

The reason for this is that the old outboard was basically a very good-quality one, but had been extremely neglected, unused, with old petrol left in for years and even the engine itself abandoned aboard the boat and in the lowered position, meaning that the propeller and shaft had spent several winters in the sea water.  The whole engine was unloved and corroded externally. Inside the carburettor, I found a varnish / tar-like substance, which clogged the jet and float chamber.  Elsewhere, a dead sparkplug and leaking petrol connector added to the neglect.  The inside of the built-in petrol tank was rusty.  It was sad to see such disregard for a piece of engineering.

The owner is as important as the engine: a good engine can be ruined by a negligent owner.


I did my best, spending time and money in order to get that Yamaha running.  I replaced all consumables and several other items – even the rusty tank-cap, which was memorably expensive.

The Yamaha engine worked OK for three seasons but I was always rather concerned that it wouldn’t start.  Stuck on a lee shore outside Poole Harbour, drifting fast towards a groyne of huge rocks, I hurt my hand repeatedly pulling on the starter cord.  It fired at the critical last moment, on the tenth pull.  This was after servicing the engine: not before.  Once it was running, it was generally quite good: but I had no hesitation in selling it on, with the boat.  Of course, I was totally open with the buyer and he was pleased that the engine was in far better shape than it had been when I acquired it.

The new outboard:

My current boat, little Coromandel, Emmelène, came without an outboard.  I had borrowed an excellent Honda 4-stroke in order to move the boat when I first bought it (thanks, Peter!) and was impressed with its ability to push those weed-covered bilge keels through the water despite being only rated at 2.5hp.  Here it is:

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The Coromandel was recommended to have an outboard “up to 7.5hp” – if my memory of reading the brochure is correct; but I opted for a 5hp Honda BF5 with a long shaft.  I debated long-shaft or short-shaft for a long time, and am pleased that I went with the former for the Coromandel.

The decision to go with Honda was simply based on the brand’s good reputation and my admiration for the build-quality of their cars and motorbikes; I’ve maintained both.  They are brilliantly-made machines, and easy to work on.

Here is the new Honda BF5 long-shaft engine on its first day on the job:


The BF5 long-shaft weighs 28kg.  It’s just about as much mass as I would ever want to carry down to the boat.  It’s a mighty relief when it is finally resting on its mount, or laying in the back of the car!

The outboard sits in an engine well, on my boat.  This has various advantages and disadvantages compared to a stern-bracket.  The BF5 is quite a physically-big beast at the top end, and has to be twisted in order to close the hatch.  But it just about fits.

This is how much it protrudes from the outboard well:



The outboard ran perfectly for its first season last year, though it was only used for about 20 hours.  I changed the engine and gearbox oils during the winter, and flushed it through with fresh water before running the carburettor dry.  A quick spray of WD40 and it stood upright all winter, at home.

At the start of the new season, it again ran perfectly and got some quite intensive use around launch time this spring, as we moved the boat under motor along the Solent to her summer mooring.

At that point, the 1-year warranty expired.

The stiff gear change:

Within weeks of the start of the second season (and little use other than pottering round) the gear selector became noticeably stiff.  I needed two hands to budge the gear lever; and even then, it was hard.  I didn’t want to force it because the handle is made of plastic.

Back ashore came the outboard – again I was happy not to have an inboard engine – and home to Dad’s workshop.

Online, I found a lot of references to this problem for the Honda BF5.  Especially this excellent post, which I followed to the letter.

In summary, the plastic gear lever rotates a shaft.  At the other end of the shaft is a connection to the rods which actually transfer the movement down the inside of the case to the gearbox behind the propeller.

Unbelievably, this connection is directly in the path of the cooling water (salt sea water) and that salt water naturally finds its way along the shaft towards the handle – and corrodes the aluminium casing around it.  The shaft is protected from the casing by a plastic (nylon?) cylindrical bush, which gets crushed by the corrosion – making the gear change very stiff.  It eventually blocks completely.  It’s important to resolve the issue before then, as I did; otherwise it’s hard to remove the shaft from the plastic bush.

Accessing this shaft takes time – the motor itself has to come out and the pan has to be dropped.  This sounds OK and if you’re methodical, you can do it.   I followed the instructions at the above link.  But it took me a whole afternoon.  The mechanism was literally caked in salt.  I had to chip it off.

In the photo below, the connection to the rods is on the right, and the blocked shaft runs towards the left of the photo from there, through the engine casing and out towards the gear-change handle, out of shot on the left.


