After last year, we all joked it couldn’t get any harder. Don’t ya love it when mother nature turns round and slaps you firmly in the chops for being so silly?
Last year might have been gales, more gales and yet more gales, but in retrospect that was slightly reassuring. You had the wind to make it to tidal gates, and with plenty reefs you could keep going forwards. This year, if you wanted to go forwards you had to grab an oar and make it happen. Anyway, this year’s race:
Oban prologue
Caroline set off with the dinghy to go collect Dave G and Ross after the short dash round Oban. This year we’d upgraded to a dinghy that was actually capable of carrying 3 people at the same time, so we felt a much better prepared bunch. The guys put a good pace down and arrived to the dinghy mid-pack, much better than last year where we deliberately held back and paid the price later, and soon we could spot the dinghy heading our way. How those guys ran so hard in such heat is beyond me.
Oban -
The pace round Oban seemed pretty frantic, and while the boys were laying down the first few miles Dave S and I reckoned the wind from the South meant an ideal spinnaker run start, collecting the dinghy while racing out of Oban bay. Cue much action on deck, rigging spinnaker lines, pole, uphaul, downhaul, getting it all ready. 10 minutes before the runners are due back, the wind (what little there was) swung round to the North. Cue much action on deck, detaching spinnaker lines, pole, uphaul, etc etc etc. Having grabbed the runners when they did appear we killed the engine and set off out the top end of Oban bay. The race has a fabulous quirk whereby the start of the run is at 12 noon, and at 1pm the Calmac ferry arrives into Oban. They have right of way, and know it. Almost inevitably, we have no wind and can’t get out the way. Out came the oars, and we rowed and rowed to get past the first light marker at the top of the island. Once past it we were able to pick up a little speed and the tide’s grip loosened off enough for us to start to sail off towards Lady Rock and the entrance to the Sound of Mull. Looking behind, there were still around 17 boats that couldn’t get past the tidal currents and out of Oban bay, so we considered ourselves lucky. One thing we had done much more of since our first attempt on the SIPR in 2009 was to learn how to trim sails, and we also had the demon of all demon sail trimmers, Dave S on board. So gradually we worked the most out of the boat and caught a number of others heading for the channel. But behind us, we could hear announcement after announcement from ferries leaving and arriving into Oban, until one evidently had enough of the drifting boats in his way and let rip a long burst of horn blasts until they got out his way. Glad I wasn’t there for that.
As we arrived at Lady Rock it was pretty clear that the tide was well set against us, so we crawled up in the shadow of some rocks to give us as short a hop as possible to clear the current. Spinnaker up, crossing currents, it was quite disorientating to be going sideways and feel like you’re going forwards. Eventually we burst through and started hunting down the boats in front. The run through the sound settled into a long series of wind bursts – enough to knock boats over on occasion – and wind holes where you just had to wait for the next breeze. The margin between the two was tiny. At one point we sailed up at 5 knots to a group of 11 boats lolling around in a total wind hole, sailed within 5 metres of the nearest one of them, kept our wind and passed the entire lot. They, meanwhile, didn’t see a hint of breeze for another 5 minutes. Unfortunately once they did they all pretty much passed us straight away, but for a brief moment we felt like champions!
The rest of the sail to Salen passed in ever-decreasing amounts of wind and ever-increasing amounts of rowing, until we eventually crawled past the old pier at about 7pm, in the middle of a gaggle of other boats. Close quarters, lots of yachts, all throwing their runners off into dinghies – not a bad way to get the blood pumping before a long run!
Ben Mor,
Top tip #1: If you decide to do any of the runs, don’t sit up till 2am the night before the race with Bequia’s Jeremy putting the world right over a bottle of 10-year old malt….
After the mandatory 5-minute time out to get our kit checked, Dave G and I headed off for the long run in to Ben Mor. The heat was like a kick in the face, after so many hours out at sea the lack of wind and the humidity left us both struggling to find a decent rhythm. After just a couple of miles I was baking in sweat and slowing. It wasn’t until the long flats I managed to get a grip and get moving. A decent trot along past Loch Ba was slightly ruined by missing the turnoff to the path up toward Ben Mor, but a short field-hop later and we joined in with Mara’s runners for most of the ascent up to the shoulder. They promptly left us for dust on the rest of the never-ending grind towards the contour you skirt round for the climb up to the summit ridge. Dark closed in and I did my usual squealing and complaining on the last exposed section – some poor other pair had caught us and suffered my whimpering very patiently. As soon as we hit the summit it was time for a quick text and off before the last of the daylight died. Just as we approached the checkpoint at the burn headtorches finally went on, and we headed over to the last hill checkpoint in pitch darkness with just the occasional bit of aircraft and frog/toad/slimy things for company. The descent route was a gamble – last year in daylight we managed to pick out sheep paths and run them, this year it was straight line and keep going. Eventually we hit the track, then the last checkpoint, then the road home. A few bursts of cramp came and went, and finally we ran into Salen in thick fog, totally missed the turnoff to the marshals tent, headed off down the refurbished pier and straight into a wire strung across in front of us. Suitably chastised, we backtracked, found the correct turning, and came home in a frankly shocking 7 hrs 20m. After all the training (that we didn’t do last year, really) we were 40 minutes slower? I blame the dark…. We arrived back on board, got to the boat to find that while we’d been off plating on hills the crew had nearly been rammed – twice – by departing boats, one of them crewed by Caroline’s brother and cousin. Oops. We crept off into the fog, and out came the oars.
