Waking up on a mooring buoy was, and still is, a magical experience. When we first arrived in Poole Harbour we’d only twice before woken up detached from land. Once, on a sailing course and a second time, on the Isle of Man. The first, though unforgettable, had been a journey we followed, rather than led. The second was momentous, part of an epic tale we’ll forever recall. Our time on that mooring buoy was fleeting however, as we left at dawn to catch the tidal stream which helped us reach Maryport before the locks closed.
This time, we had a lie in, then lazed in the cockpit as we enjoyed a late breakfast watching the morning activity on the water. Our view no longer blocked by other boats, or weather defences, as it was at Portland.
Late morning we prepared the outboard motor and tender for our first foray ashore – we needed to go and collect our car from Portland – and nearly found ourselves stranded before we’d begun. We’d had the outboard running for a while for a test run, then turned it off as we finished preparing. It wouldn’t restart. We were a little disturbed as this was to be our ‘car’ on the water and we needed to be able to rely on it. Not to mention that it was new!
Suffice to say, this turned out to be one of many cases of user error. Something that is becoming so common over time, with us constantly attempting to learn how to use or do something new, that ‘user error’ is fast emerging as our slogan for life. Something not working? Damn thing! Wait, are you sure it’s not user error?….
After working through our mechanical difficulties and trying to ensure we had everything we may need, we began our first trip from our new home location to the Port of Poole – the marina where we would be keeping the tender when on shore. It was quite an escapade across the water. We vigilantly followed the buoys that marked out the route from the end of our channel and up to the marina – in time we discovered that we needn’t have bothered, as the buoys were there to mark out a route for vessels with greater draft than our little boat.
We were by far one of the smallest, and certainly the slowest vessel we could see on the water. Remember what I’d said about traffic in my last post? Here there was definitely a leap of faith, or hope, that the sail and motor boats which towered above us would note that we were there!
A few hours later, we were ready to head back across the harbour to Lanita. Unfortunately, we quickly found that our tender is of the size that involves getting a bit of a soaking, more so if you’re up front. We arrived back altogether more damp and salty than we had left, and in dire need of a solution to avoid taking a saltwater shower every time we traversed the 20-30 minute journey between our vessel and the shore.
With the tender and outboard back on board, and some warm, dry, sets of clothes for ourselves, we soon allowed the comfort of our cockpit to lull us into a state of relaxation. All difficulties were soon forgotten as we enjoyed wine and dinner under a sunset sky snuggled inside jackets, breathing in the cool, early spring air. The waxing crescent moon, with Venus by her side, shone down above the fluorescent orange glow.
Eventually the final colours faded away, gradually enveloped by a darkness gliding east to west. A white glow shone from the lights of Poole Port across the water, while the number of visible stars in the sky increased by the moment. Lanita gently drifted from side to side – a planetarium experience like no other. We stayed outside, gazing upwards, until we could bear the cold no more.
No longer on solid ground
We soon realised one of the biggest hurdles we would work through, albeit mostly subconsciously, was the acclimatisation to life on an ever-moving surface. Movements on a mooring buoy were more fluid. In calmer weather we bobbed around, or found ourselves circling as the tide changed direction. When the wind picked up, Lanita would begin to canter through the sea, bow up and then stern. Restrained at the bow by the mooring strops, this sometimes created a mid-motion jerk. A flighty vessel, trying to break free. In those first few nights, when the wind came from the east – the one direction from which we had next to no protection – incessantly rocking us to and fro, I sometimes awoke and wished I could get off the ride. Others, I stirred from slumber in a slight panic, wondering who was at the helm, fearing we were going to crash. Before fully awakening and remembering where we were. More than once I thought, won’t the boat stop moving for just a moment?!
Those first few days were so windy we felt we couldn’t safely leave the boat. Trapped in our paradise.
It was a game of the mind, trying to relax into it. I was in my home, after all, all of my comforts with me. Sometimes, however, I longed for a walk, to stomp on solid ground, to sit in stillness. Surrounded by cold water and racing currents, it wasn’t possible to just jump in the water and swim. At times I felt a little wobbly, a feeling I never fully understood. Not seasick, but not adjusted.
As we’re all aware, periods of stress oftentimes lead to shorter tempers and people more likely to misunderstand each other. Lost as they are in their own distress. We discovered there was adaptation needed for us as a pair, finding a way to give each other space, where there wasn’t necessarily space to be had. Our first argument brought the largest challenge, when the oft-taken-for-granted option of walking away to regroup and decompress was no longer there!
The explorations begin
By Thursday evening, after four full days on board, the weather had calmed enough for us to take a trip out in the tender. We set our sights on Brownsea, the island we’d begun looking forward to exploring as we’d sat in Portland researching our future home. A National Trust reserve that is known for its population of red squirrels, as well as a wide variety of avian species.
