#iles chausey

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Entre le ciel et l’eau

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Mystérieuses iles Chausey

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Magie des iles 

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La fenêtre de ma chambre.

[yachtorion]

St Malo to Jersey

Saturday 25 July 2015

So charmed were we by St Malo we would have happily stayed more days, but the weather looked to be deteriorating rapidly. A fierce-looking depression was due on Sunday that would make a return passage untenable for a couple of days, and we had more crew flying into Jersey on Monday afternoon.

Inspecting the weather charts, a transient ridge of high pressure would pass over the Channel on Saturday, before all hell broke loose on Sunday. So reluctantly we made plans to return to Jersey. The other constraint was the Vauban lock, which wouldn’t open till 1150 French time. The passage of 42 miles would take 8 hours or so, allowing us to arrive at St Helier in daylight. 

At least the enforced later departure allowed us a relaxed morning. It had been a windy and rainy night so I was quite surprised to emerge to a blue sky at breakfast time. After preparing the boat – and a picnic – we had time for a final shopping trip and rampart circuit – during which I managed to lose my sunglasses, not the smartest move with a sunny day’s sailing in prospect. 

We slipped the lines at 1030, and pootled around the Bassin Vauban in company with other yachts keen to exit the lock. Our departure was delayed slightly by the road bridge being open, but then it swung away, and we followed a couple of old traditional wooden yachts into the lock. 

This time we managed to moor alongside one of them, thus avoiding the horror of long ropes attached to the wall. And the other occupants were polite enough not to run their engines, so there were no suffocating diesel fumes. Slowly the waters dropped, the lock gate opened, and the yachts scattered. Little did we know this was the calm before the storm. 

As we entered the main St Malo shipping channel, straight into a head wind (of course) we were met with a fierce chop that shook the boat around, clearly the vestige of the previous night’s wind and rain. There was little option but to motor through it, slapping down noisily on the larger waves, as St Malo slipped gracefully away in the bright sunlight. 

Some of the yachts around us hoisted their mains, and a couple of madmen tried tacking their way out. Then the Condor catamaran powered out of the port, and we all quickly got out of the way. It seemed to take ages to get as far as the Grand Jardin lighthouse, marking the outer reaches of the St Malo approach zone. The waves were crashing against its lower walls as we passed.

I made a short trip below to check the final navigation out of St Malo, and this tipped me over the edge into nausea. Sam had already disappeared onto the saloon berth, with headphones on and eyes closed. 

Adrian wrestled the main up and added a reef: nothing was simple in this bucking sea. We partially unrolled the jib and set off on a close reach for the northern channel round the Iles Chausey. We were doing over 7 knots through the water, so put in a second reef, which made the motion slightly less manic. Slowly, slowly the Breton coast receded, and the waves began to settle. It felt like lunchtime so we started consuming our sandwiches by instalments, taking turns to helm. 

The wind, which had been 16-18 knots apparent at the start, slightly eased, so we shook out the second reef, and later the first, and finally unrolled the jib. It was small neaps, so we had very little help from the tide, but we were averaging a respectable 6 knots over the ground. 

By mid afternoon we had passed Chausey and left the Minquiers to the east, so gradually headed up to close-hauled. The wind had been forecast to go round to the west, but for now stayed stubbornly north-west, so we had to tack. 

Sam emerged, enjoying a respite from seasickness, and curated a series of piano concertos to enhance our passage, from Grieg to Bartok and Prokofiev. We caught a glimpse of the elusive rocky Minquiers off to the west, as we were now close to low water. 

Around 1800, we got tired of our pathetic VMG and put the engine on, rolling away the jib. Motor-sailing is less purist, but allows an angle of 15 degrees or so to the wind, better than the 35 degrees of sailing close-hauled when the objective is upwind. 

We negotiated the final approach into St Helier, dodging the inevitable Condor catamaran, which roared past us, and rafted up on the waiting Albert pontoon alongside other yachts until the marina sill opened about 2230. Sam got off the boat at the first possible moment and did a quick recce of the marina: there were plenty of finger berths available.

I cooked up some pasta, which we ate below, willing other arriving yachts not to moor alongside. After a quick post-pasta sunset walk, we settled in to wait for the tide to rise. 

Around 2230, in full darkness, the sill opened, with 2.0m clearance (we were after 2.3m or more). Sam went ashore, armed with mobile, and we negotiated untying with our neighbours. A couple of yachts glided in confidently, and we slipped over the sill at 2.3m, with Sam talking us into a vacant finger berth on E pontoon. With the storm expected early morning, it felt good to be snugly tied up.