In Milford Haven, too, I am invited for tea (and a chat) early in the morning by sailors who, like me, are moored on the floating quays. I gladly pass by and hardly recognise myself, how relaxed and communicative I have become in socialising and showing my interest, even if I am asked (and answer) the same thing for the nth time. But be careful, because I’m amazed at how quickly time passes; I still have to go shopping, refuel, and catch the lock at 1 pm – there are only three locks per day for us recreational captains (yesterday I was simply lucky to be able to enter with a few fishing boats). The lock makes sense, protects the harbour from the tides.
I made it, timewise, can enter the lock directly from refuelling – Milford Haven, by the way, is the only facility on the west side of England and Scotland where I can get petrol in the harbour! One facility on the east side (Royal Quais Marina), one facility on the west side, not exactly lush for ‘Great Britain’.
Once again it is afternoon by the time I leave, out into the open sea. I’m heading for the south-western tip of England, Cornwall, in an area between the Bristol Channel and the Celtic Sea. (I’ve been thinking of crossing over to an even more westerly, remote cluster of islands, the Isles of Scilly. They have been recommended to me several times. However, the current somewhat unclear weather development and the contradictory information on supply possibilities there have made me steer towards Newlyn; in the back of my mind I already have the crossing to France as well as the trip through the Bay of Biscay – I should relax and really not let any expectations arise).
Looking at the calendar, today is a special day for me – so it fits perfectly what is happening now in the middle of my route: In front of me, and soon above me, I see a huge flock of birds excitedly plunging into the water… and indeed there seems to be a feast going on in the water itself, because as I approach I see around three dozen dolphins swimming frantically back and forth and up and down, also jumping out of the water every now and then, stuffing their bellies!
I stop, observe, drive a little closer, and suddenly find myself in the middle of this revelry; I can’t get out of my amazement. Driving slowly, I accompany the pack that has gone wild above and below the water – the birds don’t care about me, they only have eyes for the fish to be snatched. But with the dolphins I ask myself if they are really ‘so cute’ and really want to benevolently include my boat with their approaches, or if they don’t rather perceive me as an intruder and simply want to get rid of and displace me.
No, I do not dispute their prey. But yes, I am prowling in their hunting grounds. – It is so difficult to even recognise animal behaviour and the underlying motives; I want to be able to understand all animals, not have to interpret their behaviour!
After this extended ‘active break’, I continue around the south-western tip of England and experience a brutally violent change of current as I turn into the English Channel: lots of ‘pull’ in the water and waves up to two metres high on top. The disgusting thing is not the height of the waves themselves (I ride them at an angle), but the short interval with which they have to be overcome (I estimate every three to four seconds). Now it’s no longer a case of driving over or cutting through, now the ArgoFram makes considerable, even brutal ‘leaps of joy’!
Half an hour of full concentration (and a resurgent fear) – I glide into Newlyn harbour completely drenched in sweat. Whew… That was unexpected, turned my whole inner system upside down in a split second (from joyfully relaxed to basically not knowing exactly what I was doing – there was no going back, to where). The ArgoFram is agile and robust and gives me courage, but I don’t need this violent wave bath again, certainly not during x hours over to France.
It is already late in the afternoon, or early in the evening, as the case may be. The harbour master, who takes the night shift, directs me to a place where I can get in and out sideways. Then he explains to me how the procedures work here, how to get into the shower, where to pay, and where to get something to eat… Later I go to him again, ask him for his advice on how to approach my next stage destination, and learn a lot of basic things (from his point of view) about ‘practical navigation’: Watch the wind, use the wind, but never run against it.
Presumably, as a wind whisperer, he can also ‘read’ the weather – he must have been a fisherman in the past, until about ten years ago (then something happened – I don’t ask – and he is still grateful today to have been given this job here, which everyone who comes into contact with him immediately senses; his gait is marked by massive limitations, but he fights against it, of course not letting on). We talk for a long time, but to cut a long story short: although the announced waves are no longer so high, he strongly advises me not to cross the channel tomorrow!
I follow this advice; a wise decision, a pleasant decision – not only does it let me sleep peacefully, I really take this ‘given’ day out with the waking up, without structure (!), take this new day for myself, for my being, for my being-for-me.
As assumed, it must continue to be rough out in the canal. There would be enough wind… Sailors come into the harbour enervated, also a good 20 m long sailing boat with a family of many – what an experience for these children when they (have to) give everything together with father and mother as a team to reach the harbour. I see: The parents are exhausted, but the children seem cheerful, actively helping to tidy up the sails and all the dishes so that one feels comfortable on board again. Only then, after about an hour, do they go to the harbour master. Strict discipline, what a school of life!
