Emerging from the mist like a craggy apparition, the sheer cliffs fronting the Scottish isle of Skye dramatically revealed themselves. We were motor-sailing aboard the Swan 68 Aphrodite from the nearby island of Rum, one of the so-called Small Isles of the country’s Inner Hebrides chain, and we’d already been forewarned that the coast of Skye would be scenic and remarkable. Now, here it was, in all its noble glory. And it was clear that the coming attractions had been spot-on.

Tall granite peaks stood proudly against the sea. Rivulets of water spilled over the lofty plateaus until the spray coalesced into riveting waterfalls, one after the next. At sea level, along the weathered shore, relentless storms with accompanying seas had battered the coastline, as evidenced by the deep caves. Seabirds wheeled overhead in one direction, as a pod of dolphins trucked along in the other, their fins rising and submerging in unison. It looked like a scene from a movie.

Eventually, the hard rock began to slope off. It gave way to patches of green hills. Still high aloft, the white dots spotted among the emerald bits were slowly stirring. As always in Scotland: sheep and more sheep. 

I’d been sailing with skipper Murray Jacob for more than a month now, starting with a transatlantic voyage from Rhode Island to Ireland before we’d delivered Aphrodite north to Scotland. As usual, the captain was quick with a comment. “If there’s a sheep Olympics,” he said, “those ones win some medals.”

Scotland was proving an exceptional cruising ground. And we were exploring these enchanting waters with a rather remarkable assemblage of like-minded sailors, which made it even better. 

Four days earlier, we’d left the Scottish island of Kerrera on the so-called “Western Isles Cruise 2025,” a movable feast of 50-some yachts representing a half dozen sailing organizations: the Cruising Club of America; the Irish Cruising Club; Scotland’s Clyde Cruising Club and Royal Highland Yacht Club; the Royal Cruising Club from England; and the international Ocean Cruising Club. Aphrodite, owned by former CCA commodore Chris Otorowski and his wife, Shawn, was one of a handful of boats representing the CCA; like our seaworthy Swan, several had crossed the Atlantic to join the festivities. (Unfortunately, the Otorowskis were unable to attend, but they gave us the green light to set sail in their absence.) 

It had all commenced from the cool Kerrera Marina, a full-service, family-owned operation that’s a short hop across the water from the bustling town of Oban, a popular destination for tourists thanks to its plentiful fresh seafood, colorful Victorian architecture and never-ending fleet of ferries servicing the nearby Hebridean islands. The marina was not only an ideal headquarters for the cruise, but one with important historical significance. During World War II, it was the site of the Royal Air Force’s Oban Airfield flying-boat base, and the ramp for the marina’s current Travelift was once used to extract seaplanes for maintenance. 

Kerrara Marina also served as the host for the CCA’s meet-and-greet party, with boat sheds and support buildings transformed into dining halls for a sumptuous buffet for the dozens of participating sailors. It was there that we met our Scottish buddy boat for the cruise, skipper Ken Andrew’s 38-foot Argento representing the Clyde Cruising Club. It was a huge stroke of luck, for the Argento lads provided plenty of local knowledge in equal measure with hearty laughs and endless drams of good Scotch whiskey.

With that we were off, bound for the port town of Tobermory in what was, for most of the fleet, a 35-nautical-mile race. For Aphrodite and crew—Murray, myself, CCA members and seasoned sailors Peter and Adrianne Becker, and Spike Lobdell and Betsy Bowman—it was a rather cruisy jaunt, as we were towing a big tender to facilitate future explorations. Tobermory was a salty, pretty little place with fine pubs adorning the waterfront, and an ideal first stop. 

Thick fog engulfed the harbor the next morning as we prepared to motor to the protected waters of Loch Drambuie for one of the cruise’s signature moments: the Sunflower Raft organized by the Royal Cruising Club. As the fleet’s largest yacht, Aphrodite had been designated as one of the eight “cardinal boats” around which the raft would be assembled. Capt. Murray was—how shall we put this—less than enthusiastic about this assignment (“If it’s windy, it’ll be a cluster”) but the RCC’s vice commodore, Tim Trafford, was a pillar of organization, directing a small fleet of RIBs, and it went off without a hitch. “The sunflower is complete!” he announced over the VHF radio as the last boat slipped into place and many a dram was poured. The breeze did kick in, but not until all was disassembled. 

The next morning, we powered past the adjacent Small Isles of Muck and Eigg on our way to Rum, where we dropped the hook and had a good look around at the nature reserve, camps and general store before the swarms of biting midges had us scurrying back to the boat. From there, the next day, it was on to Skye and its jaw-dropping visuals.

