RNSA Journal Piece

I was asked to write an article about our journey for the RNSA (Royal Naval Sailing Association) for publishing in their journal. I realised that the only people that would read it would be RNSA members. I thought I would post it here for all to see and for us as a reminder of our emotions and achievements of last year. I hope you you enjoy.

A FIRST CRUISING SEASON OF 33 PORTS, BIG SEAS, AND AN EVEN BIGGER LIFE SHIFT

When we slipped lines in Portsmouth on 9 April, Halcyon Sea wasn’t just taking us north; she was taking us into an entirely new way of living. We’d traded a house for a hull, a driveway for a pontoon, and the predictability of land life for tides, forecasts, and the constant low level hum of “what’s that noise?”

By the time we finally laid her up in Ardrossan at the end of September, we’d stopped at 33 ports, crossed the length of England and Scotland by sea, threaded our way through the Caledonian Canal, and fallen head over heels for the West Coast. But the real story is what happened to us in between: the fear, the laughter, the small victories, the dinghy disasters, and the slow, deep shift from “people who go sailing” to “people who live at sea”.

Learning to live small: the Solent and the first wobble

The early days in the Solent were a strange mix of comfort and disorientation. Fareham, Gosport, Cowes, Portsmouth — all familiar names, familiar waters, and yet nothing felt familiar at all.
Inside the boat, everything was too close and too far away at the same time. We’d open a locker and be buried in the avalanche of “essential” stuff we’d brought with us. We’d put something down and lose it for three days. We’d bump into each other constantly.
Pepper, meanwhile, adapted instantly and claimed the saloon as her kingdom.
But even in those first weeks, something beautiful was happening. We started to move differently, think differently. The weather forecast became the first conversation of the day. The tide tables lived permanently on the table. We began to feel the boat under our feet, to know her sounds, to trust her a little more each day. The sense of “we’re really doing this” finally landed.

Dover: the first real fear

Nothing quite prepared us for Dover.
The approach is busy, industrial, and intimidating. Ferries loom in and out of the harbour like moving tower blocks. The radio is alive with instructions, clearances, and calls. The breakwaters rise up ahead, and the entrance suddenly feels very small.
Tracey was terrified. Her hands shook on the helm. Her chest felt tight. Every instinct screamed to turn around and go back to somewhere familiar. But turning back wasn’t really an option — not practically, and not emotionally. This was the moment we’d been heading towards since we left Portsmouth: the first truly unfamiliar, undeniably serious port.
So she held her course. Nick talked calmly beside her, the boat ploughed on, and Dover Harbour opened up around us. When we were finally tied up and the engine was off, the adrenaline hit. There were a few tears, a lot of shaky laughter, and a quiet, shared understanding:
If we could do Dover, we could do a lot more than we’d been giving ourselves credit for.

Ramsgate and Lowestoft: finding our rhythm on the East Coast

After the intensity of Dover, Ramsgate felt almost relaxed. Fishing boats, harbour walls, a town that felt lived in rather than curated — it was the first time we felt like we were really “away”.
The coastline began to flatten out into long, low stretches of land and sky. We were starting to understand that the East Coast has its own character: less dramatic at first glance than the West, perhaps, but full of subtle shifts and quiet beauty.
Lowestoft was a turning point. Arriving there felt like a milestone — not just another stop, but a marker that we were genuinely travelling, not just pottering. The marina team were kind, the harbour busy and purposeful. We were no longer just “down from the Solent”; we were on a journey north.
By now, the routines of sea based living were starting to bed in. We knew where things lived (mostly). We’d stopped trying to live as if we were still in a house. The boat felt less like a project and more like a home.

North Shields and Amble: kindness, wildlife, and a growing sense of north

North Shields brought a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. Helpful staff, friendly faces, and a sense that boats here were part of everyday life, not an exotic hobby. The North Sea felt different too — colder, deeper, more serious. The wildlife changed: more seals, more seabirds, more porpoises appearing in the quiet moments between waypoints.
Amble was one of those places that gets under your skin. A proper working harbour with a soft edge — colourful huts, a welcoming community, and a pace of life that seemed to match our own emerging rhythm. We could have stayed longer. We almost did.
By this point, the idea of turning back south felt absurd. Scotland was pulling us on, not just as a destination, but as a promise.

