A Tale of Two Yachts: One Century Separates Our Sailing Couples' Remarkably Similar Cruises

By Barbara White

A joyous comparative study of two kindred voyages undertaken a lifetime apart.

In early summer 2015, following recent retirement, Barbara and Robert White left Plymouth, UK, on their elderly sailing yacht Zoonie, heading westwards to commence their circumnavigation. Eighty-seven years before them, in l

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara White
• Release date: May 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739687410

Barbara White

Sailing came into Barbara's life when she was a young girl. Aged nine, with her father and brother, she built a flat pack Heron dinghy and spent the next six years sailing and racing her off the beach at Worthing, the town where she was born. The challenge and pleasure of sailing has been a perennial thread running through the six decades of her life since then.Although she started sailing big boats in her twenties, the charm and immediacy of dinghy sailing is as dear to her today as it was back then, and with her husband, Rob, she still sails the dinghy she helped build all those years ago.At eighteen she embarked on her first voyage with the Sail Training Association (STA), and many years later became a watch leader for the renamed Tall Ships Youth Trust (TSYT), a volunteer role she undertook for a decade.While raising her daughter, Emily, by herself, Barbara graduated with an Open University Arts Degree and qualified as a middle school teacher, before transitioning to a self-employed driving instructor, allowing her to take long periods off work to go big ship sailing. Barbara began her sailing blog, blog.mailasail.com/zoonie, in 2014, on which she is still active, and she has written travel pieces for the likes of Yachting Monthly, Yachting World, Sailing Today and Practical Boat Owner. In 2015 Barbara and Rob retired and having spent the two previous years planning their circumnavigation on Zoonie, their 40-foot Oyster 406, they were both ready to set off. The first half of this six-year voyage is documented in A Tale of Two Yachts, her debut book.Now back on solid ground, Barbara and Rob live in Dorset, South West England, though they look forward to many more adventures aboard Zoonie in the years to come.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Blazing Beaches of A Coruña

Preparations

When does a journey begin? Perhaps with the first idea, on pulling in the last mooring line, while saying the final goodbye or when the excuses to stay run dry. People have different ways of retiring; for us the freedom from work gave us the chance to set sail and explore the world when the alternative of watching daytime TV or walking the dog would simply not provide the adventure and challenges we craved.

We chose an old, affordable Oyster 406 (40 ft 6 in) yacht for our new home, so the three of us could grow old gracefully, and set to making all the alterations and upgrades we thought we would need, plus quite a few we had not planned for. It was clear from the start we had bought a special class of yacht that had a quality of build and clever design, just like Erling Tambs’ Teddy. Built in 1989, our yacht’s fibreglass hull is reassuringly thick, and the quality of the teak interior is a pleasure to the eye. She is basically an apartment with an en suite double bedroom at each end and a living area and galley in between.

Zoonie, courtesy of ARC Portugal 2014

Rob – relatively new, number three husband of mine – and I were immensely fortunate to be free to sail away when commitments and health could so easily have prevented us from doing so. But to make that possible we have had to make sacrifices that other folk would be unwilling to make. Wondering how our long absences would affect our relationships with our very young and rapidly growing grandchildren, to say nothing of the dog, were a concern.

We had collected Toby from the South Yorkshire Springer Spaniel Trust five years before, knowing we would have to re-home him prior to our departure. Finding a new home was easy; recovering from the emotional shock took longer. It was like losing a lover, knowing he was functioning happily in a new home away from us, and the part I could not take was the possibility we might never see this dear friend of ours again. Fortunately, his new owners, Tracey and Darren, were happy for us to join them and their other dogs for walks on our home visits, and straightaway the finality was taken away. Toby was actually better off than he was with us in two ways: first, he had lots of other dogs for company all the time; second, he made it onto the humans’ bed at night!

