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hawkwing_lbI woke before all hands call again at Inisboffin, stiff and aching from the tiny bunk. The sun came up behind the island; we set mainsail and main staysail and motored out of the harbour, then set the two lower squares, main topmast staysail, jib and fore staysail.
The wind was northeast, and the Asgard II can only sail sixty degrees to the wind. I'm not sure what the captain's plan was originally: force six, force seven winds were expected that day and evening, and I believe after that the wind was expected to swing around to the southwest. Between Donegal Bay and Rathmullen, apparently, there are no good harbours to wait out gale force winds.
Our initial heading was north, under motor and sail, with the lookouts on watch for lobster pots (very dangerous if they get wrapped around the engine prop) and other boats. Small craft warning in effect; gale force warning in effect: we all got very used to the hourly, "This is a repetition of the sea area forecast, Mizzen Head to Malin Head," sounding loudly from the radio in the charthouse. By nine o'clock the wind had gotten up; by ten people were being ill over the side again. Lunch was a miserable rocking affair: curry, which few people could eat, and the twelve o'clock sea area forecast revised expectations for longer, stronger winds.
Sometime around lunch we wore ship, I think, and headed in towards Achill Island. (I know we wore ship at one point, and it might have been the previous day. We definitely tacked Saturday, though.)
The afternoon was a miserable affair of rain and high winds and howling and trying to shout loud enough to be heard, the ship heaving first up one way, then up the other, fore and aft, port and starboard. Being miserably wet and freezing cold, and hauling on ropes, and noticing that the bosun and the engineer had run safety lines amidships port and starboard from the poop to the fo'c'sle, and needing to use them to get around, and clipping in to those lines when hauling on ropes, and trying to keep your balance in the wind and the up and down miserable heaving, and seeing water wash in amidships every time the bow whoosh-thunked down from a wave.
I couldn't give you specifics of what we did. I was too wet, too cold, too miserable, too queasy.
Around four in the afternoon we tacked ship, I think - you haul in the mainsail and the main staysail to the centre of the ship, first, then move the preventers on their booms from one side of the ship to the other. Then you tack the jib and fore staysail, make up the lines - but no time to coil the ropes: you have to run back to bracing stations and brace the squares around, otherwise the ship could get caught in irons or taken aback, which puts an unpleasant strain on the rig, apparently - and headed in for the back of Clare Island, to get out of the worst of the wind and the chop.
It took half a cold forever to come around the back of Clare Island to the quay. We didn't get in till around half five, and we ended up going in and out and in of the harbour (the captain'd thought we could berth at the end of the pier, but the ferry was still there, and not leaving, of course). At six the permanent crew sent us below to eat while they kept moving around looking for a decent mooring.
So we're all below, just finishing dinner, and we hear this shout from the engine room, "Out of gear! Out of gear! The prop's caught!" and the engine cuts out. A minute later, we hear the rattle-rattle-clunk, rattle-rattle-clunk, rattle-rattle-clunk-boom of the anchor going down to keep us from drifting onto the rocks.
Long story short: us trainees stayed below that evening, playing Scrabble and Monopoly and cards and reading - those of us who'd brought a book. Above, the permanent crew and a diver from the island got the prop uncaught - prop was fine - moored the ship on a buoy, and tried to raise the anchor.
No go. The anchor, now, was caught. So while we took it easy below, the permanent crew were at work until five in the morning, when they finally gave up to wait for low tide and daylight, trying to get the anchor uncaught (at four am, all of us foreward woke to rattle-rattle-clunk, but they didn't manage to raise it that time).
That night, we really started to notice the fact we hadn't washed since Thursday morning.
Map. We didn't go very far, all told, Saturday: Inisboffin to Clare Island is a trip of about four miles.
The wind was northeast, and the Asgard II can only sail sixty degrees to the wind. I'm not sure what the captain's plan was originally: force six, force seven winds were expected that day and evening, and I believe after that the wind was expected to swing around to the southwest. Between Donegal Bay and Rathmullen, apparently, there are no good harbours to wait out gale force winds.
Our initial heading was north, under motor and sail, with the lookouts on watch for lobster pots (very dangerous if they get wrapped around the engine prop) and other boats. Small craft warning in effect; gale force warning in effect: we all got very used to the hourly, "This is a repetition of the sea area forecast, Mizzen Head to Malin Head," sounding loudly from the radio in the charthouse. By nine o'clock the wind had gotten up; by ten people were being ill over the side again. Lunch was a miserable rocking affair: curry, which few people could eat, and the twelve o'clock sea area forecast revised expectations for longer, stronger winds.
Sometime around lunch we wore ship, I think, and headed in towards Achill Island. (I know we wore ship at one point, and it might have been the previous day. We definitely tacked Saturday, though.)
The afternoon was a miserable affair of rain and high winds and howling and trying to shout loud enough to be heard, the ship heaving first up one way, then up the other, fore and aft, port and starboard. Being miserably wet and freezing cold, and hauling on ropes, and noticing that the bosun and the engineer had run safety lines amidships port and starboard from the poop to the fo'c'sle, and needing to use them to get around, and clipping in to those lines when hauling on ropes, and trying to keep your balance in the wind and the up and down miserable heaving, and seeing water wash in amidships every time the bow whoosh-thunked down from a wave.
I couldn't give you specifics of what we did. I was too wet, too cold, too miserable, too queasy.
Around four in the afternoon we tacked ship, I think - you haul in the mainsail and the main staysail to the centre of the ship, first, then move the preventers on their booms from one side of the ship to the other. Then you tack the jib and fore staysail, make up the lines - but no time to coil the ropes: you have to run back to bracing stations and brace the squares around, otherwise the ship could get caught in irons or taken aback, which puts an unpleasant strain on the rig, apparently - and headed in for the back of Clare Island, to get out of the worst of the wind and the chop.
It took half a cold forever to come around the back of Clare Island to the quay. We didn't get in till around half five, and we ended up going in and out and in of the harbour (the captain'd thought we could berth at the end of the pier, but the ferry was still there, and not leaving, of course). At six the permanent crew sent us below to eat while they kept moving around looking for a decent mooring.
So we're all below, just finishing dinner, and we hear this shout from the engine room, "Out of gear! Out of gear! The prop's caught!" and the engine cuts out. A minute later, we hear the rattle-rattle-clunk, rattle-rattle-clunk, rattle-rattle-clunk-boom of the anchor going down to keep us from drifting onto the rocks.
Long story short: us trainees stayed below that evening, playing Scrabble and Monopoly and cards and reading - those of us who'd brought a book. Above, the permanent crew and a diver from the island got the prop uncaught - prop was fine - moored the ship on a buoy, and tried to raise the anchor.
No go. The anchor, now, was caught. So while we took it easy below, the permanent crew were at work until five in the morning, when they finally gave up to wait for low tide and daylight, trying to get the anchor uncaught (at four am, all of us foreward woke to rattle-rattle-clunk, but they didn't manage to raise it that time).
That night, we really started to notice the fact we hadn't washed since Thursday morning.
Map. We didn't go very far, all told, Saturday: Inisboffin to Clare Island is a trip of about four miles.
