Grimsby to Scarborough

Grimsby to Scarborough: A Race Against Time, a Sea of Surprises, and a Roaring Welcome!

Finally, the day of departure from Grimsby had dawned! A shared eagerness buzzed between us; we were both more than ready to feel the familiar thrum of the boat beneath our feet and explore new horizons. The 7 am alarm was met with surprising enthusiasm, and we busied ourselves around Halcyon Sea. It felt distinctly more leisurely than usual – perhaps our overnight preparation skills are finally sharpening, or perhaps it was simply the glorious weather. A warm breeze caressed our faces, and the sea stretched out, invitingly calm. Just what the doctor ordered.

We radioed Fish Dock on Channel 74, requesting permission to slip through the free-flow lock. High water was at 9:31 am, and the lock's generous two-hour window either side of high tide meant a seamless transit without the need for traditional penning. Then, another call, this time to Channel 14, seeking clearance to exit Fish Dock and venture into the Humber. Permission was granted, accompanied by a gentle nudge to switch to Channel 12. We took our mild reprimand in stride, swapped frequencies, and headed out, hugging the south side of the river to avoid the giants of commercial shipping.

Our next crucial step was to cross the TSS (Traffic Separation Scheme). We called Humber VTS again. They informed us that three wind farm vessels were fast approaching from astern and that we should cross behind them. Oh, and by the way, we should now be on Channel 14. We accepted our second (and slightly more pointed) admonishment with good grace, waited for the massive catamarans to slice past us, and then made our move, heading north. A wave of relief washed over us; despite our radio channel missteps, we were safely out of the river entrance. As if on cue, a lone seal popped its head up next to the boat, its dark eyes mirroring our own sense of accomplishment. We took it as a very good sign indeed.

With the morning sun climbing high and the sea as flat as a millpond, the opportunity to raise the sails was too perfect to resist. We are determined to sail more on this journey, and with the wind coming from a SSW direction, we couldn't have asked for better conditions (though a little more breeze wouldn't have gone amiss!). We kept the engine ticking over for a while, just at low revs, ensuring we maintained momentum for the 10-12 hour journey to Scarborough. We didn't want to arrive in the dark, and ideally, we aimed for high water, so dawdling wasn't an option. It wasn't long before we could cut the engine completely, gliding along at a respectable 6 knots – pure sailing bliss!

Our focus, however, couldn't solely be on the horizon. The waters between Spurn Head and Flamborough were a minefield of fishing pots. Some markers were clear, brightly coloured buoys, but many looked like forgotten relics, encrusted with green and black marine growth, almost invisible against the shimmering sea, lurking like submerged traps. We knew that beyond the distinctive headland of Flamborough, with its lighthouse perched atop, the markers would shift from buoys to flags on sticks, notoriously difficult to spot, especially the darker ones that seemed to deliberately blend into the waves.

Flamborough Head itself was breathtaking. Sheltered coves hugged the shoreline beneath towering cliffs, and tiny figures of tourists dotted the clifftop, enjoying the dramatic views. The iconic Flamborough Head Lighthouse, built in 1806, stood guard, a beacon designed to warn ships of the perilous cliffs. Originally lit by a revolving oil lamp (an earlier 1669 lighthouse was never actually lit!), it was electrified in 1940 and automated in 1996, it is now controlled remotely from Harwich, Essex. As we sailed past the lighthouse, hundreds of Guillemots and Kittiwakes wheeled and soared around the cliff edges, their cries adding to the wild symphony of the coast. Pepper watched, utterly fascinated, as numerous groups of Guillemots bobbed in the water, only to take flight in a flurry of wings just as Halcyon Sea carved her way through their patch. The flag markers of the lobster pots began to appear, and we found ourselves playing a tense game of dodgems right up until we reached Filey Brigg.

It was here, that the tide had turned against us, our speed dropping noticeably, prompting us to restart the engine to maintain our pace. And then, as if on cue, the wind began to gust. We'd started the day with a gentle 5 knots, watching it steadily climb to 15. Now, it was ripping up to a ferocious 28 knots. While the sea state miraculously didn't escalate into a full-blown chaos, the boat began to feel heavy, almost sluggish. For our own safety, a tactical decision was made: drop the genoa and put a reef in the mainsail. Tracey turned Halcyon Sea into the wind, bringing her to a near halt and centring the boom, while Nick wrestled with the reefing line. For those unfamiliar with the terminology, this simply means reducing the amount of sail exposed to the wind, lessening the force on the boat.

However, a new snag! We noticed our second reefing line was stubbornly trapped behind the first at the mast. Not a critical issue for that very moment, but it would certainly become one when we eventually needed to drop the mainsail or put in a second reef. Once the first reef was in, the boat felt significantly easier to handle, and we settled back into the rhythm, pushing onward towards our destination.

Ahead, a massive, ominous black cloud loomed over the cliffs ahead. We kept a wary eye on the wind, which seemed to teasingly drop, only to gust ferociously again just as we started to feel safe. It was time. Time for that second reef. Once again, Tracey smoothly turned the boat into the wind, slowing the engine. This allowed Nick to get to the mast and, with a bit of "jiggery pokery" managed to free the snagged line. With that accomplished, the second reef was promptly added to the mainsail. We could have dropped all sail at this point, but Scarborough was still a little way off, and we were keen to maintain our momentum.

Finally, we were close enough to the harbour to call for berthing instructions. Yet again, our 2-meter depth presented a slight predicament. The harbour master, initially, told us to berth alongside a dredger. Tracey's composure, already frayed by the reefing issue, plummeted. Ease was all we craved, and Pepper needed to get ashore immediately. Climbing over a massive dredger and scaling a harbour wall was not the "easy" arrival we'd dreamed of. However, the Harbour Master, bless his soul, was incredibly helpful. He seemed to grasp our plight and, perhaps because we didn't descend into a screaming fit, seemed even more eager to assist. Eventually, he offered us another spot – it was tight, and, wouldn't you know it… short pontoons. Tracey was on the verge of tears. But Nick's expert boat handling saw us creep into our designated spot with surprising ease, only a gentle kiss on the pontoon. Our primary concern was avoiding the Commodore's speed boat, berthed precariously close, and the harbour master kindly helped by fending us off it.

We were in! Just as Tracey took Pepper ashore for her eagerly anticipated walk, the heavens opened. It was a short, sharp downpour, the first rain we'd seen during the day for months, lasting no more than ten minutes. Back onboard, Tracey poured our now-obligatory celebratory drinks. A loud, rumbling noise then echoed around the marina. "Quick!" Nick shouted, "Bring your phone!" A convoy of tractors, large and defiant, were parading along the promenade – we assumed a protest against recent farmer inheritance tax changes. By God, they were loud; they certainly made their presence known!

After a classic fish and chip supper, we crawled into bed, utterly weary but filled with a profound sense of accomplishment. We'll only be spending two nights here, taking advantage of the weather window on Monday to move further up the coast.Baca lagi