Farewell Comet: Scotland and a Maiden Voyage
Reader, we have arrived. Nine months and over nine thousand miles after leaving the dock in Florida, with nothing but a plan, a dog, and a startlingly over-optimistic sense of our own competence, Moonfleet is finally anchored in Scottish water. To be precise, she is anchored in 15 foot of sea kelp noodle soup, which will be all hell to dispatch when we pull anchor tomorrow morning, but that is fun for tomorrow.
Yes, it is true that this auspicious arrival into our 16th country was meant to happen in time for Ken’s birthday, a full month ago. But as with all things sailing, a month late is basically early, and I have decided we are simply operating on Scottish Standard Time, which I have just invented and which allows for any and all delays without further discussion (and also random wee drams of whisky at any hour night or day).
Our navigational tools confidently described Mull of Galloway anchorage as a secluded beach. What the tools neglected to mention is that “secluded” apparently means something different to enterprising Scottish farmers, because the beach in question was absolutely bristling with caravans and tents, packed in like a fairground without the rides or fried turkey drumsticks (there was a bearded lady, but she lives on the boat, and only because I haven’t had a facial in a while). No matter. Cruising is full of surprises and turns out we apparently didn’t come for solitude - we came instead for an audience, and Scotland had helpfully provided one, front row, folding chairs, beers in hand and TV blaring from one caravan - all for the maiden voyage of our new tender.
Longtime readers will recall my extensive, well-documented grievances against Comet the Canoe - a vessel so committed to killing me that I began to suspect it was hired by my ex-Husband. Since that traumatic episode, I have not been resting on my soggy laurels…Oh no dear reader! I scoured marine chandleries the length and breadth of the Welsh coast with the grim, single-minded focus of a woman who has capsized one too many times in front of strangers, and whose arms and ego cannot take any more canoeing. And in Holyhead, I found the solution: a featherlight inflatable dinghy, fitted with actual wheels, designed so that one moderately competent human (naturally not me) can haul her up a beach unassisted. We paired her with a 40lb electric motor - almost as silent as I was when Ken once bit into a pat of dirt because he thought it was a chocolate brownie - and the whole rig comes in at a tidy 80lbs - or 36.287 kilos, if you’re British and insist on dealing in numbers that don’t make sense to Americans.
In theory, this new dinghy option was a vast improvement over Comet. In practice however, you never know whether your new life-saving purchase is actually going to save your life, or simply find another inventive way to end it, until you’ve tried it out. And today was the day, anchored at the Mull of Galloway in bonnie Scotland with our caravanning audience.
Join the Crew
Like following two semi-capable adults who sold everything and sailed into the unknown? Become a crew member and get new videos, stories and questionable decisions delivered straight to your inbox.
We launched her - Moonlight, I optimistically called her - off the back of Moonfleet, into a hefty Scottish wind that was at least twice as blustery and triple the chill factor than the stupid weather tool had confidently predicted. In a well chosen anchorage, the wind comes off the shore, which is by design, tucking you into the lee of the land. Nobody mentioned that “sheltered” in Scotland still means “windy enough to blow your eyelashes off.” Ken, Gypsy, and I wobble-fell into Moonlight and I silently prayed we would not once again be covered in icy ocean whilst being involuntarily whisked off to another island.
And it worked. It actually worked! No drifting backwards against my flailing rowing, no involuntary sea froth iced latte mustache- just a smug, near-silent humming as the electric motor propelled Moonlight across the chop like she’d been doing this for years instead of minutes. Gypsy, for her part, sat at the bow during the short passage with her usual internal eye rolling, wondering what new humiliation she was being put through just to get to land. When we hit the beach, we simply lowered the little wheels and rolled her up past the tideline, upright, dry, and entirely uncapsized — a level of luxury I did not know I was missing until I had it.
In front of us, half a dozen caravanners peered from over their morning cans of beer and breakfast cigarettes. Although they refrained from applause, a thumbs up, or even a congratulatory smile, I like to think we gave them a better show than whatever was on their TV. Comet, sulking and stored on the top deck, relegated to the same graveyard of failed purchases as our kite foil and my thong bikinis, would never have managed it without at least one of us going in the drink.
All hail Moonlight!
If you know someone who may like to follow our journey (even in fascinated horror), please forward this email to them and they can sign up below.