As for our two-legged kin, Rob’s ailing father passed a few months before our leaving, and my mother, whom we cared for when she lived with us for the last six years of her life, had died a couple of years before. Rob’s mum was in good health and had family all around her. So this just left the youngsters and the many life changes that are inevitable at their age. We had witnessed university graduations, including mine; boyfriends and girlfriends becoming fiancées, spouses and parents; and would return a year into the voyage for the wedding of Rob’s daughter, our youngest. So, the time was right to set off – we only pass this way once, and it seems that when opportunity beckons it would be rude to not follow.

Erling tried a life ashore before he bought and prepared a wooden-hulled 40-foot pilot cutter designed by Colin Archer called Garibaldi, which he had known since he was a boy due to her illustrious career. Erling learned how she would go to sea under her brave commander in the most tempestuous conditions, ‘through foam and darkness’, as Erling said. The commander eventually died while on board, and once in his possession, Erling renamed her ‘Teddy’ after receiving sponsorship from the Teddy tobacco company in Larvik where they made his and Julie’s favourite cigarettes.

Like us, Erling put in much personal effort and funding to prepare Teddy for extended cruising, assisted by the sponsorship and an advance for his literary contributions to a Norwegian newspaper.

When Erling describes Teddy’s cabin he could be talking about Zoonie’s: ‘Warm colours, gay cushions, and cheerful decorations.’ In addition Zoonie oozes warm teak and contrasting strips of holly in the floors, and cream leather-look headlinings. I cannot comment on their drinks cabinet, but ours was nicely full. However, whereas we value an engine to keep us out of trouble and enable us to safely enter and leave port, Erling scorned engines on boats. A preference that would cost him dearly.

An advocate of Occam’s razor, Erling covered the food side of things with a sack of potatoes and a fishing line. So simple. Makes my efforts look like preparation for a royal banquet.

With his new wife Julie aboard Teddy, Erling called in to Arendal, Norway, to collect his custom-built dinghy when the Chief of Police came aboard and banned them from sailing. Imagine all that preparation and dreaming, and at the final post a seemingly insurmountable hurdle arises. A lively discussion ensued, and the argument was that there were no spare sails or nautical instruments and few books, tables or charts. The crew was too shorthanded and the card compass, they felt, could not be relied upon.

It is testimony to Erling’s determination, listening skills and intelligence that he sussed there was no law to prevent him from sailing. The harbour master, who accompanied the Chief of the Police on board the next day, conceded defeat and, shaking Erling’s hand in an act of friendship, commented, if I were younger, I should have loved to go with you.

Our impetuous couple spent a last peaceful night at anchor in Ulvoysund, a pretty estuary on the southern tip of Norway, before setting off. Erling was forty years old and Julie was just twenty-eight.

Ulvøysund, the starting point for our brave couple

Erling’s boisterous departure

In 1928, sixteen days of gales shoved Teddy unceremoniously across the North Sea, and Erling found great difficulty in making an accurate identification of the Dutch coastline and lights due to the shortfall of dead reckoning in the strong wind and out-of-date charts. The Dutch coastal waters are shallow for a long way offshore, and Teddy was careering towards disaster as Erling fought to take her about while the steep, cruel waves had other ideas and kept heading their vessel towards the shore.

Julie was supporting him all the while. Her nails ripped and fingers bleeding, she threw her arms around his neck and cried, It does not matter, Erling, as long as we are together. Such faith and courage, dear Julie. As if the soul of Teddy’s commander had heard her, her bow started to plough through the giant waves, rattling the blocks and setting the sails slapping like a round of cannon fire to bring the three of them onto a safe seaward course.

Shortly afterwards Erling was blinded by the flashing light of Haak Lightship. Unable to check his course on the compass, he did not spot the lightship’s anchor buoy until the last moment and just missed it. Erling wrote about the near miss with typical positive thinking: ‘But what a stroke of marvellous good luck’… for his navigation, anyway.

After three weeks in Le Havre, Teddy was sailing westwards down the English Channel and into the high seas of the Biscay. Passing steamers blew their whistles and dipped their flags in greeting and bonhomie. They had set off later in the sailing year than us, and Erling was conscious of the advancing autumn, so he resisted the temptation to heave-to and wait out the strong winds, preferring to use them.

