Winter Sailing from Wales to Ireland: How to Sail in the Dark & Cold

Winter sailing in the UK is not for the faint hearted. Solo sailor Murray Longmore opted to test that theory to the maximum with a winter jaunt from Wales to Ireland 

Boats are like friends, for many reasons – we stick with them through thick and thin, and they are a reason for living. But there is one important difference: boats like to be used. If we lay our boats up at the end of September and wait until the following Easter before our next trip, we may waste the best months of the season putting right what time and the depredations of salty dampness have put wrong. So I like to use my boat every month, even during winter. This way, there are fewer nasty surprises lurking in the lazarette or hiding in the heads. And if there are insoluble grumbles in the galley, then at least I know about them before setting off into the summer sun.

But now it is winter – the evening of 9 February, 2024 to be precise. I am in Lidl in Aberystwyth for a few household groceries, while I mull over whether to set sail across the Irish Sea. As I entered the supermarket, I was of the opinion that the forecast was not stable enough. But as I went from aisle to aisle, I found I was stocking up for a voyage. A dozen eggs? Not needed! Yet there they were, in my basket. My subconscious must have been in the driving seat, and it was by this means, and by these eggs, that I learned that the trip was on. My subconscious knew that the eggs were for hard-boiling, to feed the watches of the long February nights ahead. In some ways I didn’t really want this voyage to happen. To quit warmth and security for the cold inky blackness of the Celtic night seemed wrong. But who am I to argue with my subconscious? 

Trial by Fury 

The downside of winter sailing involves not just wet and cold weather. In winter, equipment failures are the rule rather than the exception. Winter sailing tests one’s boat and her systems – sometimes beyond endurance. In one sense, this is a good thing. If your systems survive what I think of as “trial by fury” in the winter months, the chances are that you may be able to sail through the summer with impunity. 

On this trip, during a planned gybe, I suffered total internal derangement of a newish block. Its black cheeks parted, the axis rivet failed, and the white wheel inside, cast itself into the ocean. Everything else survived intact (apart from my pride, for a reason I shall come to).

Once the decision was made in favour of this mini-voyage, I found it was one that was easy to rationalise, using the following argument. Before Christmas, a very good friend asked if I wanted to join him on a leg of his circumnavigation, from Japan to the Philippines, scheduled to start in March. I found all I could say was “Wow!”, and “Yes!”, and “What an opportunity!” But by February I found that had I disobeyed my own rule of carrying on sailing (owing to a surprising number of named storms and unnamed furies) and I had not been at sea properly for a few months – long enough to have lost my sea legs. Now, it is not fair to turn up on someone else’s boat (a Tradewind 35) without one’s sea legs. As my sea legs are lost all too easily, wasn’t this crossing of the Irish Sea just what was needed to put me in shape for the Japan – Philippines voyage?

With my conscious mind now working in tandem with my subconscious mind, there was no stopping me. I chose Malahide, just north of Dublin, for my Irish destination. It is a delightful town, with a splendid marina. More to the point, there is a long sandy beach with good holding just outside the approaches, where it would be easy to anchor, day or night. The route from Aberystwyth to Malahide is about 80nm, allowing for a bend round Bardsey Island and the Devil’s Tail – but not allowing for any tacking.

Winter Sailing and Night Time Departures 

One of the problems of winter sailing is that one must often leave and arrive in darkness, if the dictates of the tides are to be adhered to – as they always must be, in a boat such as mine (a 32ft Etap, named Irish Eyes). With my draft of 1.4m, I can only leave Aberystwyth marina 2.5 hours or so before high water – less at springs, which happened to be a day or so after my planned departure. But if I left at high water, my arrival at Bardsey Island would put me at the whip end of the Devil’s Tail tidal anomaly. The solution? Leave around high water (2200), and anchor off the North Beach at Aberystwyth, and set sail after 0100 into darkness (no moon was predicted). 

A rolling few hours at anchor outside Aberystwyth should be just the thing to educate my sea legs, I thought – and would test the maintenance I had applied to my windlass a few months earlier. Perfect! – in a masochistic sort of way. So, on this view, I would not be starting this trip well-rested and in peak form. Never mind!

The windless worked in a half-hearted sort of way (am I the only sailor to have perpetual windlass problems that only occur after the guarantee has expired?). But despite the swell and the rocky bottom, the anchor held unambiguously (a Rocna, to which I have entrusted my life on many occasions). I amused myself until 0100 by singing snatches of sea shanties (I only know one) and by blowing speech-bubbles to loved ones. I raised the mainsail under cover of darkness, glad that no-one ashore could see and criticise my slow technique. I sailed off my anchorage into the cold night. I was trembling all over. Was it from fear or cold? 

In fact, the night was far from dark – although it was moonless. The stars shone with a vividness that seems to me to be augmented by the winter air. Or perhaps it is the winter air making my senses more alert? Tonight, the stars did not twinkle – I have been told that twinkling occurs on nights when there are abundant crystals of ice in the upper firmament. I did not know how to feed this lack of twinkles into tonight’s forecast, but I did know how exceptionally lucky I was to sail under their unblinking gaze.

The direct route from Aberystwyth to Dublin and Malahide takes one through the notorious Bardsey Sound. I am too fearful for this, but one day, in daylight, things will line up, and I have promised myself I will try it. So, with a racing spring tide under me, I gave Bardsey Island a wide berth, leaving it to starboard. We all know that what the tide gives, the tide takes away, and soon it was against me. This is when the seasickness started, a sickness which was to hold me in its clutches until my destination.