In the photo below, taken in the opposite direction, I have cleaned off the salt and you can see the black gear-change handle on the right:


Once you have pulled the shaft out of the bush, you drill or ream the bush to make the hole a bit bigger and then check the shaft rotates easily.  A little waterproof grease helps.  But the main thing is enlarging the hole.   You may use a drill, but an old-fashioned reamer does an even better job.  Guess who did that for me?


Then, slowly and carefully, you put the whole outboard back together.  I was gratified when mine started in the test tank– and the gear change was as easy as pie, with one hand, as it should be.

Note to Honda: this is a design fault and the BF5 gear change mechanism is unfit for purpose.  It should definitely not stiffen after 30 hours use from new.  It would be easy to protect it from pumped salt water and the plastic bush should be a much looser fit, right from the factory.  This is because it’s going to get stiffer, not looser, as the engine gradually corrodes in a marine environment.

Epilogue: the positive aspect of dismantling a one-year old Honda BF5 outboard is that I now feel utterly familiar with its layout and would be happier working on it if a crisis arose aboard.   I wish that I hadn’t had to: but now I have learned something.  Time for a cuppa, to celebrate.

“Happiness is only real when shared.”


MLN Sbks

Most of the time that I spend on my boat, I’m alone.  That’s part of the attraction: time to think, time to reflect and time away from the noise and interruption of everyday life.  Even rocking gently on a mooring is better than nothing.  I can stare at the water and listen to the sea-birds for hours.  Clouds move overhead, in seductive ways.  When I’m engaged in daily life on land, there are so many things that get in the way of true reflection.  Whereas on the boat, alone, I feel that I finally know myself.

However, that’s not quite the same thing as being “happy”.

Ten years ago, I saw the Sean Penn film “Into the wild”, based on the book by Jon Krakauer, which is about the life of a young American, Christopher McCandless.  I recommend reading Jon’s book and seeing the film; both are riveting.


The story made a big impression on me because I felt that I had so much in common with the protagonist.  Although he seeks solitude and simplicity, he concludes that “happiness is only real when shared.”  In the decade between watching the film and now, I think that I have changed; and this idea that we require input from others in order to lead a fulfilled existence, now has resonance.

So although I enjoy being on my own, the best times I have aboard Emmelène are always when I’m sharing the experience with others.


I’ve been lucky so far.  Although the cabin on a Newbridge Coromandel isn’t big, it’s sufficient for two people to sleep quite easily.  I’d say that the issue is more with the equipment that guests bring, rather than space for the person themselves.  They have to appreciate the “camping” view of comfort, rather than expect much in the way of amenities.  It’s easy to forewarn potential guests that their time aboard may be in Spartan accommodation.


The arrival of a guest is always an occasion: Emmelène gets a scrub and a spray with “Kitchen Jif” to make her cabin gleam and smell fresh.  Unlike when I’m alone, the quarter-berth is used as storage during the day, for the inevitable holdall and extra food with which people stagger down the pontoon.

But there’s also the slight stress of the meals that need to be planned, ingredients bought and preferences catered for.  One man on his own can eat whatever he likes, whenever he likes: but any guest brings with them culinary expectations of their own and a compromise has to be reached.  It’s surprising how fixed peoples’ ideas are about when and what to eat, but I’m sure they find me pretty weird, too!

Once the food is sorted, mealtimes are always better with at least two people aboard.  On my own, I find it almost essential to listen to BBC Radio 4 or read a book whilst I’m eating: but enjoying dinner or breakfast in company is one of the greatest pleasures aboard.  Love is important!






Refitting my Newbridge Coromandel “Emmelène”

Refitting a boat takes much more time and money than I thought.  Even if you do most of the work yourself.


As you may know, I bought a Newbridge Coromandel in February 2016. It’s a 20-foot sailing yacht with a junk rig.  What’s a junk rig?  It’s a Chinese-style sail, fully-battened and raised on a mast that has no stays.  Stays are those wires that you see, like guy ropes, holding up the mast on more-common, triangular Bermudan rigs.

Junks don’t have any stays because the mast simply sticks down through the cabin top and into the keel and is held captive at those two points.  As a child, if you ever made your own sailing boat from driftwood, you probably just shoved the stick mast through the hull of the boat with no other attachments.  Junks are like that.


My little junk had a significant problem: the mast had been shortened by the previous owner because he felt the boat “tipped too much”.  Furthermore, he had thrown away the bit he’d removed.

