Cruise Tor Bay

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Brixham Cruise - Sail Report

Once upon a time—shortly after the GP14 was first launched and just before the invention of patience—someone built a road. Not just any road, but the M5: a majestic black ribbon of tarmac that snakes across the land, inviting the landlocked of middle England to seek out the sea. The M5, for the uninitiated, stands for “Motorway No. 5,” but everyone knows it’s really the “Might-take-5-days-to-get-there”. It’s a marvel of modern engineering, designed to function as a car park stretching from Birmingham to Exeter, especially on a July Saturday. As we inched along, I wondered if every single car was headed to the GP Nationals and Cruise Week, or if some were just lost and too British to admit it.

We reassuringly had my GP14 ‘Kyle Lea’ behind us, as surely Devon and Cornwall would soon be sinking into the sea under the weight of all those currently heading south. Our destination: Brixham, the brightest, most beautiful seaside hamlet on the south coast—at least according to the Brixham Tourist Board. Our hosts, the Brixham Yacht Club, was perched so high on the cliffs that I half-expected to see Sherpas offering oxygen tanks at the entrance. No need, though—sheer exhilaration (and a club bar) is all the fuel you need. From its lofty vantage point, I gazed out over the bay, gasping for breath and wondering if I’d need a parachute to get back down. The view was so stunning, I nearly forgot the real reason we were here: to sail, and to tell exaggerated tales about it later.

Time and tide wait for no man, and especially not for sailors who forgot their sandwiches. The day arrived for us to taste the foaming English Channel. We first needed to glid through the harbour, past yachts anchored like floating mansions, but our humble 14-footer was ready to serenade the tides. Like the GP President steering the association through a storm (or at least a heated AGM), we set aside our worries and focused on the glory ahead: the legendary day sail to Thatcher Rock, a destination I feared was so distant it might as well be Narnia.

I remember squinting into the heat haze, searching for that currently elusive rocky lump. Someone pointed lazily in an easterly direction which was a good enough GP14 cruise week passage plan for me. We set sail and ventured out across the turbulent waters of Torbay, resisting the siren call of Torquay’s bright lights and their sugary rock.

Warnings quickly flashed afore me - it might just be that tiny speck in the distance —Thatcher Rock currently seemed more elusive as a decent cup of tea at a M5 service station. I briefed my crew with all the seriousness I could muster:
“We aim for that storm-struck lump of rock in the east, then veer into the Channel—the legendary route to Oriental treasures and, if we’re lucky, a mention on Sky News. If, and only if, this GP holds together until journey’s end.”
My crew nodded, yawed and continued liberally applying sun lotion. With a final wave to the massed crowds all waving Union flags and singing “Rule Britannia”, we slipped away from civilisation and into adventure. Or, as my crew called it, “mild inconvenience”.

As is the way of these things as soon as we launched the sky darkened. The wind grew fickle, the tide took hold, and I clung desperately to the mainsheet, my hands now burning from the cold, salty spray. The wind howled, the waves danced, and my thoughts turned inward, searching for hope, salvation, and maybe a hot chocolate. Through choppy waters, I guided our small boat, determined to reach our goal—or at least not to capsize in front of competitors in the Nationals. They were currently standing on the shore quivering with fear and wonderment as the cruise fleet headed out into deeper water and not a rescue boat in sight!

Peering across the bay, having done an old sea dog's estimate of the tidal rate and a celestial observation. I said, to my crew mate, in the most confident tone I could muster.
"We must be somewhere near Weymouth by now. Home, sweet Brixham, where are your welcoming walls?”
Clinging on to the tiller, I point the old girl towards her destiny. Although it's the boat that gives the better reaction of the two. Soon however, I yell into the now howling wind at my surprisingly laidback crew.
"We are doomed, doomed I tell you".
"We havna' left the harbour yet, yea daft beggar", was her sensible reply.

No sooner said and the July sun emerged from behind a cloud in undimmed splendour, and all nature appeared to rejoice in its light. The waves with their silver crests seem to chase one another in mad glee. and my foolishness was laid bare. I sheepishly however, had survived!

My crew, unfazed, had by now finished applying the Factor 50 and was now attempting to apply white warpaint to her nose and lips. The July sun shone, the waves gleamed, and the cruising fleet did eventually circumnavigate Thatcher Rock before heading home.

Water foamed about our blunt prows, and the white-winged gulls’ wheel in graceful circles overhead. There’s a contagious sense of movement and life. I revelled in the freedom of gliding across the water, the wind in my hair, the sun glittering behind me. The satisfaction and sense of achievement were immense. This, I am sure will be my tale of glory in the future editions of Mainsheet for years to come.