What had really drawn us to Skye, however, wasn’t the arresting scenery but the Talisker Distillery on the shores of Loch Harport, with a tasting and lunch organized by the Irish Cruising Club. The distillery has been in operation, so the story goes, since 1830, wwhen the MacAskill brothers rowed in from Eigg and set up shop: “Made By the Sea” is its fitting slogan. I was never much of a Scotch drinker, but I enjoyed the tour and was definitely acquiring a taste for it. My favorite part (other than dodging the flocks of sheep meandering down the road) were the plump, incredibly tasty oysters (adorned with a “mist” of Scotch) served up in Talisker’s restaurant afterward. I put away more than a few. 

The distillery tour was one of several organized events scheduled every few days over the course of the cruise’s two-week itinerary. They were all quite social affairs. I was enjoying getting to know the CCA crew, including current Commodore Jay Gowell, who was sailing his Tayana 52, Moonstone. I’m not a CCA member but have many friends who are, and I’ve always admired their guiding motto and spirited raison d’etre: “Adventurous use of the seas.” It was fantastic sailing in company with this group, all excellent sailors and just terrific, friendly folks. 

From Skye, the next highly anticipated stop would be the Outer Hebrides chain, dead to windward. Accomplished offshore sailor Peter Becker made an astute call when he dubbed our masthead windex the DDD: the “Delivery Direction Indicator,” the maxim that states the wind always blows from the direction we wish to go. It did turn into an upwind bash, but Aphrodite is a powerful beast sailing to weather, and we crossed the Sea of Hebrides in a pretty ideal 15 to 25 knots of fluctuating southwest breeze. 

We spent our first night anchored off the isle of South Uist, just outside the very complete facilities at Lochboisdale Harbour, which is billed as “the ideal point of entry for visitors to the Hebrides.” It was a raw, wild place: barren, rocky, scrubbed. (With, of course, many sheep.) “This,” Murray said, “is what I thought Scotland would look like.”

Heading south the next day under a double-reefed main in continuing solid breeze and rather appalling weather (which is pretty much what I thought Scotland would look like), we made our way to the island of Barra, a virtual metropolis in these parts with a population of 1,300 rugged souls. The highlight here (other than the palm trees swaying in the small gale, a testament to the range and reach of the Gulf Stream) was dinner in the warm, cozy confines of the dining room at the Castlebay Hotel. More specifically, it was the steaming bowl of Cullen skink, a creamy chowder full of smoked haddock, potatoes and onions that was delicious. If ever a meal were suited to the place and the moment, it was Cullen skink.

It was a quick motor from Barra to the isle of Vatersay, the southernmost and westernmost inhabited island in the Outer Hebrides. A supper at the local community center was the day’s organized event, with a terrific, youthful band of bagpipers who infused the proceedings with a Scottish accent. The pristine twin beaches to either side of a spit of land adjacent to the community center were truly spectacular. The eastern beach was at the head of the protected bay that served as the main anchorage for the rendezvous. The western beach, just a short walk away and facing the blue Atlantic, is one I’ll not soon forget. There were wandering sheep, of course, but the big surprise were the cattle wading near the seashore. I stole away from dinner for a long, breathtaking walk. Other than the livestock, I was the only other sentient being around. 

I’d have been perfectly happy spending the summer wandering these gorgeous Outer islands, but time waits for no cruise in company. In more ways than one, Vatersay had been the apex of our travels and the real turning point: It was time to start making our way back to Kerrera. But good times were still on the horizon. Some 70 miles back to the east, so was our next destination.

Our mates on Argenta knew of a pub called the Old Forge in the small village of Knoydart on the shores of a lake called Loch Nevis that was accessible only by boat (a 7-mile trip from the nearest port) or by foot (an 18-mile hike). Off we went. We had a couple of fine hours of sailing before the passage devolved into a long motor-sail, but it was all worth it. The loch was spectacular, and the locally brewed beer at the pub was fresh as could be. The only problem? It was a Monday, and no chow was being served. So, after a couple of rounds, we retired to Aphrodite with our friends. Dinner was whipped up, and more than one Scotch bottle was opened, its cap tossed away. 

It was a fine night. The next morning? Less so. I can only speak for myself, but the day’s mission—a return sail to Tobermory—was a bit hazy, and I’d learned an important lesson. Never attempt to drink Scotch with the Scotsmen. 

The cruise itinerary had one more item on the docket before the final party back in Kerrera—the Impromptu Alfresco Pot Luck Party—with a variety of possible lochs or ports as the venue. What transpired was unexpected and outstanding: a big gathering at the secluded Inverlussa Mussel Farm.

The current was piping along at better than 3 knots as we motored through the entrance to Loch Spelve on the isle of Mull and wended our way to the northernmost finger, where a big sign on the shoreside facility—“Moules”—clearly pronounced that we’d come to the right place. In exchange for donations to the Royal Life Saving Society, the outfit that patrols the waters of the U.K. to aid distressed mariners, the farm had donated a hundred pounds of prize mussels, which were absolutely out of this world. Every boat brought a dish and grog, and it all turned into a mighty feast. There’d be one celebratory party back at the marina to wrap things up, but as far as I was concerned, those moules were the journey’s exclamation point.

