BrendanS
Well-known member
The Elite Pathfinder Reconnaissance trip to Cherbourg
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Off to a good start on Thursday night, with a meal and a drink or 5,6,7,8 (this sequence of numbers will take on a far greater import later in the tale).
Arriving back at the boat at Port Solent, the planned 4:00 start was overturned by a mutinous crew yelling ‘Now, Now!’, so the Elite Pathfinders set off at midnight instead.
Only 40 minutes later, about to leave Portsmouth, tcm down in the linear galley, starting the 2 day process of preparing chicken fajitas, was heard to call; ‘We’ve been under motor for nearly an hour without refuelling, surely we must be nearly there?’
Meanwhile Zefender filed CG66 passage call with Solent Coastguard, unaware that Ianinge was taking the first of numerous showers, in an excess of personal hygiene, which would result in having to refill one of water tanks with seawater by the time the Nab was reached. Wafting scents were making the crew nauseous, not diesel, not gas, not even holding tank ala Jimi, but yet another barrage of Badidas and extra High Karate, and to spare the crew, Ianinge was sent below to his cabin, after cutting loose the tender with all excess toiletries aboard.
Skipper Zefender and brother Pat demonstrated a genealogy involving an orang-utan, as Zef juggled coffee, tea, and food preparation while underway in the linear gallery, with some of the constituents parts over 14’ apart, while ex-rugby internationalist brother Pat, caught the plates of food falling from the cabin table while still seated at the top of the steps in the cockpit, all in a corkscrewing rough sea. Wind was very slight though, causing most of the trip to be under power.
An interesting discovery was made en-route! There is a raggie version of Soltron available, packaged in nice day-glo high visibility bottles and going by the name of Soltan, and after pouring a bottle in the tank…..
The Elite Pathfinders arrived 14 hours later at Cherbourg, in plenty of time for Ianainge to take another shower, but the Capitainerie was as ever closed, and even Nicho ‘Girly Bladder’ was left clamping his legs outside, awaiting his prostate exam with the doctor on Monday morning. Zefender telephoned Solent coastguard to inform of safe arrival, and after waiting some little while for the telephone to be answered, announced the arrival of ‘About Time’. “I’m sorry Sir, I did answer as soon as I could”, coastie responded.
Setting off for a meal at tcm’s acclaimed ‘best restaurant in Cherbourg’ the crew were disappointed with a meal of Croque Monsieur aka ‘Sheesh on Toast’. A rather higher standard of cuisine had been eagerly anticipated, and things became a little personal. Tcm’s subsequent foray against 15 baton wielding Gendarmerie was regarded as a highlight of Angleterre/ Francais entente cordiale, and his charge towards the harbour , and climbing of the flagstaff to retrieve the Union Jack, tearing it half loose, as he was pulled earthward, and bundled off in a heavily armoured van, was applauded loudly by both nationalities. Later released, he spent the rest of his shore leave on a rather smart green bench , declaring this was more comfortable than a raggie boat.
BrendanS arrived next morning by ferry, rousing the resting crew from a late night of recovering from rough seas, rough wine, and even rougher women, by text and telephone messages asking where the hell they were as he was at the Capitainerie’s and it wasn’t open.
The intrepid explorers spent the day putting together an information pack for the following weekend’s ‘Tailend Charlies’. The following facts have been ascertained. (please see link to photos)
1) Loos and showers are located inside the Capitainerie (Harbour Masters Office) This is never open. |At least not when you want them, ie, morning, lunch, evening.
2)The centre of all entertainment is the upmarket nightclub and the bowling centre next to the ever closed Capitainerie, though there are some interesting looking films on at the cinema in town.
3) There is an understanding that English visitors will need guiding back to the marina after an evening out, and have provided handy red and green streetlight port and starboard markers down the road. This could cause navigational issues to boats entering by sea
4) The ‘Tailend Charlies’ are eating at a lovely restaurant next weekend, and you’ll all enjoy the after effects. We did, though we did run out of Imodium, and toilet paper, and you'll have to bring your own as Cherbourg has now sold out of all such supplies.
5) There are a lot of boats in the harbour, but not a single Twister has made it across.
6) Bacofoil will make an admiral radar reflector and body warmer when wrapped all over, for ships not equipped with radar, or any modern amenities. Twisters come to mind for some reason
7) It’s not true that Stingo never leaves Brighton, and that his boat will turn turtle in the slightest ripple
After reconnoitring, plans were made to escape undetected. This was hampered by sabotage of communications gear, which made it impossible to obtain a weather forecast of any accuracy, and much time was spent talking to informants and contacts at home.