When on board a sailing vessel you get used to the familiar sounds of the water, rigging, sails and hull all playing together like a well-coordinated orchestra. So much so that a new, different sound stands out as odd and mysterious. Ignore it at your peril. On one night watch Erling heard an unfamiliar distant knocking, which woke him from a momentary doze. He dashed on deck to find a mighty windjammer bearing down on Teddy on the starboard tack. By the skin of her teeth Teddy bore away as Erling pushed the helm down, and they were clear. A man standing by the poop rail on the sailing ship said in French, You have the good luck, Monsieur! But what was the cause of the noise? Was it the staysail sheet flapping on the cabin top? Or the old pilot whose soul sailed with them along their journey? Perhaps it was his benevolent hand tapping the sheet on the deck.

Our more serene departure

Aboard Zoonie we left our home port of Poole on 10 June 2015 and had a fine sail to Portland, rested a day by walking around the Bill, and then proceeded across Lyme Bay to Dartmouth.

It was motoring for lack of wind that took us to Plymouth for a final refit, which included new standing rigging (expected) and a new boom (unexpected). The young lads, using the facilities of the boatyard, also did many other jobs for us, and so on 18 June we sailed for A Coruña in a high state of readiness.

Under mainsail and cruising chute (henceforward to be called the Diva because of her temperamental ways) we made good progress across the channel until evening when the wind started to increase, so the chute was replaced with the genoa and we reefed both sails for safety during the night.

Setting our course from Plymouth, our emotions were high at the thought of finally being under way, but as the day crept on and our first night loomed ahead, the enormity of leaving our loved ones – dog included – hit home, and cold reason had to be used to say ‘this was all part of the equation, so deal with it’. The emotional pain weighed heavily on me all the same.

At midday the Island of Birdsong (Île d’Ouessant) was abeam and it seemed like a hook that held us back from the Biscay, so we motored to get clear. The great advantages of motoring for an hour or so a day include: charging the batteries, making fresh water from seawater and heating the hot water supply. The wind generator and the solar panels were keeping up with the demand, but that would not always be the case. Such luxuries did we enjoy, having the choice of engine or elements, or both, unlike Erling and Julie.

Many years ago, I sailed with my daughter Emily’s father (hubby number two) on the same route in our 12-ton double ender wooden Hillyard, Autumn of Arun. While passing Île d’Ouessant (Ushant), and in the glee of youth and excitement, I said, Isn’t this the greatest adventure of your life?

His response was sombre, No, you are! Marriage number two eventually ended up on the rocks of a leeshore.

20 June 2015. We were then off soundings, the reading lost to us at a depth of 141 metres, and into the deep blue. GRIB weather files warned us of typical stronger winds around Finisterre (end of the earth), but on the downwind sail, both sails fixed out with a pole on the foresail to hold it out and a preventer on the main to prevent a jibe, we made fine progress.

Have you ever had a grey day that has been acceptable because you have planned, maybe, a film or musical to look forward to in the evening?

The lights dimmed and all was inky blackness when suddenly from the night the star performers emerged, their white shimmering costumes fitting perfectly to their graceful forms like ballerinas. In groups they performed around us with displays of speed and unison that were almost too beautiful and spell binding for words. Too small for dolphins, they must have been fish disturbing the luminescence or plankton, diatoms perhaps or ‘spirits’ set free as in the film Ark of the Covenant, Rob mused. However, these spirits were benign. Their performance at an end, they left and we remained to admire the cloudy curtains of their stage, creamy areas of marine life that sparkled as we crossed them as if reflecting the stars; but on this night the light was all of their own making.

In the early morning the wind picked up and poles, preventers and a full rig seemed a risky idea. So at 4.40 am I steered Zoonie onto a safe heading and Rob reefed both sails, sending us crawling into another grey day.

It was cold at night and fleeces were not enough to stem the penetrating chill. What goes around comes around, and just as explorers and mountaineers from the time of Mallory found, many layers is the best bet and a woollen Guernsey is a good barrier from the cold.