It had been a fantastic cruise, and I’d been honored to be part of it. Scotland is now firmly on my list of favorite cruising grounds. Great mates, whiskey, scenery, and on and on. Nothing but wondrous memories in the bank. Heck, I’ll even miss the sheep.

The post Cruising Scotland’s Misty Isles: A Sailor’s Tale appeared first on Cruising World.

Ginger and Peter Niemann were recently awarded the 2021 Blue Water Medal by the Cruising Club of America for their inspirational efforts and achievements during two sailing circumnavigations. Their circumnavigations took them to the Arctic’s northern latitudes and Patagonia’s southern latitudes; their second trip around the world included several rigorous, non-stop passages due to COVID-19 pandemic restrictions.

The Niemanns’ first voyaging boat was Marcy, a 47-foot sloop they converted from a schooner. From 2006 to 2010, Marcy took them west-about from Seattle almost 50,000 miles around the world, including rounding the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn.

In 2017, they departed Washington State on Irene, a 52-foot fiberglass ketch. Taking the opposite direction, east-about, through the Northwest Passage and staying in the northern hemisphere, they never crossed their first circumnavigation’s track. They sailed to Greenland, Newfoundland, and the US East Coast before crossing the Atlantic to Ireland.

After touring the U.K., Atlantic Europe and the Mediterranean, they found themselves suddenly stranded in Turkey when the COVID-19 pandemic began. Like many other international cruisers, they were stopped in their tracks. Unwilling to leave Irene, they considered staying in Turkey; sailing back home across the Atlantic; or heading home to the Pacific Northwest through the Suez Canal. They chose the third option and sailed for two months and 6,000 miles non-stop across the Indian Ocean during the monsoon to Batam, Indonesia.

When they arrived in Batam they found their previously negotiated permission to stay in Indonesia revoked. Nearby Singapore let them stay, but they were required to stay onboard their boat. They lived onboard at the Changi Sailing Club for five months; in all, they spent nearly 300 days unable to go ashore. On February 2, 2021, they departed on the long cruise home to Washington State via Japan and the Aleutians. Despite the challenges posed by the pandemic, Peter and Ginger persevered, cheerfully adapting to a seemingly endless onboard quarantine and undertaking lengthy sea passages under difficult conditions. CCA found their persistence and ingenuity truly inspiring. CCA recognized their teamwork, courage, good humor, flexibility and innovative spirit as evidence of their exceptional personal and sailing mettle and awarded them the 2021 Blue Water Medal.

The Blue Water Medal has been awarded regularly since 1923 to reward  seamanship and adventure upon the sea displayed by amateur sailors of all nationalities that might otherwise go unrecognized. Past winners include Eric Tabarly, Sir Francis Chichester, Rod Stephens, Webb Chiles and Eric and Susan Hiscock.

The post High-latitude Circumnavigators Awarded 2021 Blue Water Medal appeared first on Cruising World.

My liveaboard family of six finally docked. We pulled off our Irish sailing dubarrys, slipped into our knee-high wellies, and stepped off the boat onto the floating pontoon at Oban Marina to stretch our legs after having crossed the North Atlantic and up the Irish Sea.

When I put on my Wellies, my sea body became a land body again. I walked through the boatyard and trudged through the muddy paths, and my sailing soul was filled with the piece of land my heart needed. Floating offshore aboard Selkie is the life we have chosen, but this land, this place, the family of Oban Marina and the Isle of Kerrera was a home we had chosen for winter.

“I never want to leave here,” said my 10-year-old daughter, Lily, four months in, as we walked the puddle-filled path past the baby pigs. Just beyond the boatyard, a visit to any new puppy, either on Ardentrive Farm or Balliemore Farm, was frequent.

“Really?” I asked. After our first week here, and after the first couple of initial explorations, Lily had been ready to move on like a true cruising sailor. Now there was a different atmosphere about her, an epiphany. She had found a new home, a place where people will remember her, a place her heart will always yearn to return, and a place she loved to wander and risk thistle and thorn to bramble-pick. This home is called the Isle of Kerrera.

Our family—including my husband, Nick, and our four children: Tristan, 12, Lily, 10, Mara, 6, and Rory, 3—crossed the Atlantic from the Caribbean on our 49-foot Westerly, Selkie, with the ARC Europe rally in May 2018. We’d started our liveaboard life nearly a year earlier, in June 2017 in the British Virgin Islands, and enjoyed cruising the Caribbean. We sailed as far north as Anegada and as far south as Grenada, but we canceled our plans to circumnavigate and decided to take a shortcut to where we truly wanted to be: Scotland. With the hospitality of the ARC, we enjoyed mingling with other cruisers in Tortola while preparing for the rally start. Once underway, however, we quickly came to realize that even though you’re sailing in company, you are still by yourself at sea.

