Priory Bay

Friday was set aside for Mr B’s work. (Some would not regard it as such.) Back to Gosport we went, met with the owner of the yacht we had sailed on Monday, and over a midmorning breakfast at the marina cafe, listened to his disappointment that his agents in Florida haven't found the perfect house for him to buy. To be fair his criteria list is long and very specific and the agents must groan inwardly when they see his caller number on their phone. He loves to talk, says so himself, and the breakfast topics ranged from having some operation on his thumb (complete with detail that made me pleased I'd ordered avocado on toast), to theories on super yacht sinkings, from his builder having a stroke, to himself now having a personal trainer (he is possibly appraching his 8th decade).

Just nod. Resistance (or a differing view) is futile.  Never let a day's work get in the way of a good breakfast.  Mr B and I had to get the furling headsail down (for non-sailors, sail on the front that gets put away by rolling it around the wire from front of boat to top of mast; suffice to say technology has equipped it with 'mechanisms').  Parts of said mechanisms had succumbed to the corrosive effects of sea water; merely three rivets, but rivets, apart from being used decoratively by steampunk enthusiasts, generally speaking, hold things together.

Things,  no longer held together, had moved and declined to be moved back.  Mr B had to be winched to the top of the mast. Shall I bore you with a description of how many lockers I had to empty, and their contents, seeking the bosun's chair? I'd incorrectly assumed Mr B knew where important things were.

Why do they never believe you when you say it's not there? "What do you mean NOT THERE?" I thought the meaning was patently obvious: not in the place you directed me to look.

"Well it must be somewhere else!"

"You don't say."

Then you have to restow everything that came out. It doesn't pay to ask why they still have this or that thing taking up space in overcrowded lockers.

After much muttering and struggling at the mast head Mr B requested that a set of allen keys be hoist up to him. That involved more emptying of lockers and inspection of the contents of assorted tool boxes. 

"Metric or imperial?"

All this while the sail had been reeled out and had gone from hanging like limp laundry in dead air, to cracking and shuddering as it strained forward over the pontoon whipping its sheets ('bits of rope' to normal people) around like some medieval weapon when the breeze picked up.

My plan to drop it neatly on the foredeck got completely stymied as, finally released from whatever was trapping it at the top, it shot down the forestay like it was on greased rails, and fell in a tangled heap on the pontoon and into the water.

Sail out of the way we could start work on what we came here to do. (Ever heard that saying about being so busy fighting alligators you forget you came here to drain the swamp?)  Another half hour was spent unjamming parts that refused to move (first rule of engineering - hit it with a hammer. If that doesn't work, get a bigger hammer.) Actually we winched it; first with one halyard and then a couple of halyards (more bits of rope).

Remnants of old rivets drilled out and new rivets finally installed - stainless steel this time - we could at last rehoist the headsail, furl it, and get ready to go sailing.

For the second time this week a pleasant and sunny sail out of Portsmouth Harbour, this time to Priory Bay on the Isle of Wight, anchored, lunched, and motored back because the sea breezes had failed to fill in and the late afternoon was very calm.

Priory Bay to Seaview

View towards Bembridge

One of His Majesty's warships on its way in, small commercial tanker on its way out.

Looking toward Seaview

View towards Portsmouth Harbour entrance 

No Man's Land Fort

Back end of the IoW hovercraft having just hovered up the beach at Southsea.