Eyemouth, Arbroath, Stonehaven, Whitehills: the Scottish east coast tests

Eyemouth felt like the gateway to Scotland. The entrance, framed by cliffs and walls, demanded attention. Inside, the harbour was full of life and character. It was rugged, real, and exactly the kind of place that makes you feel like a proper sailor just for having arrived.
Arbroath brought its own flavour of east coast charm — a working harbour, history in the stonework, and that unmistakable feeling of being somewhere that has always faced the sea, for better or worse. We were getting used to the idea that not every stop would be pretty in a postcard sense, but each would have its own story.
Stonehaven, though, brought a new kind of fear: our first time coming alongside a wall.
Up until then, pontoons had been our comfort blanket. You step off, tie up, job done. A wall is different. It’s high. It’s solid. It moves relative to you as the tide rises and falls. There are ladders to climb, fenders to adjust, lines to think about in three dimensions instead of two.
Tracey’s stomach was in knots as we approached. The idea of being pinned against stone, of misjudging the height, of not being able to get off or back on — it all felt horribly exposed. But we edged in, talked it through, adjusted, readjusted, and eventually found ourselves secure. Later, climbing the ladder to shore felt like an expedition. Coming back down it in the dark felt like a test of nerve.
Whitehills added another layer to the learning curve with its narrow, angular entrance. On the chart, it’s just a kinked line between walls. In real life, it feels like threading a needle with your home. The angles mean you can’t see all the way in; you commit, turn, and trust that what you saw on the way past is still true now.
The sense of relief of tying up alongside was huge. These were the kinds of entries we’d once read about in pilot books and thought, “Not for us.” Now we were doing them.

Inverness and the Caledonian Canal: crossing a country

Arriving in Inverness felt like reaching a threshold. The sea gave way to the stillness of the canal, and the landscape shifted again — softer, greener, more enclosed. We were about to cross Scotland from east to west.
The Caledonian Canal is beautiful, no question. Loch Ness, Loch Oich, Loch Lochy — mirror calm water, mountains rising on either side, reflections so perfect they make you doubt which way is up. But it’s also work. Lines, locks, timings, waiting, moving, stopping, starting again.
Neptune’s Staircase was the emotional peak — or trough, depending on how you look at it. Eight locks in a row, a chamber full of boats, hooks that weren’t where we needed them, lines that didn’t quite reach, and one leap that was definitely bigger than either of us wanted it to be. By the time we spat out at Corpach, we were exhausted, slightly frayed, and very proud.
We had crossed a country by water. The West Coast lay ahead.

Loch Aline, Tobermory, Coll: the dream takes shape

Loch Aline was our first true taste of West Coast magic. Deep, sheltered water. Trees down to the shore. The soft clink of halyards in the evening. It was also where we joined the Royal Highland Yacht Club muster — hog roast, laughter, dits, and that instant sense of belonging that only sailors can conjure out of thin air.
Tobermory was a full circle moment. We’d first met there 11 years earlier. Coming back on our own boat, tying up under those colourful houses, felt surreal. We weren’t just visitors anymore; we’d arrived under our own steam.
Coll gave us dolphins and our first proper anchorage. The passage there was one of those days you dream about: clear water, gentle breeze, dolphins playing at the bow as if they’d been booked in advance. Dropping the hook in Breachacha Bay was both exhilarating and terrifying. We checked the anchor. Then checked it again. Then checked it some more. Sleep was light, but the morning — with Pepper tearing around the empty beach — made every anxious moment worth it.

Loch Sunart, Salen, and the slow death of a dinghy

Loch Sunart was a blend of history, beauty, and boat jobs — which, as we were learning, is the default setting for cruising life. The hills, the islands, the changing light; the stories of castles and estates; the quiet anchorages and small jetties.
It was also where our long suffering dinghy finally gave up. Floors deflating, patches failing, shoes soaked, tempers fraying. By the time we rolled its limp carcass up for the last time, Tracey’s trust in it was gone. A new dinghy became not a luxury, but a necessity.
Salen itself gave us woodland walks, emotional landmines, and Pepper’s first tick. The beauty of the place contrasted sharply with Tracey’s rising anxiety on a forest path that suddenly felt too remote, too dark, too full of imagined threats. It was a reminder that fear doesn’t always come with big seas and narrow entrances; sometimes it arrives quietly, on a still day, in a beautiful place.

Craobh Haven and the Great Boat Dismantling

Craobh Haven became our base for a while — and the scene of what can only be described as the Great Boat Dismantling of 2025.
What began as “just” fitting a new chartplotter and radar turned into a full scale archaeological dig through every cabin, locker, and lazarette. Bikes emerged. Paddleboards appeared. Dive kit surfaced. Spare quilts, packing cubes, and mysterious boxes of “stuff we might need one day” migrated into the saloon until there was barely a seat left.
Wires refused to go where they were supposed to. Connectors were too big for holes. Mousing lines tangled themselves into art installations. At one point, we discovered a hidden compartment full of salty water behind the anchor locker and had to pump it out before we could even think about putting our bedroom back together.
Tracey was hoisted up the mast in a bosun’s chair despite her fear of heights, only to be defeated by 24 year old radar bolts. Olly, Nick’s son, arrived, went up the mast, and finally persuaded them to move — only for the old radar cable to jam solid. A dream inspired plan involving nuts on a string eventually saved the day. By the time the new system was in, we were elated, exhausted, and washing up with a tap held together by mole grips.
It was chaotic, ridiculous, and very, very boat.