But we did it: We crossed an ocean—something I was very apprehensive to do. We split from the ARC, which was heading to Lagos, Portugal, and went north, landed in Cork, Ireland, then finally reached Gigha, Scotland, in August.

We wanted a place to call home, and online, Nick discovered Oban Marina’s discount for a six-month winter stay. We had been to Oban before on a seven-day, six-castle tour in 2015; and we had cruised the Caledonian Canal with LeBoat, and rented an RV on the Isle of Skye in 2016. We knew we loved the waterfront of Oban, but Kerrera, where Oban Marina is actually located, is a small island just across the Sound of Kerrera from Oban with fewer than 50 full-time residents. It is nestled on the northeast in a protected bay vulnerable only to an east wind. We would live on this tiny, hardly inhabited island (about 4.5 miles long and 1.5 miles wide) and take a ferry to and from Oban for provisions and fresh seafood. We had changed our parallel from 12 degrees to 56, and our meridian from 65 degrees west to 5.

I don’t know if others would like something so secluded, but immediately, as cruisers, we were welcomed, and especially so when we shared our plan to stay.

“What’s it like here in the winter?” I asked Robin, the marina manager.

“It’s like being caught inside a washing machine,” he replied.

Fantastic, I thought sarcastically. This will be an interesting winter.

But we loved the countryside of Scotland so much, we would have endured anything to stay. The open air, the hillsides of the highlands, the mountains on the horizon, the endless water in every direction, the hairy cows, the sheep, the brisk and fresh air, the damp and fertile soil, the heather, the smell of peat, the seal colonies—all of it. And even if it meant living inside a washing machine.

So, in September 2018, Oban Marina became our line-tied, cleat-knotted home.

Being a full-time mom, home-school teacher and chef on Selkie, I enjoyed the time I took out the trash at night. I know it sounds silly, but in the dark after dinner, I often ventured alone. The errand took but a minute, and then I was free to look at the night lights of the Oban coast: the fishing boats, the ferries, McCaig’s Tower and its forever-changing light displays. The air was crisp and clean; the water (every once in a while) gently bobbed the docks. If the clouds cleared, an unforgettable moon and set of constellations blessed my soul with the experience and a sense of mystic. Sometimes I brought my phone for music and danced on the empty docks. Other times I brought my son and we messed about. Mostly, though, I went out into the quiet and thought of those with whom I wish I could have shared this experience.

During a sunny day, the most pleasurable walk was the one to Hutcheson’s Monument. David Hutcheson was a ship owner who took people to and from Oban to the Inner and Outer Hebrides. His services later became Caledonian MacBrayne, which today is a major ferry line that brings visitors and locals to 22 islands on the west coast. Or for a true walk, a hiker can wander all the way to the south of the island where the ruins of Gylen Castle, dating back to 1582, stand next to a tea shop. My boys preferred to stay near the marina to throw rocks by the waterside, and have a wee bit of swordplay with our boat hooks.

The Waypoint, the seasonal restaurant at Oban Marina, was delicious and cozy, with an unforgettable view. Since we arrived in fall, we got to enjoy quite a few dinners there. Sam, the manager of the bar, would dance with our children during dinner, and the chefs were grateful to hear compliments in the nearby kitchen. In winter Waypoint shut down and became a clubhouse for the few people still left around. I enjoyed doing aerobics, dancing with my kids or homeschooling within its doors. On Fridays it opened for the locals. Either Sam or Robin minded the bar. Bill, a mariner living on the hard, always sat to the left and encouraged all to imbibe. Gary and Catherine, the owners, were usually there. David and Karen would show up with one of their dogs from Ardentrive Farm and, at times, Gill and Tim would come with their boys, or Donald wandered in from the north. At Waypoint, everyone knew each other so well that a big cheer was shouted for any arrival. Kids played with Lego bricks on the floor, and the adults shared stories about past adventures and future plans, but most of all, we enjoyed each other’s company.

In October, the Oban Marina family threw my daughter her 10th birthday party. On Halloween, or Samhain, there were not many houses to trick-or-treat at, but we were invited into homes for cocktails and chocolates, and because we were invited in, it was one of the best Halloweens we have ever had. We even thoroughly enjoyed tromping through the wet, muddy paths in our Wellies. Lily, in her zombie-prom-queen dress, hid about the boatyard jumping out and scaring us.

In November, Oban had a Winter Festival, which reminded me of a Dickensian village. The streets were lined with beautiful open shops, and there were craft sales, carnival rides, a Santa parade, tree lightings and fireworks. On the day of America’s Thanksgiving—obviously not celebrated in Scotland—everyone was quite interested in what I was going to cook on the boat, and my husband and I (with little Rory) took a sunset dinghy ride around the entire Isle of Kerrera. It was breathtaking.