Now, I didn’t realise this until I tried to raise the sail, and discovered that not all of it could be deployed before the “yard” – a top batten rather similar to a “gaff” – had already reached the top of the stumpy mast.  In a nutshell, I could only launch 5 out of 7 panels of sail.  This is a bit like fitting tiny wheels on an ordinary bicycle.  I bought the boat sight-unseen and had never thought to check the mast was long enough.  “So THIS is why the boat was so cheap,” I mused, squinting at my vestigial sail hanging forlornly aloft.   The photo above shows what I mean.  Two entire panels are bunched-up (or “reefed”) at the bottom – but there’s no more mast available at the top to raise the sail any further.

Lessons learned:

1: check everything before you buy a boat, then re-check;

and 2: if it’s cheap, there’s a reason.


So my mast needed extending.  A new mast would have been twice the price that I paid for the boat.  Best of all would have been a new, carbon-fibre one: that was four times my purchase price.

Clearly, this mast was going to need to be extended by my own fair hand, and I had no idea about how to start.  Luckily, my dad is an excellent woodworker and knows a lot about boats in general.  He suggested a Sitka-spruce spar, epoxied into the upper end of the existing mast.  That’s what I did.  With his help; and in his workshop!  Also thanks to mum for the delicious meals that she served throughout the re-fit.  I have very accommodating and generous parents…

The wood and epoxy were sourced from the very-reliable Robbins Timber.  I recommend them.  No, they haven’t paid me to say that.  I’m just a happy customer.




In the photo below, the white mast-extension at the top can be contrasted with the original aluminium mast, into which it is epoxied.  The join is approximately a quarter of the way down.  If you can’t see it, I did a good job!


Other jobs included resealing the windows and renovating all exterior woodwork.   The main woodworking job (other than the mast extension) was a new starboard rubbing-strake.   A rubbing strake is the buffer of wood that runs along the side of almost all boats to absorb knocks.  The old one was well-rotted.

This job was one that my dad did almost entirely on his own, reclaiming some scrap teak from an old stairway and scarfing the individual pieces together, longitudinally.  He made two layers, one attached to the GRP hull and the second screwed to that, on top.  Next time it needs replacing, we will simply make the outer layer anew, and screw it on in turn.

The whole lot was treated with a product called Deks Olje, (pronounced “decks oil”) that comes from the Nordics and soaks into the wood rather than varnishing the outside surface.  Supposedly this preserves the wood very well.  We’ll see.









In addition to the considerable woodwork jobs, dad and I worked on making the cabin more comfortable and this included insulating the quarter-berth bunk.  I could find no more economical way to do this than simply using Evo-Stick glue to affix Lidl bedrolls to the inside of the hull.  It was nice and cosy when I’d finished.


The only work that I had time to do on the outside of the hull was to sand off the old antifoul and re-apply primer and a couple of new coats of antifoul.   For this, I used Hempel primer and Hempel Cruising Performer.

I was seriously running out of time: the crane was booked for 11 April.  My to-do list was nowhere near finished.





Lots of jobs didn’t get done.  I have a depth-finder and a chart-plotter still languishing in their boxes and the cabin could do with a lick of nice white paint.  Here’s my temporary arrangement for the plotter:


My on-board VHF radio still needs to be connected, but in the meantime my hand-held will have to do.  Ditto the mast-head LED light: the wires are all there and the light is installed, but not connected.  Its time will come to shine; but for now, I have no night-sailing planned.

“Sailing” – that’s the key.  I’m disappointed that to date (28 June 2017), I have done exactly NO sailing aboard “Emmelène,” as I have re-named my little Coromandel.  I have a second-hand sail, a thing of beauty, kindly provided by another member of the excellent Junk-Rig Association, which if you have read this far, I encourage you to join immediately, if not sooner.  It’s hard to overstate how useful my membership has been in just one, short year.


As you can see above, my new sail is junk in shape, but has two sail-sections on each batten.   The small “jibs” sit just for’ard of the mast and this sail provides improved upwind performance, compared to the original sail, which was the one that I could only partially raise, if you remember.  My new sail is slightly too big, but will be excellent in light airs and I’ll simply reef it in a blow.  Reefing (sail reduction, to slow down the boat) is a doddle with a junk-rig.  One of the many strengths of the whole setup.

In summary, I have worked a lot of weekends over the winter and little Emmelène looks very sweet, from a distance.  I’ve become attached to her.


She feels like she’s mine and I feel utterly at-home aboard.  Having craned her in, dad and I motored her 12 miles to her summer mooring.




At the time of writing, I am excitedly waiting for my JRA friends to double-check that I have the rigging lines set-up correctly, and a nice slight wind to try out my new sail.  I feel mixed emotions: annoyance at my inability to get everything done in time – and to have not been able to sail yet; coupled with nervous excitement, in anticipation of watching that big sail fill for the first time, and Emmelène leaning into the waves and carrying herself forward…