The human condition 

Sam Llewellyn ponders cruising strategies and the human condition

It was a beautiful day. To the northeast, Loch Torridon was sinking below the horizon. Far ahead, the Cuillins of Skye lay jagged across the rim of the world.

A gentle breeze blew from the north, and our course was just about due south. Naturally we were carrying every stitch of sail.

Which does not mean much, really. There was merely the mainsail, boom steadied with a preventer to quell accidental jibes. There was the jib, goosewinged and poled out. And to catch any stray drop of air there was the cruising chute, poled out too.

So there it all was, and the cockpit was full of ‘a spaghetti’ of sheets and miscellaneous lines on which I reclined, sipping Earl Grey and steering with a negligent toe.

A catspaw of breeze ruffled the Earl Grey.

I frowned at it. On a dead run in force 2 there should be no apparent wind. I glanced over the stern.

The sea had lost its soothing, rippled air. Now it looked as if you could have grated cheese on any part of it, and the waves had the white saw-edges of force 5. Wedging the teacup in the halyard bag,

I clipped the harness to the jackstay, shuffled forward to the mast, and tried to pull the whisker pole out of its mooring on the mast. Naturally it would not come. Equally naturally, the wind chose this moment to curl around behind the mainsail, and we gybed.

Thanks to the preventer the boom could not slam over, which was nice for the mast and my head, but not for the boat, which heeled steeply to port. The cruising chute, seeing a chance to join in, made a noise like gunfire and filled the wrong way. The deck became somewhat vertical.

Water began pouring into my lee boot.

There was more like this, best ignored, since sailing stories tend to stress disaster at the expense of joy, becoming boring as a result.

So I will merely observe that the booming-out poles came off, and the preventers were de-rigged, and the sails came down, and after I had managed to pull the cruising chute from under the boat I put in a reef, changed my socks, threaded the breaking rocks defending the anchorage, and dropped anchor in a sheltered corner far from the outside world.

Later that night, I made the usual vows.

Never be over- canvassed while running. If you think it will be a good idea to shorten sail after you have had a cup of tea, do it now and have the tea later. If you think it will be a good idea to shake out a reef, have a cup of tea first, and then think about it.

It is of course possible to be too careful. One of the reasons for going sailing is to have fun. And flying a spinnaker is fun.

So is piling sail on in a gaffer until you are flying jib, tow foresail, flying jib, topsail, mainsail and watersail, and the opposition gets the idea that the Great Pyramid of Cheops is bearing down on them from astern.

But this is racing, as anyone will tell you. The sensible cruising person proceeds with a sail area exactly appropriate to the wind strength and the nature of the passage.

So here we are, having learned hard lessons…

…on a broad reach under genoa only. Hull speed is 6.2 knots, and the log says 5.5. No point in messing about with mainsails, then, let alone cruising chutes.

Though of course .7 of a knot is .7 of a knot. To get her up to hull speed would make the passage shorter. And a bit of roar from the wake would be exciting. Oh, go on, then. Pull up the mainsail.

And while we’re at it, what about the cruising chute?

Sam Llewellyn, author and yachting journalist.