At Christmas we had an amazing potluck dinner at the Waypoint. I made a sweet potato casserole, and Sam and Robin cooked a turkey. Afterward there was chaotic and fun karaoke. Everyone was nice enough to let my girls start it off with sailing songs. Gary and David were pros. By the end of the night, even I was screaming into the microphone. After the Christmas party, the sun came out for a beautiful day, and the Waypoint held a children’s Santa party. Tim served mulled wine for the adults who were hurting from the night before, and Santa, played by Donald, handed out a toy for every child who attended. It was a perfect weekend.

Fireworks were seen from Kerrera to Oban on New Year’s Eve, and we had front-row seats.

Despite the merriment, though, we knew winter had set in. “Another storm is coming. Double-check your lines,” was often repeated as another huge wind event came spiraling in off the North Atlantic. It was like living inside the tornado that takes Dorothy over the rainbow. But if you could endure the rigging whining in the wind, the water slapping the hull, and the dock lines stretching, squeaking and pulling, you truly were living in a brightly colorful, magical land of adventure.

Every week it seemed that a storm blew through, and we got used to it as one would a weekend. Each one became a two-day family holiday aboard. We would hang tight, listen to Selkie get yanked back and forth, cook a giant pot of spicy chili in the galley, get busy with home-school work or explore another mechanical endeavor in need of improvement. When the storm settled and everything was still, we could hear distant highland cattle moo, folks laughing, dogs barking and an announcement of the CalMac ferry coming across the bay.

In spring our family rented the nearby cottage, referred to as the boathouse, while Selkie was hauled at the yard. I walked to the Waypoint through the mud in my new knee-high fancy red boots. I knew I didn’t care about their appearance; I cared about the present countryside. It was high tide. I could not reach the Waypoint from the cottage without walking way around, but the stroll in the dark with my headlamp was why I was there, to sink my feet in the soil, walk the cliff, hear the lines flapping from boats on the hard, and dodge the puddles to go see some friends along way

A winter in Kerrera is for sailors who love highlands and the rolling hills, and who feel the wind and water in their soul. Our family highly recommends a short or long stay. Slàinte mhath, as the Scottish like to toast. Cheers.

At press time, Maggie Hirt and her family were sailing Selkie back to the Caribbean with the ARC+. Follow along with the family’s adventures at sealongingselkie.net.

The post Wintering Aboard in the Scottish Highlands appeared first on Cruising World.

Nine days out from the Azores, I steeled myself as we approached the Royal Cork Yacht Club in Crosshaven, Ireland. Quetzal, my Kaufman 47, and her skipper have a fondness for the Irish, and my arrivals—and departures—have been known to get a bit out of hand. Once the lines were secured and customs and immigration officials satisfied, the dangerous part of the passage commenced: the celebration. My Irish friend Pat was on hand to welcome us, and before we knew it, a party broke out in his garden on a bluff overlooking the harbor.

I blame Phil, Pat’s lovely wife, because she kept the wine flowing as our discussions ricocheted from Brexit to presidential politics to church scandals. Eventually we left the political and religious minefields astern and broke into song. In Ireland, once the singing starts, it’s all downhill—a point that my crew was only too happy to remind me about in the coming weeks; later that evening, their besotted skipper and erstwhile navigator insisted that we had to walk uphill to get back to the boat.

Sober, humbled and reoriented, the next morning I spread my collection of Imray charts across the saloon table. While it was good to be back in Ireland, Crosshaven was just the staging point; we were bound farther north, to the west coast of Scotland. Paper charts fuel dreams in a way that electronic charts, beholden to their devices and GPS overloads, never will. One by one I unfolded C-57 through C-65, plotting a course that would take us from Cork to Dublin, then on to the Firth of Clyde and beyond. Once in Scotland, we would have a couple of months to explore the Inner and Outer Hebrides, one of my favorite cruising grounds. I arranged our “sailabouts” into four legs.

The Usual Suspects

the crew for leg one—400 miles from cork to oban, Scotland—included the usual Quetzal suspects: Alan from Lunenburg, Ron from Chicago and Bruce from Maryland. This two-week cruise was the reward for their knee- and back-breaking efforts the year before when they helped remove Quetzal’s teak decks (see “Confessions of a Teak-Totaler,” Hands-On Sailor issue, 2018). By sheer coincidence, our route would take us to several ports with distilleries, and it seemed if a wee dram of single-malt whisky now and again helped ease their pain, it was the least I could do. In Troon, on Firth of Clyde, I arranged to pick up my daughter, Narianna, and her boyfriend, Steven. Nari, who grew up on Quetzal, understands her old man’s cronyism; she knew what to expect (Steven was in for a few surprises). Pat, a Quetzal veteran and Gaelic speaker, also shipped aboard, and he would ultimately, bravely attempt to translate the all-but-indecipherable Scottish brogue for the rest of us.