It wasn’t the cold that concerned us aboard the Tall Ships Youth Trust (TSYT) brig Stavros S Niarchos, Stavvy as she was fondly called, when we were sailing back from Lisbon to St Nazaire a few years before; it was a total lack of wind. During one night the first officer, Sven, while on watch told the young lass in my watch to step back from the wheel. The fine ship wandered gently in a 360-degree circle in search of wind, returning to her original course without any human intervention. The resulting circle on the chart was from then on referred to a ‘Sven’s Nipple’. Sven wondered where his other nipple would take us.

My experience of this north coast of Spain, in Autumn of Arun and more recently as a watch leader aboard the Stavvy, is that the historically-named Costa da Morte, Coast of Death, has always been either blasted by strong winds or calm and shrouded in fog and has claimed many ships and lives along the way. When we made our landfall in Autumn of Arun all those years ago we were glad of radar, since the first land we saw by eye at the time was the high cliffs of Punta Coitelada as we passed them on our way into the harbour.

Similarly, this time the mighty Tower of Hercules was abeam before it was just visible through the fog. In Autumn of Arun we picked up a mooring buoy in the bay between the citadel and the harbour wall. There is now a fine marina, but anchoring is still allowed on the understanding the harbour authorities might demand a move in the event of ship manoeuvres. Back then a Spanish fisherman came along to say it was his mooring buoy we were attached to, but, Signor, you are welcome to use it if I can buy from you your red ensign, so I can go and fish [illegally] in British waters.

We thanked him for his courtesy but declined and anchored instead.

First landfall

Erling had intended their next port of call to be A Coruña too, but a SW gale forced them to seek shelter in Cedeira, just a few miles to the east. The next morning the gale had veered to the north-west and was blowing up a dangerous sea in the sandy-bottomed bay. Teddy’s anchors broke loose and she started to drag towards the rocks, but not before the insightful Erling had rigged the sails ready. With Julie tacking the boat towards the anchors – no mean feat in itself – Erling was able to retrieve them. Remember, Teddy had no engine.

Their limited fare was enhanced when some local fishermen taught them the delights of boiled goose barnacles and octopus. Erling wondered if they were a different kind to the barnacles that grew on Teddy’s copper-sheathed bottom, and anyway he felt disinclined to eat them. Maybe we will try eating some if they stick to our copper-coated hull!

After nine days they were able to sail to A Coruña where, despite the friendliness of the locals, one particularly unpleasant incident befell them. Again, Erling took a positive view, this time of the fact intruders boarded Teddy when they were ashore and stole most of their clothes, leaving only sailing gear and underclothes. Thoughtful of them. The Tambs’ had brought from Norway their entire wardrobe, and Erling found caring for their clothes and keeping them mildew-free was too much of a chore. So, he was quite relieved when their posh clothes were taken, freeing him from the time-consuming maintenance. Julie did not agree and I can well understand why. An insufficient wardrobe can be demoralising when wanting to look more presentable than usual, and Julie had learned how to dress in style from a young age, collecting a wardrobe of clothes that reflected her appreciation of fashion and knowing how to wear them to best effect.

The Spanish people are as friendly and helpful today, but the locals are not particularly interested in us as a cruising couple because we are two amongst many other cruising yachtsmen and somewhat isolated behind the security gates of the marina. By contrast, Teddy was filled up with flowers, boxes of chocolates and other provisions as gifts of welcome, since she was the only foreign yacht in the anchorage in those early days of short-handed ‘couple’ cruising.

22 June 2015. By chance we had arrived on the eve of the festival of midsummer, and the lady in the marina office made it quite clear the festivities were not to be missed. All through the streets, BBQs reeked with the pungent smell of frying sardines, pork and lamb, and down on the Playa del Orzàn families gathered in groups, singing and chatting around many bonfires. The beach was ablaze with fires of all different sizes, and the air was hot and acrid with the smoke. A fleet of ambulances and fire engines were ready for accidents, and the atmosphere was full of friendliness and joie de vivre.

