A Detour, a Swollen Eye, and a Very Wild Crossing

We’d planned to stay just one night in Craobh before heading somewhere new, then on to Lochaline for a muster with fellow sailors from SCS (Sailing Cruising Scotland) — a Facebook group with thousands of members and a brilliant way to meet people and pick up local knowledge. At least 20 boats were attending, and we were looking forward to it.

But the next morning Tracey woke up and could see her entire right cheek from her right eye. Her eyelid was hugely swollen, her cheek was puffy, and she had pain in front of her ear. Saying she looked like she’d gone a round with Mike Tyson was generous — Mike would have been proud of the damage.

With no car and our friends already gone, the only option was a taxi to A&E. The driver suggested Lochgilphead was closest, and after a quick call to check they’d see her, Tracey jumped in. £45 later she arrived and waited… and waited. Four hours later she emerged with antibiotics and the challenge of getting back to the marina.

The original taxi driver didn’t answer. The number given by hospital reception went straight to voicemail. Panic began to creep in. After scouring Google and Facebook for alternatives, she finally reached a driver who initially said he couldn’t help — he was babysitting his daughters. After a plea, he agreed to come, and 30 minutes later Tracey was back at the boat, another £50 spent, exhausted but relieved.

We decided to stay another day to let the tablets kick in. By the next morning the swelling had gone down considerably.

Through the Cuan Sound… and Straight Into Chaos

On Wednesday we set off again, planning to head to Kerrera and pick up a mooring buoy for a couple of nights. We picked our way back through the Cuan Sound, but this time it was windier, colder, and rain was in the air. A reminder — as if we needed one — of why we do this to ourselves.

As we reached the final S‑bend, we looked ahead and froze. Standing waves. Huge, steep, two‑metre walls of water — and no way around them. We were doing about 8 knots when we hit the first one. It was very much squeaky‑bum time. Pepper wouldn’t settle, Nick was trying to navigate while avoiding the shallows, the boat was slamming into troughs, and Tracey was on the verge of tears. This was not fun. And it was freezing.

Looking at the sea state, it was clear Kerrera wasn’t happening. Nick made the call to head straight for Mull instead, sheltering in the lee of the land as we worked our way around the coastline towards Lochaline. It felt like the safer option, even though we knew we’d be in filthy, confused water for a while.

The forecast had predicted gusts of 24–26 knots. We were getting 45. Again — why do we do this?

We passed Loch Don and finally Duart Castle came into view. Our destination was getting closer, and we couldn’t wait. Spray washed over the bow and ran the length of the boat. Eventually we turned into the entrance of Lochaline, where the waters calmed and our shoulders dropped a few inches.

The one advantage of arriving early was having our pick of berths — and we were lucky enough to get the same one we’d had last July. There’s a lot to be said for familiarity.

We do, however, have a few issues onboard: the radio isn’t working, and our Raymarine screens have stopped talking to each other. At least we’ve got a few days to sort things out before the weekend… and the next party.Read more