The weather was almost ­unnervingly pleasant as we made our way up the Irish Sea. We closed the coast near Dalkey Island, and Pat pointed out the exclusive Killiney neighborhood where Irish celebrities, including Bono, live. We made our way to Dun Laoghaire on the bottom of Dublin Bay and took the train into the city. Then we were off for Scotland, skirting the Isle of Mann and leaving Belfast Lough to port. We had another near-perfect sail, reaching before moderate southwest breezes. Dodging fast ferries was the only challenge. I had a notion that Neptune would pay us back for this easy run to Scotland (our return to Crosshaven later that summer proved my premonition right).

RELATED: Faroe Islands Sailing Adventure

In Troon, we picked up Nari and Steven, and hastily prepared to get underway. So much for fair weather: Fish-scale clouds sprawling across the sky wrapped a halo around the sun. The forecast called for gale-force winds late that evening. A local sailor strolled by and assured us that the forecast was off by 24 hours. He was nattily outfitted in leather dress shoes, designer jeans and a fancy, black, embossed Hugo Boss T-shirt. “The met office got this one wrong,” he said knowingly. “Don’t worry, it’ll be OK tonight. But tomorrow night, watch out.” We politely thanked him for his advice before dismissing him as a crackpot. We were counting on our freshly downloaded GRIB files for weather input, not fashionable local knowledge. We angled back across a lumpy Clyde, bucking headwinds and foul currents before making our way to Campeltown near the southeast corner of the Kintyre Peninsula. The marina is at the head of a protected inner bay and tucked into the city center with several pubs nearby, a perfect spot to ride out a gale.

The gale never materialized, and the next morning we were underway again, making our way toward the Mull of Kintyre, where we had an appointment with the flood tide. The Mull, which in Gaelic means “headland” (more or less), is more famous than it should be. And not because it’s the cradle of Scotland, where fifth-century Irish monks first came ashore; or for its windswept landscapes, or fearsome tidal overflows; or even because it’s considered the true starting point of Hebridean cruising.

No, it’s famous because of an annoying-but-irresistible Paul McCartney song that lodges in your brain like a computer virus. Ron set up the speaker, and Alan and I led the chorus, bellowing, “the Mull of Kintyre, the Mull of Kintyre,” as we rounded the headland and rode a 3-knot tidal stream into the Sound of Jura. Steven looked concerned, realizing that he was stranded with us for a week.

We were bound for Islay which, according to the Clyde Cruising Club Sailing Directions, “is famous for its whisky, not surprisingly, as there are seven distilleries on the island.” We secured Quetzal along the small pontoon off Port Ellen and made inquiries about visiting a few the next day. Two English ladies cruising in a vintage Camper Nicholson 32 sloop took the slip next to Quetzal. They were nervous and short of mooring lines. We loaned them a few stout ones, helped them tie up, and wondered what all the fuss was about. We found out just after dark as a torrent of cold rain preceded the arrival of a vicious front. Shrieking winds gusting to 45 knots raked the harbor. As Ron and I braved the icy blasts to check our lines and fenders, we both had the same thought: Hugo Boss was spot-on!

In the morning, Alan made a hearty breakfast, which included our new favorite dish, smoked haddock, fortifying us for the task ahead: whisky tasting. We followed a well-marked path to the Lagavulin distillery nestled along a rocky cove. Being education-­minded sailors, we completed our first distillery tour and learned a few of the secrets of making fine whisky, but there was so much more to learn. Islay is famous for its peaty single malts, and we took a liking to a smoky 16-year-old. On the way back to the boat, Nari and Steven climbed through the ruins of the 13th-century Dunyvaig Castle, and then joined us for a tour of the Laphroaig distillery, just for comparison’s sake.

Working our way north, we tarried at the small, welcoming island of Gigha before carrying on to the forbidding and sparsely populated Jura. The Jura distillery dominates the island’s only town, Craighouse, where we picked up a mooring in a gathering breeze. We braved blustery winds to get ashore, not wanting to leave Jura off our list of distillery tours. Whisky aside, Jura is best-known as the place where author George Orwell nearly drowned before he finished his masterpiece 1984. After World War II, Orwell retreated to Barnhill, a solitary cottage on a brooding hillside on the north end of the island. It was, in his own words, “in an extremely un-get-atable place.” Orwell, an avid mariner, had a small skiff with an outboard motor, and he often plied the sound. During one outing, he mistimed the tidal current, and he and his young son were caught in the infamous Corryvreckan whirlpool. Their boat capsized, and they were lucky to struggle to a rocky shoal. They spent hours clinging to the rocks before being rescued by passing fishermen. 1984 was half-written at the time.