Apparently the harbourmasters were talking about me and my journey at the change of shifts… The man in charge for the day offers me, without being asked, to drive me with my canisters in his car to the only petrol station (outside the village) to get enough fuel for my plan to sail past Brest in several hours to land in a small harbour far away from the usual places in Brittany: Another rather ‘political’ decision I’ve made because England and France are not on good terms at the moment – anything that smacks of official assertiveness and civil servant persuasion I’ll bypass; I want to travel, not meddle in foreign affairs.
It’s getting to be afternoon, I’m not ‘clocked’, I’m enjoying the free time, I’m enjoying the warming sun here on land, I’m enjoying a cup of hot chocolate with a slice of a fine cake in a just-discovered coffee – what a wonderful tea-time! And I discover this and that in this village, which is dedicated to tourism as well as fishing and presents itself very invitingly. I open my eyes to details, for example murals on a harbour building depicting fishing life. Breathtaking!
But I also get a crash course in current and wind theory for the Atlantic coast of Brittany; the retired French couple of a neighbouring boat (who have been familiar with sailing since they were ten) have invited me and proudly show me how they calculate the course for their planned turn across to France (to determine the best possible time when they should set sail) and what I also have to pay attention to with my boat, when I best pass through where at what tide conditions. And to exercise caution, for example at those two places near Brest where even navigation comes to a standstill when wind and current are strongly opposed. And at the moment it looks like it, according to the various weather and tide apps that this sailing couple uses to make their decisions. The weather over there will remain changeable until it rages from the northwest in a few days. – They are already retired and know this area like the back of their hand… Why, I ask, do they spend hours in here in front of the screens during the most beautiful sunshine outside, when they ‘know’ exactly what’s coming? And how did they do it in the past, 50 years ago, when these technical achievements did not exist? – Helas, they say, then they simply set off when the conditions were good…
In the evening I meet the harbour master again, who works the night shift. And he now explains to me in detail how he assesses the weather conditions: With a simple wind app on his mobile phone, which uses meteorological data from various relevant measuring stations and delivers very reliable forecasts, which he then supplements with his experience to form an overall picture – for tomorrow, he says, I shouldn’t leave too early, because the sea also takes its time until the water masses follow the changing wind conditions; the tidal currents don’t really pose a problem for my boat with this propulsive power (at most a driving problem, but I have to manage that on my own, he can’t help me there). There will be a lull tomorrow afternoon, he says, and then I’ll be fine before the weather really takes a turn for the worse; I need no more than six hours for my 300 km to reach my destination. He has to rethink, he says (and he does); he can’t really imagine being on the water so quickly. – Honest words; they help me a lot. So much so that I begin to anticipate the weather development described for my further route and my head is already ‘working’ very concretely on the crossing of the Bay of Biscay.
I relaxed and went back to the boat.
On the way to the ArgoFram I pass fishermen. Some have just returned and are unloading their catch, visibly proud to have made a good living today. Others are meticulously preparing to leave this night, swell or no swell (fishing boats are sluggish; they don’t ‘jump’, they rock with the swell – you have to be given to join in). I watch these industrious, really hard-working people; old, young, and not a few ‘weird birds’… Without them, many things would not run so smoothly, without them, nothing would run at all! – They give it their all, are absorbed in their exhausting work, toil to feel themselves fully in the here and now, grab hold, lift, heave over, haul – and later another beer or two…
And then, I think into the future, when this kind of fishing is stopped because it is no longer profitable, when industry automates itself more and more and no longer needs workers, no longer needs human machines, and when even in the armies of this world wars are increasingly decided at the push of a button instead of hitting the enemy in direct combat (or we are about to abolish wars altogether), where will all these ‘weird birds’ go?
However, I am also struck by a couple who have little in common with the outwardly rough beat here: I learn that she is admired by everyone here (not only in the harbour) not only because of her attitude and her hands-on manner, but also because of her looks, and he is shunned accordingly… The two of them have their own boat and two employees; they go about their work as small entrepreneurs under high risks to provide us with valuable proteins every day. Soon they will be leaving; they are making the final preparations, just filling the ice into the bunkers – the next catch, may it come, wants to be well cooled!
The fishing business should not be underestimated; years ago in Iceland I saw the most modern fishing fleets, actual floating fish factories with dozens of employees on each ship, which are at sea for a fortnight, satellite-controlled high-tech machines with huge trawl nets. What I have encountered here in the UK is in no way comparable to this; here manual labour counts (without wanting to judge this; it also has to do with the type of fish that are caught). – We who buy fish in discounters or in a Swiss ‘specialist shop’ have – sorry – no idea. The longer I look, the more I see behind the scenes of these fishery artisans: impossible working hours (depending on wind and tide), insecure working conditions (will we come back?), unpredictable market and price conditions (how much will be solved for the catch at the auction after the return?), all this these small and medium-sized enterprises have to endure. Tough!
In many places there are commemorative plaques or memorials, often covered with fresh flowers and supplemented with photos and personal mementos – they impressively show how the local society is still shaped by fishing. That’s why I’m not surprised that many find tourism a more rewarding, or at least more estimable, task.