We strolled along the shoreline taking in the scene and passing a continuous line of young men ankle-deep in the water, jets of pee shooting seaward, making room for their next drink. At midnight fireworks filled the sky above the burning sand, and when these finished, with an enormous bang, a three-tiered structure covered with effigies, presumably of political or local officials, was set alight and amidst plumes of black smoke fell safely into itself in a burst of sparks.

A Coruña’s blazing beaches

When in A Coruña aboard the Stavvy on the aforementioned cruise, I spent most of the stay hanging over the main royal yard, many feet up, with one of the other watch leaders, taking in the spectacular views while handing steel lines across to the third watch leader on the foremast yard so she could grease them while passing them back, firmly of the mind that I did not need to go ashore again as I had visited before. So I am glad we came back and smelled the beach fires. Many places are worth a second visit.

Chapter 2

Costa da Morte

A pretty sanctuary on a hostile coast

As we sailed northwards from A Coruña on Autumn of Arun, thirty years before arriving on Zoonie, there was not enough breeze to make waves, and sharks’ fins circled us in a threatening manner. A friendly local fisherman called, Vigo next then?

No, we replied, home to work! But not this time as Rob and I would be travelling in the general direction of Vigo, our next planned destination being Corme.

As I mentioned, this north coast of Spain is one of either much wind or little wind and fog. Historically, engineless vessels caught in onshore gales foundered, but today with the help of engines they can steer to one of the bays, rias, harbours and now marinas to shelter from the storms.

Such sanctuary was vital for Erling and Julie since their intention to pass Cape Finisterre was thwarted by Neptune’s hand pressing hard on their bow with a SW gale which forced them back on their tracks into Corme bay, where a squall proceeded to push them directly towards the rocks. Fishermen caught with the same dilemma were hanging onto the anchor chain of an old steamer, and by throwing lines to Erling they managed to make themselves and Teddy secure for the time being. Yet another close shave for the engineless Teddy and test of Julie’s nerves.

‘We wore ship off Finisterre at 1.20pm,’ Erling writes, and arrived in Corme, ‘having travelled a distance of 33 miles in 2 hours and 40 minutes, certainly no everyday performance for a small boat.’

Erling had no chart of this area and in fact on the day we made the journey the winds were light and we could have piloted without charts too. We could see the shore – the areas of rocks were highlighted by breaking waves and pilotage was possible by using transits of one headland onto the next. Fishing boats, especially the smaller ones and the lobster pots they were laying, warned of the presence of rocks. But at night, or in fog and with strong onshore winds, I can see how this unforgiving granite coast earned its name; blown onto a lee shore and unable to turn through the wind or a rope around the propeller could spell disaster in any age.

Now, I have always found Rob to be a mild-mannered man, of even temperament and slow to rise to trivial provocations, even mine, but when the seventh yacht passed us, with great angst he cried, Where is the wind when you want it? and Why won’t the sails set properly, Barb? I gently reasoned that we are of older, more substantial build than modern yachts. We were also heavier. It was unlikely those other yachts had our capacity for water and diesel, and they certainly wouldn’t be carrying our choices of canned beans, peas, fish, etc. Besides, upon which yacht would you rather be in a gale, my darling?

Zoonie also arrives at Corme

Zoonie’s entry into Corme harbour was cautious, and we circled the mussel farms (viveros) that were anchored in the middle before dropping our hook off a fine sandy beach flanked by rocky outcrops where waves dashed and flew.

In the distance, Zoonie in peaceful Corme anchorage

Then it was choices:

27 June 2015. Pump up the dinghy and motor ashore or celebrate our first anchorage with champagne and supper on board? Imagine what we chose as we watched a lone wetsuited swimmer crawl along behind us to the harbour wall and all the way back to the beach while we surged back and forth on the remnants of Atlantic rollers in the evening sun, with fog rolling in from the sea.

Erling wrote ‘Corme is picturesque but poor. Fishing and fish canning seem to be the chief if not the only source of revenue. And yet the generosity of these impecunious people became almost embarrassing.’ Everywhere they were escorted with hospitality, and gifts of fruit, vegetables, flowers and souvenirs were brought to them on board. Clearly the locals enjoyed these visitors in their small sailing boat.