Quetzal’s crew did a better job of timing the tides as we sailed northeast into the Firth of Lorn. The favorable current added 4 knots to our speed over ground. Bruce manned the helm as we picked our way around rocks and skirted shallows despite patchy fog. We sped into Oban’s expansive harbor and eased into a slip at Oban Marina on Kerrera Island, across from the city. Steven, who was really turning into a sailor, noted that we were in luck; there was still time to catch the ferry into town and make the last tour at the Oban distillery.

The Tropical Wimp

the leg-one crew departed, and the second leg of our Scotland summer began when my wife, Tadji, arrived at Oban Station. The prospect of an unfettered month of cruising gave us the luxury of lingering in one of the finest harbors on the west coast. Oban circles an expansive bay and has everything a cruising sailor needs: shops of every description, and a selection of pubs, lovely walks and a distillery. We eventually sailed into the Sound of Mull, or the “milk run,” a protected passage between the rugged highlands to the west and the enchanting island of Mull to the east. It’s the sea road to the “Small Islands” of Muck, Eigg, Rum and Canna. A lighthouse, designed by Robert Louis Stevenson’s father, Thomas, marks the bottom of the sound, and the charming fishing village of Tobermory is near the top.

With a gentle breeze from the south, we popped the spinnaker for the short sail up to Tobermory. Out of nowhere the winds piped up to 20 knots, then 25, and we struggled to douse the kite. Five minutes later, we had two reefs in the main and a deeply furled headsail. Two miles from Tobermory the winds abruptly dropped, and we entered the harbor under full sail, rounding out a typical sailing day in Scotland. The sailing directions warn that Tobermory is the “port of lost cruises.” It’s certainly a postcard setting, and Tadji and I fell under its spell. We tarried for a week, content to explore the colorful fishing village and hike lush trails nearby. That Tadji was enjoying Scotland was a pleasant surprise and the result of a major upgrade to Quetzal.

A self-declared “tropical wimp,” she hibernates when the temps drop below 70 degrees F. I am drawn to cold places and find high latitudes alluring. The solution to this dilemma was the addition of a hard dodger and full cockpit enclosure. Designed by my brother-in-law, Trevor, and fabricated at his boatyard in Solomons, Maryland, the “T Top” (or Tadji Top) is a true work of inspiration. The frames for the hard dodger and Bimini are welded aluminum. The dodger panels are high-density foam lightly glassed over, and the windows are polycarbonate. It’s robust, permits reasonable visibility, and keeps the cockpit warm and dry. The adjacent Bimini is a mix of waterproof fabrics, and the roll-up panels can be quickly deployed. It’s been a game-changer for Tadji. Sitting in our “patio” at the marina in Tobermory, we tried not to appear too smug as we watched crews of other boats, clad in full foul-weather gear, endure the rain and cold in their exposed cockpits.

We had a rollicking sail to Canna, the most westerly of the Small Islands. The natural harbor promised excellent protection from the 30-knot southwest winds predicted for the evening. The wind backed to the south as we made our approach, and we were tempted to pick up the mooring under sail but chickened out at the last moment. With two mooring lines forming a bridle, low-slung Quetzal hardly moved in the Force 8 gusts. A ruined church on the bow, looming in and out of the mist, made for an eerie but starkly beautiful setting. Ensconced in our full ­enclosure, we had front-row seats to watch a Scottish gale unfurl.

A few days later, we sailed to the bustling mainland harbor of Mallaig, where we would leave Quetzal for a week. For Leg Three of our Scotland cruise, we arranged a charter trip around the Isle of Skye and a visit to the Outer Hebrides with dear friends and frequent shipmates Ken and Denise, Sean and Youyi, and Chad and Ryan. The four-cabin Jeanneau Sun Odyssey we chartered from Isle of Skye Yachts offered room for eight, and also had a diesel heater, which clinched the deal for Tadji. We took the ferry to Armadale, just a few miles across the Sound of Sleat, and picked up our boat, appropriately called Explorer of Sleat.

Slurping Cullen Skink

skye is one of the best-known islands in the hebrides, and for good reason: It’s a mix of mountainous terrain, protected natural harbors and attractive villages. A new bridge linking it to the Scottish mainland has helped fuel something of a tourist boom. We motored most of the way to Loch Scavaig on the southwest coast, but that didn’t spoil the dramatic approach. Set amid 3,000-foot mountains, the harbor is a natural bay framed by cascading waterfalls and protected by rock sentinels. We passed dozens of seals sunning themselves on mossy rocks as we crept into an enchanting inner pool and anchored in 10 feet of water. After exploring ashore, we exploited the lingering summer light at latitude 57 degrees north and rode a freshening breeze to sail to Loch Harport.