Ignoring the obviously incorrect French forecast which laughingly talked about F7’s, northerlies, and 4 to 6 metres waves, the skipper handed out rations of Stergeron and Prozac. This had the effect of making Nicho hyper active whilst everyone else pretended to sleep with F7 howling around the masts. Called ferry company with bomb threat to postpone out of season infrequent ferries, just in case we needed escape route. Original plan of leaving at midnight put back to 4:30 and everyone in bed by 22:00. After helping berth boats in with woeful tales of heavy seas and unhappy crews. At 4:30 woken by boat returning from earlier foray out. Not a happy crew. Nicho recited a running count of wind force from the cabin display. F7, F7, F7, F7, F6!, F7 , F8*!, F7.
Put back leaving time to 8:00
Nicho recited a running count of wind force from the cabin display. F7, F7, F7, F7, F6!, F7 , F8*!, F7.
Nicho bound to mast.
Tcm sitting in foetal position, and rocking back and forth, having returned from his weekend of abuse at hands of gendarmerie and sleeping on his comfortable bench
At 7:30 having run out of Prozac and Sturgeron, the skipper swallowed a Boots sea sick tablet, and decided we were going for it, as the best forecast that could be found suggested that there might, just possibly, be a little break later in the day, followed by worsening weather for next three days.
At 8:00 we were on our way, only to wave at Stingo arriving. Stingo didn’t seem to want to wave back. We couldn't tell whether or not he was actually vomiting into a bucket at the time.
8:30 with a scrap of sail up inside harbour walls, skipper aimed at wall of water outside entrance, straight into the northerly F7.
8:30 and 10 seconds. Hah! We spit in the face of danger.
8:30 and 15 seconds. Hah! We spit down face of danger
9:00 skipper Zef hands helm over to brother Pat, and falls asleep. Pretty effective these Boots sea sick tablets!
9:30 brother Pat hands helm over to a stinky, declaring he’s off below to see how long he can stay in the forecabin. Guiness book of record now confirmed longest period of weightlessness for anyone not in earth orbit, as Pat spent more time adhered to ceiling than bed.
Stinkie puts on Motor Boat Monthly cap, just in case anyone thinks he’s going over to the dark side, and takes helm … BrendanS shows how it is possible to grip wheel and remaining in position despite thousands of gallons of green water pouring over him. Zef's liberal application of superglue appeared to be doing the trick, ensuring a near permanent helming position for BrendanS who, perversely, announces he is enjoying the whole thing, apart from wishing he'd brought his aqualung.
Other boats remaining in harbour radio us for a report of conditions. Zef glows with pride at thought of Bavaria at phalanx of rough weather scenario.
Nicho quietly whispers, ‘can we take off a little speed’. Tcm cackling madly yells ‘Spinnaker’ ‘Goose wing’. Ianinge is hanging over the back trying to work out how to attach the outboard to the rudder and turn it into an outdrive.
Waves calm, weather improves, and several hours later, with all reefs shaken out and jib out, we’re doing 8 knots in slight sea and cloudless sky, and only 2 tacks to the Nab. Where the promised short gap in the weather was born out by gathering storm clouds to the south west.
After hours of overseeing the autopilot, numerous bottles of Louis Jadot Santeray 99, Nicho expresses concern about next weekends trip on a rudder operated tiller and an unrequited love for a jilted Swan 44 , cruelly dangled in front of him by Twister Kens’s twisted words. In sympathy with our brother forged in the face of near death, we rename ‘Bitter and Twisted Ken’, and laugh at Nicho’s concerns about a sea going ship with no navigation devices, loos, beds or any other amenity, discuss how lack of Twisters in Cherbourg is likely to have resulted in a large number of Twister widows back in blighty.
12 hours after leaving we’re in Port Solent, where we find tcm collapsed on floor of linear galley, where he had finally gone green around the gills, after hours of preparing Chicken Fajitas in linear galley whilst underway
Quite a trip, and we hope the ‘tailend charlies’ have a great time next weekend.
Nicho in particular is looking forward to life on a Twister.