The next morning, we also experienced kindness from a local who warned us not to leave our tender on a sandy beach next to a slip in the harbour as the rising tide would set it onto the rocks. We thought we had enough time before the tide got to it but we would have been fools to not heed his thoughtfulness and lugged it up onto the slip anyway.

A picturesque walk took us to the lighthouse above Punta do Roncudo, past now derelict canning buildings to which Erling also referred, and back into the town where there are many small apartment blocks between which old fisherman’s cottages sit. There is a holiday feel about the place now. Since Erling’s time here the population has become wealthier and more mobile; tourists and second-home owners have brought increased prosperity to the area, and the locals, including retired fishermen, benefit from the comforts of modern accommodation.

I can let Erling tell the circumstances of our departure from Corme, as our words would be the same. ‘The sun had scarcely shown its face over the crest of the hills when Teddy left Corme, all her canvas set to a beautiful northerly breeze,’ astonishingly ‘it was the first really fine day we had had at sea since leaving Norway and I was naturally keen to make the most of it. The sea was deep blue, and Teddy slipped through the waves with an easy sway, reeling off her eight knots without effort.’

The only differences were that we left a little later, that Zoonie’s hull speed is 6–7 knots – but then she does carry a heavy engine and more stores than Teddy – and that we had already enjoyed some fine sailing days.

At this point we departed from Teddy’s track as we were to spend a couple of days revisiting Camariñas (named after an endangered native tree, the Camarina), where last year, while taking part in the annual ARC Portugal (a fun-oriented sailing/social rally from Plymouth to Lagos), we had weathered a four-day gale, like the Teddy, having already endured one in the Biscay and another before taking on Finisterre.

Camariñas revisited

As we turned in towards Camariñas on 29 June we passed Cape Vilan, which juts viciously into the sea and reminded us of The Needles off the Isle of Wight but is all the darker and more sinister for it being made of granite instead of cheery white chalk.

Back in 1890, two years after Erling’s birth and when my grandfather was a young man, the British vessel HMS Serpent, with 175 mariners on board, was wrecked on Boi Point next to Cape Vilan and only three men survived. Such a tragedy spurred on the building of a new lighthouse in a better position, which became the first in Spain to run on electricity. As Zoonie motored past it we were grateful for its presence.

30 June 2015. The fjord-like bay looked so inviting, and numerous yachts lay at anchor in the sunshine, a stark contrast to last year when business was brisk in the marina full of sheltering yachts. The same marina master was on the pontoon ready to take our lines for one night; the second night we would spend at anchor just outside the marina. His office was the little red wooden shed at the top of the gangway, and the fuel was gravity-fed from a tank on the harbour to a line amongst the pontoons, so the nozzle was literally brought to your boat.

Camariñas is world famous for its bobbin lace and holds an international fair every Easter. As well as maintaining the more traditional table decorations, Galician lace-making ladies keep their products up to date by following modern fashion design. Electronic devices looked cosy in their lace cases; a happy fusion of new and old. As we walked past the little lace shop in town, we heard the clicking of the sticks and watched two ladies sitting opposite each other working their bobbins and chatting away the hours.

Nowadays we have so much information at our fingertips from which we can learn about weather, seamanship, sailing and communication, to victualling and living on board by the simple means of touching a screen or flicking the switch on an instrument, turning a book page, glancing at a digital chart, the unlimited possibilities of Google… Does this wealth of information diminish what we are doing in any way, and do the numbers of us doing it take away the uniqueness of our exploits?

Certainly, the pioneering spirit today is more a personal thing to celebrate within ourselves and with our family and friends, whereas in Erling’s day it was of local, national and historic interest as well. Now cruisers rarely make the headlines unless they suffer disasters. But the feeling of personal achievement must be fresh for every individual no matter in what age they live and what assistance they utilise.

The same southerly hand of fate that had stemmed Teddy’s progress to Finisterre stopped us on our first attempt to leave Camariñas, as giant waves grew into grey wildness and the wind rose on Zoonie’s nose until it screamed through the rigging.