We snagged a spot along the pontoon at Carbost, a tiny village and home, coincidentally, of the Talisker distillery. We dined at the quaint Old Inn, and Tadji introduced the crew to Cullen Skink, which sounds more like the name of a bumbling detective in an old BBC sitcom than a delicious fish soup. Tadji and Ken also began their love affair with sticky toffee pudding, and made it their mission to find the best pudding in the Hebrides.

We woke to a brisk northwest wind, and after the obligatory tour of the Talisker distillery, seized the opportunity sail to the Outer Hebrides on a sweet reach. We made our way to Barra, near the southernmost point of what the locals call “the long island,” a phrase linking the 100-mile stretch of islands, islets and rocks that make up the Outer Hebrides. This rugged archipelago, sweeping to the northeast, juts a craggy chin into the North Atlantic, providing a lee for the waters to the east: the Sea of Hebrides, Little Minch and North Minch. The islands of Inner Hebrides benefit as well, and are surprisingly lush when compared with their windswept western cousins.

A new pontoon is a welcome addition in Castle Bay, named for the 14th-century Kisimul Castle perched incongruously on a shoal and surrounded by water on all sides. The facilities throughout Scotland are excellent, and it never fails that someone always stands by to catch a line no matter the weather. From Barra we nosed into the tiny natural harbor of Acairseid on the island of Eriskay and picked up one of two moorings. Eriskay is famous for its prince and its whisky. The fine sand beach on the windward side is where Bonnie Prince Charlie landed in his ill-fated attempt to reclaim the throne of England through the Stuart line. The whisky story seems more tragic.

On a dark February night in 1941, cargo ship SS Politician went on the rocks in the treacherous waters between Eriskay and South Uist. The next morning, the locals managed to rescue the crew; miraculously, no lives were lost. Once ashore, some of the crew let on that the ship was loaded with an unusual cargo: 264,000 bottles of malt whisky. The booze was bound for the American market to raise money for the war effort; it was for export and no duty had been paid. This inconvenient fact didn’t stop the locals from conducting midnight raids to “rescue” the whisky. When the customs officials arrived from England, they decided to destroy the ship to prevent any more illegal activity. As the ship was blown to pieces, one bewildered islander said, “Dynamiting whisky­—you wouldn’t think there’d be men in the world so crazy as that!”

We had a lively sail to Tarbert on the south end of Lewis and Harris island. I was impressed as the Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 43.9 stood up to the blow, and happily carried on with a double-reefed main and a deeply furled headsail. Tarbert is home to the famous Tweed shop, and I had to convince Tadji that I really didn’t need a kilt. We were away early the next morning for an appointment with several thousand puffins. Sean launched his drone and captured our departure as we headed for a small cluster of islands, the Shiants. I had just finished a delightful book, The Sea Birds Cry, by Adam Nicholson. He describes spending summers camped in the remote Shiants as a boy, mesmerized as the islands are visited by hundreds of thousands of puffins. Alas, we were a week late; all the puffins had finished their business ashore and had headed out to sea. A few gulls and a handful of gannets were the only occupants as we tacked through the craggy islands, futilely searching for just one wayward puffin.

Tadji and I returned to Quetzal and hastily made our way back to Oban. She was off to Paris, to continue her French lessons, and I greeted the crew for Leg Four: the return passage to Crosshaven. Sitting in the Corryvreckan Pub along the Oban waterfront, Scott, Gretchen and Brant studied the gloomy scene on windy.com. They were all Quetzal vets and knew that the passage south would be challenging. Still, 25- to 35-knot headwinds, driving rain and sub-50-degree F temperatures were a bit beyond challenging and bordered on misery. Scrolling ahead a few days, there was little change in the weather. “Hmm,” Brant concluded, “it looks like it’s going to be uphill sailing all the way back.” I smiled and recalled my drunken episode back in Crosshaven. Yes, there’d been (and would be) some challenges, and yes, some of them were self-inflicted. But they’d all been worth it.

John Kretschmer’s latest book, Sailing the Edge of Time, has just been released in paperback and as an audiobook. John and his wife, Tadji, conduct offshore sail-training passage aboard their well-traveled 47-foot cutter, Quetzal. In 2021 they will launch “The Big One,” a circumnavigation that will take them to latitudes big and small and longitudes far and wide. They will incorporate select training passages along the way and also report for Cruising World from far-flung quay sides.

The post Sailing Scotland appeared first on Cruising World.

We arrived at Stromness, in the Orkney Islands, early this morning after a rather uneventful but highly enjoyable passage from London. Aventura’s 560 miles voyage proved that she is undoubtedly a comfortable, fast and easy to sail passagemaker.

We shall spend a few days in this delightful port, where people went out their way to greet us warmly. As we approached the harbour, several fishing boats were making their way out to a day at sea and in every instance someone came out of the wheelhouse to wave at us. Working fishermen saluting yachties? Unconceivable! (until now).

The post Scottish Landfall appeared first on Cruising World.