Otter Ferry

[Kyle]If it is even possible, our next morning in Kames was even wetter than the last. In spite of this, we sailed the next leg of our journey to Otter Ferry. We know people ask us why we don’t just wait. Here’s why; in Scotland, if we waited for a nice day, not only would we lose out on all of our ‘extra’ exploring days along the way, we’d have to really pile on the miles each time we did go in order to get anywhere. Besides, we’re blue water sailors, after all, and rain is supposed to be almost entirely water. Other people in Scotland do it.

So off we went. We hoisted the sails and cast off the mooring under the watchful eye of a guy on a nearby boat who looked nervous about us making the turn away from his boat in time. A few moments later, he disappeared in the rain behind us. At least the wind was a reasonable strength. We were able to fly (and thoroughly rinse) full sail. Further down West Kyle, the rain stopped and I swear I saw a teeny tiny patch of blue sky. Great, I thought. Storm over. Uh, not so much. The Kintyre peninsula to our west disappeared behind a wall of rain. Then it was upon us. Water ran off the bottom of the genoa in sheets and poured onto the deck before running overboard. Everything went from dripping to steady streams of water. It was freezing. Man, am I getting tired of it being freezing in August.

The rain came and went in this way for most of the morning. At least the direction and strength of the wind were good. We sailed south out into the Clyde and then made the turn north into Loch Fyne, only having to make a handful of tacks to get through the wind. About three miles before we reached Otter Ferry, it cleared up - really cleared up. The sun came out and it warmed things up and made real shadows. Finally!

I studied our anchorage through the binoculars and decided we would pick up a mooring under sail. It went the same as the time before, with Footprint coming to a stop and pausing just inches from the ball. I was hoping to do that. People were watching from the shore. Maryanne grabbed the pendant with the hook and pulled but was barely able to get it to the deck. Uh-oh, I picked the one mooring ball whose pendant was wrapped around the chain underneath like somebody had played tetherball (swingball to the Brits) with it. Actually, it wasn’t just wrapped but tangled. How does that happen? It was like somebody tied a knot in it. This must be what Scottish teenagers do since they don’t have too many cows around here to tip. We alternated hanging on while the other had a go at the tangle with the boat hook. Eventually the line came free so we could get a bridle tied to it. I’m sure, from afar, it looked a little less smooth than our approach, but at least we managed to keep hold of the mooring through the whole exercise.

Then it rained.