Are you sure you want to go on, Rob?

Yes.

But a few moments more is all it took to send us about and returning to our anchorage in the company of four bottlenose dolphins.

Time for a long walk to the Faro de Cabo Vilán, where the keepers’ accommodation is separated from the lighthouse by a concrete corridor constructed over the pink granite rocks. Small pockets of land were for sale; some had houses, but most were unused and full of heather, bracken, gorse and stunted trees or were farmed with maize, potatoes and a few goats. A fresh boar jaw hung from an open shed door, and in one field an entire ship’s bridge was in use as a store house. Maybe it was taken from a wreck on the rocks nearby.

The way to and from work for the lighthouse keepers

We stayed on the path clear of the stands of pine and eucalyptus trees, in which the boar must have been hunted, and passed Zetor tractors waiting at the top of the cliffs while their owners chipped shellfish and goose barnacles from the rocks below to provide a small but lucrative income. Under the lighthouse a modern high-security fenced fish farm nestled, with round covered pens fed by oxygen and seawater contrasting with the old fishing methods.

Another strong wind beset the four of us yachts anchored just off the marina, and when it rose to 33 knots we decided to make use of the sanctuary the marina offered just a few metres away and tied up comfortably so we could sleep without having to be wakeful all night.

Rounding Finisterre headland

The following day Finisterre made a fool of us. There was not enough wind to sail, so the few of us who set out did so under mainsail and motor. A few hours later, as we turned around Finisterre headland, the wind piped up from the north-west – oh, how we could have done with that a few hours ago! Costa da Morte was certainly living up to its name.

In the anchorage we thought twice about leaving Zoonie anchored on an unknown bottom and in a fresh wind, so waited on board for the first night, confident that in the morning, with less wind on her nose, we could safely leave her and walk to the famous faro on the headland.

The day was fine and the atmosphere amongst the visitors on the Finisterre headland was reverentially quiet except for the guitarist who sang and played beautifully, adding to the feeling of awe and surreal connections with the oceanic world. People had left personal items; kerchiefs, shoes, scarves and hats, to keep a permanent attachment to this location at this particular end of the earth. A tall steelwork aerial tower was festooned right to the top with memorabilia, and iron loops in the granite boulders were ideal attachment points for padlocks locking together shared love.

Locked in love – Cape Finisterre

That evening the fishermen in big boats left for a night at sea after two days ashore. Smaller boats passed them in the morning to fish in the safety of daylight.

Chapter 3

Three Spanish Rias

8 July 2015. Weather forecasting being the trustworthy mariners’ friend it is today warned us of another blow coming in a few days, so we set off in thick fog for Portosín marina in Ría de Muros y Noya for a brief one-night stop during which the wind increased at the top end of the valley roaring ever more loudly as it funnelled down towards us in the marina, in its path.

Zoonie was restless and sleep became untenable, so we let go our lines and had a good sail to Ría de Arousa and the major fishing town of Santa Uxía de Ribeira, anchoring off the fine sand beach where many folk were enjoying the sun. We pledged to do the same on the morrow.

Sheltering in Ria de Arousa

The Spanish rias are beautiful estuaries that offer interesting and sheltered cruising grounds to mariners both local and from abroad.

The town is home to some of the biggest deep-sea trawlers we had seen, as well as all grades of smaller vessels. The wealth provided by this flourishing industry is reflected in the fine, typically Galician, architecture and long shopping boulevard. In the busy fish market we bought some goose barnacles as well as sardines and fresh vegetables for supper.

9 July 2015. Goose barnacles, or percebes, are a delicacy on this coast; whereas in the UK we would hose them back into the water after a hull cleaning session, here divers risk their lives gathering them from rocks off the coast, and they are exported all over the world. Prices we saw for them ranged from €15 to €40 per kilogram, and at Christmastime they can cost €200 or more. The stall lady gesticulated that they needed just seconds in boiling water.

I griddled the sardines on our cast iron grill and then boiled the goose barnacles. I love the way the barnacle goose is linked to these ugly little creatures. By inverting the barnacle, you have a similar colour to the bird with its black neck, which ironically is beautiful by comparison.