The long way round: Islay, Campbeltown, and the Mull of Kintyre

When the Crinan Canal confirmed we were too deep to transit, the decision was made for us: we’d take the long way round. It felt daunting at first, but it turned into one of the most memorable stretches of the whole season.
The passage to Port Ellen on Islay was a glassy calm, tide assisted dream. The sea was like polished stone, reflecting sky and land so perfectly it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. We slid past famous distilleries — Ardbeg, Lagavulin, Laphroaig — their whitewashed names standing out against the green.
Port Ellen itself was busy, noisy, and functional. Ferries, fishing boats, refrigeration lorries that hummed all night. Pepper loved the beach; we loved the sense of having reached somewhere iconic, even if sleep was in short supply.
Rounding the Mull of Kintyre the next day was a pinch yourself moment. Paul McCartney’s song played, of course. The purple heather on the hills, the overfalls we’d hoped to avoid but didn’t quite, the brief spell of lumpy water that Pepper absolutely did not approve of — it all combined into one of those passages that lodges itself firmly in the memory.
Campbeltown brought history, a fairground soundtrack, and a night pinned against the pontoon by wind and slap. It wasn’t restful, but it was real.

Ardrossan and the RNSA 90th: people, dits, and belonging

Arriving in Ardrossan felt like reaching a waypoint in more ways than one. It was the end of a long stretch of movement and the beginning of a different kind of busy: the RNSA 90th anniversary celebrations.
What followed was four days of organised mayhem: lunches at Mar Hall and Inverkip, speeches about getting more people on the water, Pepper behaving impeccably in a posh hotel, Tracey’s birthday cake being re lit three times because Nick forgot to press record, pontoon parties, BBQs, and late night dits.
June joined us on board at short notice, turning the saloon into her bedroom and testing just how many humans and how much kit can coexist in a finite space without mutiny. We sailed in company to Tarbert, played silly games over dinner (celebrity look alikes for every diner, anyone?), and formed a WhatsApp group that still pings with messages and photos.
It was everything we love about sailing clubs and associations: shared stories, shared challenges, shared joy.

Land life, COVID, and the pull of the boat

After Ardrossan, life briefly lurched back towards land. COVID hit, hard. There were long drives, family gatherings, anniversaries, air shows, club celebrations, and the surreal experience of sleeping in other people’s beds while our own floated quietly hundreds of miles away.
We were grateful for the time with friends and family — and acutely aware of how lucky we are to have so many people to miss. But underneath it all, the boat tugged at us. We’d built a life aboard now. Land was a visit; sea was home.

Arran, a lumpy farewell, and a pod of dolphins

Getting back out to Brodick Bay on Arran felt like a reset. Sunshine, a mooring buoy, a beach for Pepper, a submarine sliding silently past in the distance — it was everything we’d hoped this life would be.
Our last night of the season, though, refused to let us go gently. A change in wind direction turned the bay into a washing machine. By 2:30 am we were gripping the bunk to stop ourselves rolling into each other. Pepper shook with every slam of the hull. Leaving in the dark felt reckless; staying felt impossible.
At 5 am, we gave in. We slipped the buoy, motored out under a sky full of stars, and pointed Halcyon Sea back towards Ardrossan into a headwind that refused to give us an easy ride. It was cold, tiring, and felt much longer than the chart suggested.
And then, as if on cue, the dolphins arrived.
They played at the bow for almost an hour, weaving, leaping, crossing back and forth as if they’d been sent specifically to lift our spirits. They always seem to turn up when we need them most.
By the time we slid back into Ardrossan, found our berth, and tied up for the last time that season, we were beyond tired — but deeply, quietly content.
Laying up and looking forward
On 30 September, we took the sails off and began the process of tucking Halcyon Sea in for the winter. There was a real sadness in that — a sense of closing a chapter we weren’t quite ready to finish.
But the sadness was completely overshadowed by something else: pride.
In one season, we had:
• left Portsmouth and the comfort of the Solent
• visited 33 ports between there and Ardrossan
• faced down fears in Dover, Stonehaven, Whitehills, and more
• crossed Scotland via the Caledonian Canal
• navigated tidal gates, narrows, and notorious headlands
• survived technical chaos, broken taps, dying dinghies, and COVID
• joined new clubs, made new friends, and reconnected with old ones
• and, somewhere along the way, truly become sea based
Pepper has celebrated her first birthday and “Gotcha Day” aboard. We’ve seen more of our family in six months than we would have if we’d stayed working on land. Our world is smaller in square metres and infinitely bigger in every other way.
This isn’t the end. It’s just a pause.
The almanacs are already back on the saloon table. The charts are spread out. The West Coast of Scotland still has whole seasons waiting for us.
For now, the boat is asleep. But the story is very much still being written.Read more