Seasickness Sets In

I don’t remember much of the next hours. None of the hard-boiled eggs were consumed, naturally enough. But I could drink a little water, between excursions to the leeward rail, to feed the sea. I do remember being grateful for my newly-mended towed generator, which allowed me to generate enough amps to have the radar alarm on (as well as the AIS), so I could lie down for a bit. The towed generator is a welcome item of equipment for the winter sailor. Even with three solar panels, I cannot generate enough amps to keep the navigation instruments fed, even in the zenith hours of February daylight. This means that one sails into the long winter night with depleted batteries, which is far from ideal. But with my towed generator, I can make 4-6 amps, day and night. Sometimes there are so many amps that I plug in a toasted-sandwich maker, just to use up the amps, and have a treat, but such treats were far from my nauseated mind on this voyage.

Owing to the brightly-shining stars, during this phase of the mini-voyage, my mood was blacker than the night. I found myself thinking “Why on earth am I doing this?” and “Why am I so sea-sick?” and “Will I be up to the Japan-Philippines trip?” Adding to this downbeat mood, I found that the south-setting spring tide had taken me far off my course, and too far south of Dublin but then the tide changed again, and I could make my way north, going parallel with the Irish coast and 10nm to the east. Soon I was at the beach at Malahide. I anchored in darkness, pleased that there was no swell.

I awoke to a new sunlit world of calm and peace, in a mood of tranquillity, tinged with euphoria at the beauty all around me. After a good breakfast, I was feeling more than 100% fit. I had planned to up-anchor at the top of the tide, and navigate the tricky shoal waters to Malahide marina. However, I no longer hankered after land because today seemed made for sailing, and there was a reasonable forecast to get me home. The sea was the place to be, and all my sea-sickness had vanished. So I decided to put to sea with no land interlude, to cement my sea-legs, as it were. And, sure enough, sea-sickness was not to visit me again. In a rising wind and with rising confidence, I raised the anchor under unreefed mainsail, and sailed off the anchorage. I headed towards Ireland’s Eye, and then out to into the Irish Sea, with 3kts of spring tide under my happy keel. This gave me a speed-over-land of up to 10kts, which got me off to an almost flying start. It was the morning of all mornings, and there was nowhere I would rather have been. 

Tidal Wranglings

As night came on, and the Bardsey Light came into focus, a strong spring tide erupted in an adverse direction. Thank goodness there were no corresponding gastric eruptions, because I had to think clearly. Thinking about how to deal with these spring tides made me come up with the following advice to myself. “When trying to transit a tidal gate in the wrong direction, go out of your way to transit the gate on a beam reach (my fastest point of sailing). As the tide grips you, and your speed through the air decreases, apparent wind will move aft, so what might have started out as an efficient broad reach may all too easily turn into an inefficient run. So take this into account when manoeuvring in the fastest of the adverse flow.” Applying this advice gave me an extra knot or two of speed over land, and almost halved the time I spent in adverse conditions. This is not just an advantage from an ETA point of view. If there are aggressive wind-over-tide conditions, you are in the danger zone for a possibly far shortened time. But note that each tidal gate has its own idiosyncrasies, and it will often be the case that you cannot approach it on a beam reach, and the prudent course of action is to wait until the tide is favourable. Also, sometimes a beam reach will expose your boat to breaking waves on the beam, which could be dangerous.

Because of these manoeuvrings, I arrived at my destination too early, and at too low a state of tide to enter Aberystwyth harbour. So I heaved-to in darkness, and bided my time. Then the wind piped up to Force 5-6 and a swell came in, so I was worried there would be breaking seas over the bar on my way into the harbour. In my view, it is best to wait until the top of the tide before going in. While hove-to, my towed generator line had got twisted into an unruly snake, so I undid it, and streamed its line from the stern, to iron out its kinks, so as to help with coiling the long length. Then I spied a gap in the waves, and clipped on a shortened harness, and, with legs braced against the cockpit sides, I made a dash for the harbour entrance. Experience has taught me that it is best to engage the autohelm for this event, then, if the seas should knock you off your feet, the correct direction is nevertheless maintained.

All went well, until idiocy intervened for the last 20 metres of the trip. As I backed into my berth, I reversed over the towed generator line that I had forgotten to haul in. The serpent was now eating its own tail. Of course, the free end of the tail twisted itself around my propeller (despite having a rope-cutter fitted). Luckily, I had sufficient speed to glide into my berth (not very gracefully). Luckily again, two berths away from me was Jack, a diver. He was very helpful and optimistic that he could fix the problem. As I was berating myself for my idiocy, he simply said: “Don’t beat yourself up, Murray. You can’t count yourself a proper sailor unless this sort of thing happens…It’s happened to us all.” Thank you Jack!

Winter Sailing: Reflections and predictions

I wouldn’t have missed this little voyage for anything. Yes, I fed the sea, but the sea in turn fed me – a diet of delight, of dolphins, and of a dawn I shall never forget. The voyage has also given me confidence and joy. Did this winter sailing prove adequate preparation for the Japan – Philippines voyage? Only time will tell, so I promise to report back from the South China Sea in due course. Of one thing I am certain, there will be tribulations and trials – but, If I am lucky, no trial by fury.

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