Rob cut the head from his specimen, gently pulled the inner tube from its tough casing and found it was tender and mildly salty. I opened the beak and ate the head and filaments with the rest. Not sure about them being a delicacy and I wouldn’t pay the top price. It’s really the same principle as caviar in that they are just a different form of semi-solid seawater.

Rob dealing with his percebes (goose barnacles)

Erling had been shown how to eat them by Spanish fishermen. He shared our reserve at first but concluded: ‘When boiled in salt water their long necks tasted very much like shrimps.’

The afternoon weather had done us proud as we joined other bathers, and the wind dropped right away promising a calm night and good rest. But other factors were at play when, just before 4.00 am, the aft cabin was filled with light and the mighty thumping of powerful diesel engines. I demurely rose through the hatch above our berth, careful to reveal only head and shoulders, and thought, that’s a little close for fishing, matey. It was a maritime police boat, Aduanas, crewed by three men, one aiming a powerful light at Zoonie’s transom as they floated just a few feet away.

Zoo, Zoo, he said, trying to make out her name.

"She’s called Zoonie." I called, and then they quizzed.

Ports, Ports, the Hydrovane brackets partly obscuring her Port of Registry.

She’s registered in Portsmouth, UK. Okay?

"Oh, okay, I see, gracias."

With that they moved away very gently. Drugs running into the rias from South America keeps the marine police on their toes.

Our second stop in this pretty hill-sided ria was Pobra do Caramiñal, where once again a fine sandy beach gave us a safe anchorage. The temperature was now over 30°C and I suggested we should deflate the dinghy slightly when we leave it or the expanding air inside it could burst a seam. Rob disagreed. After our sojourn in town, we returned to find one side was, as expected, partly deflated. Rob had to patch the area twice before the repair was effective. It was still early in the circumnavigation. From then on, we made sure we let some air out at the end of our trips and kept the pump with the dinghy at all times.

It was time to move on once more in our exploration of the rias that Erling bypassed.

Expat mariners abroad

In Marina Vilagarcia we found ourselves amongst Irish and fellow English cruisers.

Many Irish enjoy this area, sailing from Cork non-stop to, maybe, Camariñas or straight past Finisterre into the rias, thus avoiding the Biscay. They appear as adventurous as the French are when they cruise the south coast of England.

13 July 2015. During an early walk to the little Galician town of Carril, while there was still some shade on the promenade, we passed men and women in waders pushing hard against rakes a few metres offshore and collecting clams into baskets. They would then drag the catch across the beach to a table where sorting and grading was done as quickly as possible to get them to the market in Carril.

18 July 2015. Our next move took us into Ría de Pontevedra, where we anchored off Playa de Silgar and the well-appointed resort of Sanxenxo, a pretty tree-covered headland away from the more basic holiday resort of Portonovo with its long board walk, caravan and camp sites, and artisan craft area.

After a hot and sticky morning of sightseeing there was nothing nicer than a spell scraping the weed from Zoonie’s waterline before a cool swim around her, admiring her lines and her tough stem that was leading us over the world’s oceans. Our confidence in her was growing by the day. This voyage was defining itself as a three ‘person’ affair.

With our National Park Permit printed out we sailed, next day, past floating flowers from the festival of the Virgen del Carmen, for the Spanish treasures, the ‘Galician Galapagos Islands’, Isla de Ons and Islas Cíes. At 3 knots we sailed so gently Rob caught our first legitimate fish, after the two pipefish that accidentally became tangled in the line off Poole. Within seconds of casting, two mackerel were hooked, and the final catch was seven fish for lunch and supper. A sign of things to come, we hoped.

Under a cool mantle of cloud, we walked to the faro on Isla de Ons. On our way we passed restored cottages; the ones with clucking hens were permanent homes. More evidence of community living was a restored stone wash tank with sloping sides for slapping the items clean. Places where ladies would gather, toil and chat. I felt a little envious of their sisterhood, never having made time in a busy working life for