Hamble to Cherbourg

Much like the Titanic, we set sail from the straits of the Solent to Cherbourg in France… of course, with a small stop at the Isle of Wight for food and gin. Unbeknownst to us, the mildly choppy waters were but a small taste of what was to come, as the trip from Yarmouth to Cherbourg was a most misadventurous one. Admittedly, my narrative ability becomes quite limited at this stage as, throughout the trip, I was falling in and out of consciousness trying to sleep the seasickness away. Feeling safe and in good hands, knowing the Skylark was crewed by seasoned CUYC sailors, acknowledging my inexperience, and remembering I had a shift at 9:00 PM, I decided to join Noah who was already sleeping in the saloon.

Somewhere around the Needles, the water started getting rough, throwing me around the saloon. That was until captain Fraser introduced me to the world of lee cloths, and I became a reformed man. It was at this stage, having risen from my disrupted slumber, I also realised that, were I to stand up, I only had a couple of minutes before I would vomit. I hugged the mast tightly and trusted in Fraser to set up the lee cloth in time. He did, just barely, and crisis was averted as I found myself again in a horizontal position. The day turned into night, and I remember listening to the strange sounds of the mast, the wind, and the sea, along with the prevailing sickness that haunted the crew. Three quarters of the men onboard this vessel (or every man but the captain) had been rendered incapacitated. I could hear Noah and Joshua vomiting steps away from me and the bucket switching hands faster than the waves hitting the boat. I felt the tension… a tension evident from Fraser’s swift jumps from station to station and from crewmate to crewmate, trying to keep morale up and ensure the boat kept on its course. It is quite scary to overhear a conversation between your captain and your first mate, discussing how “we’re halfway through, it doesn’t make sense to turn back now.” To make matters worse, I had long become aware that any attempt to stand up would render me a puking mess, like Noah and Joshua. (I was correct.) The rhythmic motion of towels above my head and breathing exercises had kept my condition under control, but the sight of people coming downstairs cold and wet while I was lying down made me deeply discontented. Enveloped in faint red light, I saw the dark figure of first mate Lidia, like a ghost at sea, puking in an almost sombre, perhaps even solemn way, before attempting to sleep on the navigation table. The only words I could address to this dark figure were “I’m so sorry Lidia”, words that remained unanswered, or addressed with the singular “it’s okay.” I don’t know about you and what you would have done, but this was a wake-up moment for me, quite literally. I had to get ready, and kit up; this process took more than an hour and backfired spectacularly towards the end. After each action, I proceeded to lie down and get my nausea under control. It all went well, until the final moment, where I accidentally passed the tipping point, and no amount of lying down could save me. Post-puke-clarity was refreshing, welcome even, and I made my way up on deck. However… I had lost my senses, and thinking became difficult. I was placed at the helm, tasked to keep that devilish compass pointing south, an impossible task. The compass won this fight, and, upon puking on deck again, I decided to go downstairs to recover and try again later.

It was 2:30 AM when the captain loudly shouted: “All hands on deck!” That’s when I said to myself, “it’s over, the boat is sinking.” As it turns out, the boat was not in fact sinking, and the situation was a bit less dire. The jib’s furling line had snapped, stopping us from getting it down; we had to send three people to the bow to manually stow it away. Being a rather inexperienced sailor, I thought to myself, “surely they’re not going to send me.” I was mistaken. The line-up was Annabelle, myself, and Noah, but he quickly got substituted by Sarah as his dear friend, the puke bucket, became one with his sweet embrace yet again. I looked into Annabelle’s blue eyes, hard and shiny like little glass marbles, and, taking in the misery in her gaze, thought to myself “this might be the last time I see those eyes.” Of course, it wasn’t that bad, and I was being a major drama queen, but I had your attention for a moment. With the help of Fraser, we got the sail down and tied it to the railings. After, you guessed it, another nap, we had nearly reached Cherbourg, and I was fresh as a cold wet hungover daisy… well, fresher than the sleepless souls on this boat from Hell. And, just like that, we had reached France!

Cherbourg

How dear can land be to a sailor? I did not feel the need to kiss the ground I stood on, but I did appreciate not being at the mercy of the channel. As it was my first time in France, I tried to take it all in. The views, the people, the culture… it all felt like, well, a nicer, more homely, version of Southampton. It also turns out that border security is very lax in France, as nobody even bothered to check our boat. Apparently the harbour master is of the opinion that, as long as we are gone within a day or two, it’s easier not to fill in too much paperwork. And that’s how Skylark entered the smuggling business. (I kid, of course.)

Much like after a proper hangover, breakfast was in order. I ventured with Noah to the centre of Cherbourg and its open market. It was a sunny day, a true homage to spring. The warm fluffy buttery taste of my pain au chocolat more than justified the pain in the ass that this trip proved to be. It certainly makes one understand that life is not solely composed of tasks, but of tastes. Tastes like the falafels purchased cheaply and in bulk from a random seller at the market paired with generous bites of my chicken saucisson. A trip to the local wine merchant and bookshop was in order. Mind you, I cannot read French, but I can drink wine, so the former was far more useful. I emerged victorious with two bottles of wine. We all ended the day with crêpes, both sweet and savoury.

Storm Dave had us stuck in France for a tiny bit longer and Sunday started off with a solo trip to the local Carrefour, one of the finest establishments I have ever set foot in. I spent way too long debating whether I should buy champagne and also looking for herbal supplements with ginger. Apparently, ginger has been used by mariners since the dawn of sailing to keep seasickness at bay. However… the only supplement I could find also contained maca and Siberian ginseng and was marketed as a libido booster. Fearing the unintended side effects of this medical intervention, I opted to stick with Sturgeron and ginger crystals. I was also tasked with bringing back to the boat a number of medium-sized Easter eggs for an Easter egg hunt on the boat. Turns out, Lidia and I have a very different understanding of the word medium… It goes without saying that we had enough chocolate on board to last us till Hamble. The day concluded with a trip to the local maritime museum, Cité de la Mer, where we toured the first French nuclear submarine, the Redoutable, commissioned on 1 December 1971 and decommissioned in 1991.

Cherbourg to Hamble

With the bilge filled to the brim with alcohol and saucisson sec, we set sail for Portsmouth? Brighton? Hamble? North! I had learned a lot about what it takes to get through a passage, and I was ready to put it to practice. I was prepared, determined, and alert; ready to face the waves and prove my worth. Sadly, the weather was rather beautiful, so the best I could do was helm, and helm, and helm some more.

Honestly, the passage was pretty uneventful and quick, as we were cruising up the channel at a consistent eight knots and minimal waves, which made the eight knots feel like four. Well, I say uneventful, but that excludes the Russian warship and accompanying submarine that we happened to approach with the Skylark. When I wasn’t helming, I exercised my role as a photographer, taking pictures of the Russian fleet; I have included some for your eyes only.

No marina in Portsmouth would take us, so the Skylark moored in Hamble yet again. This started the long journey back to Cambridge…