At the tiller for the first time, and having spent longer studying the map, I was carefully scrutinising the shoreline trying to understand from which point we could land – a good portion of the northern shore being out of bounds to allow wildlife to thrive. I judged terribly. Not in finding a location we could safely land without disturbing other animals (this I managed), but in finding an inviting section of coast to arrive at. We have an inflatable tender, so of course, there is a risk of punctures. The area I chose to land was a gently sloping mixture of small rocks and shells. Far from ideal for a boat full of air.
By sheer will, we managed to lift the tender (and outboard motor) over the coarse, often sharp, slope until we reached a small, round grassy area. The softness was wonderful relief for our unhardened feet. A stone circle filled the grassy floor we now stood upon.
It was, most certainly, an absolute pleasure to feel we were using our legs again. Though there is enough space on Lanita for a variety of exercise, this somehow seems to need much more willpower to undertake than going out and putting one foot in front of another. Relishing as the scenery changes with each step you take.
It’s easy to forget how wonderful it feels to be surrounded by green, making the magnificence of it so much more breathtaking. Bushes lined the path up away from the shore and eventually gave way to taller hardwood and pine, the sweet scent of vegetation replacing the salty air.
There! A red squirrel ran across my track and paused before bounding up the nearest brown trunk. Birdsong filled the air, each species singing a different melody. So peaceful here. Enclosed within the safety of the woodland, the wind was merely a distant rustling in the canopy above.
Back down the slope. A rowing boat passes, then a small fleet of sailboats with spinnakers out. They move slowly by, a colourful splash gliding across the water in synchrony. The surface ripples, as though we stand at the edge of a small and inviting lake. But as we board the tender once more and round the corner, the easterly awaits. No longer protected by the land, we’re faced with waves gushing over the inflated sides. Battling against the elements, we work our way back to Lanita, trying not to get too much of a soaking on route!
The following day we headed out for an afternoon sail. We left our mooring in conditions that, if we’d have been in the marina, would have been too daunting for us to move. But at the mooring buoy, we just slip the strops and we go. Back out the way we’d come one week previously. Lanita joyfully rocked and rolled as we exited the harbour channel.
It was just a short sail, a half day down the coast past Bournemouth and back. Miki sat opposite me as George (the autopilot) had the helm, a blissful quiet between us. Both, for a moment, free from navigation duties. Soaking in the peace – perfect winds, sun gently warming, clear skies giving us visibility for miles. Barely a few miles from Poole, beauty on all sides. The white cliffs of the Isle of Wight; the seafront we’d often cycled along a few years previously, during a six-month stay in Bournemouth; Old Harry’s rocks marking the start of the Swash Channel – the entrance to Poole Harbour; and behind me, the English Channel. France too far away to be visible but I know it’s there, enticing.
We made it back into Poole Harbour before the scheduled ferry. A cargo ship, in fact, rather than a ferry. A 100odd metre long one! Back down our little channel we go, avoiding the dishevelled rows of buoys and boats.
Finally attached, engine off and dinner made, we sat down for another glorious sunset. We’d done it. A quick afternoon sail. It was what we’d envisioned for our time coming to a mooring buoy, and so far, it’s worked. At least once a week we sail, we said. These turned out to be slightly bold aspirations, sometimes other plans, the weather or tiredness getting in the way, but the buoy certainly emboldened us to get out and try.
By the end of our first week on our mooring buoy we’d had four days in a row without touching land; a mini exploration on Brownsea Island; and an afternoon sail. Delighted, exhausted, rewarded… so many emotions flowed through as we reflected on the beginnings of this summer adventure.
Settling in
The day slows, and so do I. Blue skies with candy floss clouds overhead, slowly being engulfed by a blanket of heavy grey. This, in turn, gives way to rays of light, casting beams through the dullness. Clouds shaped distinctly by a golden glow, highlighted by the remnants of the setting sun. The undulating hills, a seascape on land.
A clear scent in the air, not salty, despite floating on the sea, the brisk temperature perhaps? A waft of dinner, ready, from within.
Brownsea Island, alive with the chatter of birds, a variety of songs, so many species. Water lapping at the boat and in the distance to the east, a hum of engines, land not so far as to silence it completely.
Soft rosey tones fill the surroundings, water ripples blue, grey, pink. Then suddenly, the delicacy gives way to the strength of the sun, finally reappeared. Its final farewell for the day. A deep orange betrays its power, despite the late hour. Then, gone. There are mere minutes now until the close of the day. My body feels it, welcomes it. Atuning to nature’s schedule, of light and of dark.
