We left the South Coast in early summer 2000 heading for the Med. Apart from my only crew member jumping ship in La Corunna after a lumpy four days crossing the Bay, things were generally going well.
My boat, a Franns Mass Raider, had been refitted during the previous winter and reorganised for single-handed sailing. Main and headsail furling, all the strings running back to the cockpit and an electronic navigation system straight out of Star Wars.
Those modifications, together with all that could be provided to make a safe and relatively easy voyage, made Four Two a comfortable and an extremely seaworthy little 11 meter deep sea cruiser.
Having tried in vain to convince my young “weekend Solent sailor” that the worst was over and the rest of the trip down to Gib would be a banyan, I waved him goodbye as he scurried off down the jetty and I grudgingly accepted that I would spend the rest of the cruise talking to myself and - even more depressing - making my own tea.
After a couple of lay-days in Bayona enjoying the comforts of the Bayona Club Noutica, I continued my short-hop, day-sailing excursion, down the Spanish and Portuguese coast heading for the Mediterranean.
I'm pretty confident that with even averagely favourable winds, Four Two could make Gib from Ushunt in ten days or maybe better. It actually took me 65. But I now know most, if not all, of the ports, harbours, rias, pubs, bars and restaurants between Finisterre and Cadiz. I even remember some of the nicer ones.
I had decide at the outset, to avoid, where possible, the large commercial marinas and make use of the numerous anchorages along that western coast. That's how I happened upon the very pleasant little Spanish harbour of Lexi.
Set back in a cove surrounded by low meandering hills that look down on a gently curving beach, the town nestles at the southern end of a half moon bay, safe from the notorious unpredictability of Atlantic weather.
The seaward approach from the north west is deceiving in that until you are well within the bay, there is little evidence that there is a town at all. It is only when you clear the natural arm on the eastern side of the bay, which forms one side of the inner harbour, that you see the cluster of houses running up the hillside high above the small fishing jetty that juts into the calm waters of the refuge. You are in the harbour, before you know you are 'in the harbour'.
The entrance and the sea outside were almost flat as I motored in and the forecast for the next day or so was good. It being late evening I decided that rather than try to find a berth on the fish dock I would spend that night anchored off the beach at the northern end of the bay. I dropped the hook well away from the main channel and about three cables from a fellow traveller who I had followed in through the deep water entrance to the bay.
Flying the Irish Tricolour, my neighbour called me up on 16 and before long his dinghy was alongside ready to ferry me off to his very comfortable and well appointed, Dublin-based lugsail ketch.
The varnish work aboard the 10 meter all-wooden, traditionally-built two master left me quite embarrassed and I only hoped my ferry driver had not paid too much attention to the pathetic finish on my little bits of timber when he came alongside to collect me.
Introductions over, we sat in the cockpit, a newly filled and trimmed oil lamp gently swinging from a lanyard on the back stay, rocked by the last of the ebbing tide as it swept beneath the long keel and out of the bay into the Atlantic.
The crimson shadows cast by the late evening sun as it dipped reluctantly over the western sky added tranquillity to a scene that money could not buy. The twinkling dots from the house lights forming a necklace around the bay front made it all seem quite magical.
The hours came and went un-challenged by any need to consider time as an enemy or sleep as an obligation.. As we talked, at ease with our surroundings and with each other, Mum fed us on warm, fresh-baked soda bread, Irish butter and sizable chunks of strong cheese.
As we mused and solved the problems of the world, as is a sailor's wont, we washed it down with copious draughts of my host's exceedingly more-ish Irish whiskey and several glasses of what I assumed to be Irish scrumpy.
The crew of Daventree comprised Mum and Dad, a wily old fellow with the complexion of a well-weathered oak, the son, a professional man I deduced, in his mid 40s, and his wife, a small pretty lady with that healthy hue that seems to be a pre-requisite for Colleens from the Emerald Isle.
They welcomed me as though I had been a friend of the family for years, and I wondered if there could be a better way to spend time. It seemed Dad, accompanied by Mum, the chef, would just up and go sailing whenever the mood took them. What a great philosophy, I thought. To add to the enjoyment they all, including the ladies, knew more Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman jokes than I had heard in 30 years at sea.
Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, I had to insist it was time to go and three of my companions volunteered to row me home. Only Mum stayed aboard Daventree and she waved enthusiastically as we pulled away, her warm friendly smile broad as a house in the light of the oil lamp.
Mellowed considerably by the deceivingly strong “apples,” liberally enhanced by the spirit of the golden nectar and invigorated by the laughter and good conversation I had enjoyed that evening, I eventually climbed, with some difficulty, back over the rail of Four Two.
I merrily wished my congenial hosts adieu as I climbed down through the hatch and fell blissfully asleep, unwashed and uncaring, fully clothed and on the first bunk I came to at the bottom of the companionway.
As it pierced the semi darkness of the cabin, the morning sun unfortunately brought a stark awareness. I sat up and had the distinct impression that there was a huge great hole where my head had once been. Even the gentle lapping of the slight surface chop against the side of the boat sounded like the inside of a boiler shop on overtime.
“Never mix your drinks, laddy.” The words of an old three-badge sailor came back to me with vengeance. Gathering my senses I looked at the deck watch. 1130. My plans to sail off at first light had missed the mark by more than a handful. What the hell. Who was I racing with anyway?
When I eventually struggled up to the cockpit I was greeted by the sight of an empty space where my drinking buddies and only neighbour of the night before had been anchored. My head bore witness to the fact that their presence had not been an Irish Myth.
Further proof presented itself as I noted with some amusement that my Blue Ensign, my RNSA warranted flag of office if you like, had gone. In its place was a brand new green, white and orange Tricolour pinned to which was a note stating that my flag had been “Confiscated by the Irish Navy as it had been seen still hoisted after sunset.” What could I say?
After a light breakfast and a half-hour soak in the chill waters of the harbour, I checked my charts and considered my options. With about five hours of daylight left and not really feeling the full ticket yet, I decided that perhaps an early night and a daybreak start would be the best proposition - a mistake I was later to regret.
But I retrieved my Blue Ensign a couple of hundred miles down the coast when Daventree and I once again shared another sleepy out of the way anchorage. It cost me four bottles of Rioja, a bottle of Mount Gay, a large banana and a boat hook - but that's another story.
Captain Bob Henderson spent 18 years in the Royal Marines and then 25 years at sea as a ship's master. He spent several long leaves skippering private and commercial pleasure boats from 45 footers to 170 superyachts, and took a sabbatical to go around the Med and the Caribbean in his own 35-foot yacht, Four Two. He currently has a powerboat based in Dover.