Mull to Jura
After a couple of hours kip, I popped back on deck to find a breeze had built up and Dave and Caroline had expertly passed a number of boats along the way. Things looked good, although reports from teams leaving much earlier were that they were struggling at Duart. The fleet was a lot tighter than last year. On we went, hoping to catch some more of the faster running teams, until we all ran into the same wind hole at Duart, with the tide firmly set against us. Some sensible boats simply dropped anchor and waited, while the rest of us engaged in a strange display of synchronised failure – sail upwind and creep up the coastline until the shore forced a tack. Swing away from the shore, catch the foul tide, drift gently backwards past all the other boats. Tack towards shore, creep up the coast, get too close, swing away on opposite tack, drift backwards, tack to shore……you get the drift. 6 yachts putting on a fine display for the somewhat bewildered tourists on shore. Eventually, patience wore thin, out came the oars and we hugged the coast so tight we could touch it. 2 on rock watch, 2 rowing, one on the helm – painfully slowly we made forward progress and started to catch Mara. The others behind had followed the same plan but seemed to be making less progress, so when the wind finally came up we headed off with Mara into quite a lead from the chasing pack. A dip in wind round
Paps of Jura
Dave G, Ross and I had been here 2 weeks before on a recce trip, but despite knowing what was coming, Ross seemed keen to set off regardless. Apart from a minor mishap at the check-in where the set of tags were nearly forgotten, they were soon on their way in a baking morning heat and little breeze. The initial run-in seemed fine, the Paps themselves the usual torture, mixed with adders and eagles, and for a more complete report I will have to refer you to the runners themselves. I do know they hooked up with Mara (again!), found out just how unstable the scree is a couple of times, and had a bit of a chase on the way home after knocking half an hour off our trial run time, and arrived back to healthy doses of food and calorie-recommended Stella. With little fanfare we completely messed up picking them up from the dinghy and headed out towards the
Jura to
Last year, this was a bit of a nervous section – plenty boats had backed out ahead of us and we knew the
Goat Fell
Kit check – easy. And a nice flat mile to warm up on the way out. Apparently time to beat was 3hrs 18mins – aye right! We felt confident of besting the 8hrs+ at the opposite end of the scale. Checkpoint one dispatched, we set off over Prospect Hill and straight away the heat was suffocating. We had a litre of water each, never going to be enough, and planning water refills gave us something to think about as we trotted round to the bottom of the path up Goat Fell. The opening 6 miles went past in 1hr 15mins – we were happy with that given the lack of sleep and the lack of food. I’d managed a banana and a hot dog since Jura, Ross had managed some stew and half a hot dog. Still, we had water and go gels, who needs more? At the bottom of the path we met a lovely lady working at the café who gave us a water top-up, then off we went. A long slow slog saw us summit in 2hrs 50m, again, happy with that. Setting off downhill we passed Mara’s runners – it wouldn’t have been the same without them by now! – and started to feel the thought of finishing drag us home. Hitting the bottom of the hill just over an hour later, we sooked another go-gel (4 each so far) and started to run. Even the smallest incline was starting to hurt by now, but we managed to make it through Brodick without too much drama. The long slow climb over Prospect Hill again seemed endless, and water just wasn’t enough any more. Thoughts of cold Irn Bru, cold Coke, cold Stella….start running again! After Prospect Hill, run all the way home, thanks to the man in his garden cheering us on, the last mile we hardly spoke, just ran, then ran a wee bit faster, then saw the pier, then saw Dave G, then we’re home! A brilliant welcome in from Nick and the other marshalls. Dave G must have wondered who the wild-eyed loonies were dragging the dinghy straight into the sea, yelling to get moving. Cold beer is some incentive, sorry Dave!
On board, collapse, get the sails up and head for home. While we’d been off playing, Caroline had done sterling work tracking down another engine starter pack in Lamlash and getting us going again, as well as finding time to tidy up the boat and generally have us ready to go. We had parked the boat on the outermost mooring from shore to make it as safe as possible when we arrived, but that meant a long, long row in and out every time she had to go to shore. Yet more rowing points for Caroline. Rather than play around with ferries or head into Troon marina without engine power we left the engine running in neutral all the way home. A couple of sails far ahead – Mischief and Thembi – should have had us all guns blazing but we were tired, happy to be finishing and close to home. I grabbed some sleep, then sorted babysitting extensions – welcome back to the real world! – and soon we were swinging out the swell into the outer harbour and Dave G and Ross went to take the line. A lovely cheer when we came into the harbour made it all worthwhile and soon the boat was parked, the beers were open and someone bravely mentioned “Next year….?”.
Aftermath
Good points? For me,
Bad points? The heat. Since when do you get to complain about the heat in
Finally, thanks to Mark Critchley, Dave G’s Mum & Dad and Ross’s wife & daughter for coming to see us at the finish, and for bravely sitting next to smelly us when no sensible person would.