The Elite Pathfinders
<hr width=100% size=1>
<A target="_blank" HREF=http://iditarod.smugmug.com/gallery/28588/1/1001055>
Click here for photos.Captions above main picture. Click on thumbnails to enlarge and see captions</A>
Off to a good start on Thursday night, with a meal and a drink or 5,6,7,8 (this sequence of numbers will take on a far greater import later in the tale).
Arriving back at the boat at Port Solent, the planned 4:00 start was overturned by a mutinous crew yelling ‘Now, Now!’, so the Elite Pathfinders set off at midnight instead.
Only 40 minutes later, about to leave Portsmouth, tcm down in the linear galley, starting the 2 day process of preparing chicken fajitas, was heard to call; ‘We’ve been under motor for nearly an hour without refuelling, surely we must be nearly there?’
Meanwhile Zefender filed CG66 passage call with Solent Coastguard, unaware that Ianinge was taking the first of numerous showers, in an excess of personal hygiene, which would result in having to refill one of water tanks with seawater by the time the Nab was reached. Wafting scents were making the crew nauseous, not diesel, not gas, not even holding tank ala Jimi, but yet another barrage of Badidas and extra High Karate, and to spare the crew, Ianinge was sent below to his cabin, after cutting loose the tender with all excess toiletries aboard.
Skipper Zefender and brother Pat demonstrated a genealogy involving an orang-utan, as Zef juggled coffee, tea, and food preparation while underway in the linear gallery, with some of the constituents parts over 14’ apart, while ex-rugby internationalist brother Pat, caught the plates of food falling from the cabin table while still seated at the top of the steps in the cockpit, all in a corkscrewing rough sea. Wind was very slight though, causing most of the trip to be under power.
An interesting discovery was made en-route! There is a raggie version of Soltron available, packaged in nice day-glo high visibility bottles and going by the name of Soltan, and after pouring a bottle in the tank…..
The Elite Pathfinders arrived 14 hours later at Cherbourg, in plenty of time for Ianainge to take another shower, but the Capitainerie was as ever closed, and even Nicho ‘Girly Bladder’ was left clamping his legs outside, awaiting his prostate exam with the doctor on Monday morning. Zefender telephoned Solent coastguard to inform of safe arrival, and after waiting some little while for the telephone to be answered, announced the arrival of ‘About Time’. “I’m sorry Sir, I did answer as soon as I could”, coastie responded.
Setting off for a meal at tcm’s acclaimed ‘best restaurant in Cherbourg’ the crew were disappointed with a meal of Croque Monsieur aka ‘Sheesh on Toast’. A rather higher standard of cuisine had been eagerly anticipated, and things became a little personal. Tcm’s subsequent foray against 15 baton wielding Gendarmerie was regarded as a highlight of Angleterre/ Francais entente cordiale, and his charge towards the harbour , and climbing of the flagstaff to retrieve the Union Jack, tearing it half loose, as he was pulled earthward, and bundled off in a heavily armoured van, was applauded loudly by both nationalities. Later released, he spent the rest of his shore leave on a rather smart green bench , declaring this was more comfortable than a raggie boat.
BrendanS arrived next morning by ferry, rousing the resting crew from a late night of recovering from rough seas, rough wine, and even rougher women, by text and telephone messages asking where the hell they were as he was at the Capitainerie’s and it wasn’t open.
The intrepid explorers spent the day putting together an information pack for the following weekend’s ‘Tailend Charlies’. The following facts have been ascertained. (please see link to photos)
1) Loos and showers are located inside the Capitainerie (Harbour Masters Office) This is never open. |At least not when you want them, ie, morning, lunch, evening.
2)The centre of all entertainment is the upmarket nightclub and the bowling centre next to the ever closed Capitainerie, though there are some interesting looking films on at the cinema in town.
3) There is an understanding that English visitors will need guiding back to the marina after an evening out, and have provided handy red and green streetlight port and starboard markers down the road. This could cause navigational issues to boats entering by sea
4) The ‘Tailend Charlies’ are eating at a lovely restaurant next weekend, and you’ll all enjoy the after effects. We did, though we did run out of Imodium, and toilet paper, and you'll have to bring your own as Cherbourg has now sold out of all such supplies.
5) There are a lot of boats in the harbour, but not a single Twister has made it across.
