admin Date , Thursday April 23 , 2026
There are some days when the weather looks at a sailing
course and says, “You have had quite enough gentle practice. Let us now find
out whether any of it has gone in.”
Thursday was one of those days.
It was the final day of our RYA Competent Crew Course in
Croatia, and after several days of learning, practising, laughing, making
mistakes, recovering from mistakes, tying ropes around things, throwing ropes
at things, and occasionally remembering which rope was supposed to be doing
what, the Adriatic decided to give us a proper sailing day.
There was much more wind.
Not a little more wind.
Not a polite instructional breeze.
Proper wind.
The sort of wind that makes the sea look alive, the rigging
hum, the sails fill with purpose, and beginners suddenly become very interested
in whether the boat is supposed to lean over quite that much.
By now, breakfast on board had become a highly refined
routine.
Pink grapefruit.
A strawberry jam sandwich.
Fruit juice.
This was not exactly the breakfast buffet of a luxury hotel,
but it had become part of the rhythm of life aboard. The strawberry jam was now
nearly gone, which seemed strangely symbolic. The course was nearly over. The
jam was nearly over. The orange juice had already given up completely and
disappeared, so apple juice was on the menu instead.
It is amazing how quickly boat food develops its own
mythology.
By the end of a week, a slightly stale slice of bread, a
nearly empty jar of jam, and a carton of fruit juice feel less like breakfast
and more like tradition.
Outside, however, the wind was already making it clear that
this was not going to be a quiet potter back to base.
Before we left, we had to pay for the night.
The bill was 110 euros, which made it the most
expensive mooring of the week.
At that price, I half expected the quay to come with a
velvet carpet, a personal butler, and perhaps a small orchestra playing us out
of the harbour. Instead, we had the usual mixture of lines, fenders, movement,
shouted instructions, and the general organised confusion that happens when
several boats are preparing to leave at once.
Michael had joined us again the previous night after doing a
night sail, so there was a real sense of the course gathering itself together
for the final day.
The plan was simple enough: leave the harbour, sail
properly, make the most of the wind, and eventually return to Marina Agana.
Simple plans at sea have a wonderful habit of becoming
rather more interesting once sails are up.
One of the great pleasures of this week had been sailing
alongside Sailing Fair Isle, with Steve and Judy filming parts of the
adventure from their boat, Papaye.
This morning, Steve had the drone out to film the boats
leaving.
Michael and crew left first.
Then we left.
Then Sailing Fair Isle followed in Papaye.
From the drone’s point of view, it must have looked
magnificent: yachts slipping away from the harbour, white hulls against deep
blue water, sails waiting to be hoisted, and the Croatian coastline providing
the kind of backdrop that makes any film look as though it has had a much
larger production budget than it actually has.
Of course, the calm elegance of drone footage does not
always show the little human details.
Such as Steve forgetting the papers.
This meant Judy had to jump ship and go back to fetch them.
There is something reassuring about this. However organised
sailing may look from the air, down at deck level it still involves someone
suddenly realising that an important bit of paper, bag, key, cable, battery,
lunch, or hat is not where it needs to be.
Once out, the sails went up and we began sailing properly.
This was not just a gentle sightseeing trip. We all had a go
at tacking the boat, putting into practice the lessons from earlier in the
week. By now the movements were becoming more familiar, although familiarity
should never be mistaken for elegance.
Tacking a larger yacht is a very different experience from
tacking a dinghy on the Thames.
On the river, everything happens quickly. The space is
limited, the wind is often confused by trees and buildings, and the next bank,
buoy, moored boat, or overhanging branch is never very far away.
At sea, there is more space, but there is also more boat.
The loads are bigger. The sails carry more power. The boat
has momentum. The whole manoeuvre feels more deliberate.
On the Thames, a mistake might leave you stalled under a
tree or drifting backwards towards a moored cruiser. In Croatia, a mistake has
the potential to involve a great deal more rope, winching, leaning, and
discussion.
Fortunately, Tadek kept everything calm and organised.
We headed towards Brač, sailing out across the water
with the islands ahead of us.
One of the interesting parts of navigation in this area is
that what appears obvious on the chart is not always obvious to the eye. On the
navigation map, we could see that there was a gap between the islands. Looking
across the water, however, it appeared at first as though we were heading
towards one solid mass of land.
This is where charts, plotters, and proper navigation
matter.
The eye says, “That is clearly one island.”
The chart says, “No, there is a gap.”
The brain says, “I hope the chart is right.”
As we sailed on, the gap gradually revealed itself. What had
looked like a solid wall of land became a passage, and once again I was
reminded that navigation is not just about looking — it is about interpreting.
We also saw a beautiful three-masted yacht, the kind of
vessel that makes you stare for far longer than is probably useful when you are
supposed to be concentrating on sailing your own boat. There was also a small
navy boat in the area, adding a slightly more serious note to the otherwise
holiday-like scene.
Tadek worked with John and Emily looking a Tide tables and working out voyages using the RYA data.