6) Bacofoil will make an admiral radar reflector and body warmer when wrapped all over, for ships not equipped with radar, or any modern amenities. Twisters come to mind for some reason
7) It’s not true that Stingo never leaves Brighton, and that his boat will turn turtle in the slightest ripple
After reconnoitring, plans were made to escape undetected. This was hampered by sabotage of communications gear, which made it impossible to obtain a weather forecast of any accuracy, and much time was spent talking to informants and contacts at home.
Ignoring the obviously incorrect French forecast which laughingly talked about F7’s, northerlies, and 4 to 6 metres waves, the skipper handed out rations of Stergeron and Prozac. This had the effect of making Nicho hyper active whilst everyone else pretended to sleep with F7 howling around the masts. Called ferry company with bomb threat to postpone out of season infrequent ferries, just in case we needed escape route. Original plan of leaving at midnight put back to 4:30 and everyone in bed by 22:00. After helping berth boats in with woeful tales of heavy seas and unhappy crews. At 4:30 woken by boat returning from earlier foray out. Not a happy crew. Nicho recited a running count of wind force from the cabin display. F7, F7, F7, F7, F6!, F7 , F8*!, F7.
Put back leaving time to 8:00
Nicho recited a running count of wind force from the cabin display. F7, F7, F7, F7, F6!, F7 , F8*!, F7.
Nicho bound to mast.
Tcm sitting in foetal position, and rocking back and forth, having returned from his weekend of abuse at hands of gendarmerie and sleeping on his comfortable bench
At 7:30 having run out of Prozac and Sturgeron, the skipper swallowed a Boots sea sick tablet, and decided we were going for it, as the best forecast that could be found suggested that there might, just possibly, be a little break later in the day, followed by worsening weather for next three days.
At 8:00 we were on our way, only to wave at Stingo arriving. Stingo didn’t seem to want to wave back. We couldn't tell whether or not he was actually vomiting into a bucket at the time.
8:30 with a scrap of sail up inside harbour walls, skipper aimed at wall of water outside entrance, straight into the northerly F7.
8:30 and 10 seconds. Hah! We spit in the face of danger.
8:30 and 15 seconds. Hah! We spit down face of danger
9:00 skipper Zef hands helm over to brother Pat, and falls asleep. Pretty effective these Boots sea sick tablets!
9:30 brother Pat hands helm over to a stinky, declaring he’s off below to see how long he can stay in the forecabin. Guiness book of record now confirmed longest period of weightlessness for anyone not in earth orbit, as Pat spent more time adhered to ceiling than bed.
Stinkie puts on Motor Boat Monthly cap, just in case anyone thinks he’s going over to the dark side, and takes helm … BrendanS shows how it is possible to grip wheel and remaining in position despite thousands of gallons of green water pouring over him. Zef's liberal application of superglue appeared to be doing the trick, ensuring a near permanent helming position for BrendanS who, perversely, announces he is enjoying the whole thing, apart from wishing he'd brought his aqualung.
Other boats remaining in harbour radio us for a report of conditions. Zef glows with pride at thought of Bavaria at phalanx of rough weather scenario.
Nicho quietly whispers, ‘can we take off a little speed’. Tcm cackling madly yells ‘Spinnaker’ ‘Goose wing’. Ianinge is hanging over the back trying to work out how to attach the outboard to the rudder and turn it into an outdrive.
Waves calm, weather improves, and several hours later, with all reefs shaken out and jib out, we’re doing 8 knots in slight sea and cloudless sky, and only 2 tacks to the Nab. Where the promised short gap in the weather was born out by gathering storm clouds to the south west.
After hours of overseeing the autopilot, numerous bottles of Louis Jadot Santeray 99, Nicho expresses concern about next weekends trip on a rudder operated tiller and an unrequited love for a jilted Swan 44 , cruelly dangled in front of him by Twister Kens’s twisted words. In sympathy with our brother forged in the face of near death, we rename ‘Bitter and Twisted Ken’, and laugh at Nicho’s concerns about a sea going ship with no navigation devices, loos, beds or any other amenity, discuss how lack of Twisters in Cherbourg is likely to have resulted in a large number of Twister widows back in blighty.
12 hours after leaving we’re in Port Solent, where we find tcm collapsed on floor of linear galley, where he had finally gone green around the gills, after hours of preparing Chicken Fajitas in linear galley whilst underway
Quite a trip, and we hope the ‘tailend charlies’ have a great time next weekend.
Nicho in particular is looking forward to life on a Twister.
The Elite Pathfinders
<hr width=100% size=1>