Firstly, thank you all for the messages I received over the last few days. I couldn’t get on the internet to reply, but they do come through to my phone to read.

The trip over from Eyemouth to Anstruther was a small aperitif for what the Forth was about to feed me. It wasn’t particularly hard going, but I did experience a few squalls, which kept me on my toes.

Entering Anstruther 20 minutes before low water, I crept my way into the entrance. The water is so clear around there that I could clearly see the bottom, and although Kudu’s keels where only inches off it, I made my way slowly to the pontoons.

The weather was set to blow up quite a lot over the next few days, so I settled in to the town which was another fine example of a nice place to stay. Unfortunately, facilities in the town were lacking and I was in desperate need of a laundrette.

I hadn’t be able to wash my clothes since Scarborough, and was fast running out of things that were remotely clean enough to wear. The lack of internet access was proving to be tedious too. I couldn’t check the weather on the usual websites and was relying on the very untrustworthy met office forecasts. The inability to keep in touch with people over the internet was a bit disheartening too. You may think that’s quite a sad state of affairs, that my friends exist at the end of a stream of electrons, but it’s the way of the modern world, and when I feel a bit lonely it’s nice to get an email from a mate, or a friendly message from one of you lot reading this blog. It makes the difference, and I was missing it.

There was a lack of cruising yachties to talk to too. I met a fantastic group of people in Eyemouth, cruising folk on holidays or long distance retirement cruises.  A temporary community is formed, it only lasts until the next weather window when everybody departs to continue their own adventures, but it’s great for those few days of being weathered in.  Stories and advice are swapped over cups of tea, or cans of beer, and there’s always somebody happy to give you a hand on the boat should you need it.

Since Anstruther is a drying harbour, the larger fin keeled cruising boats can’t go in there, and so I had no fellow liveaboards to natter to at night.  Needless to say, I was eager to leave. Anstruther is a lovely place, genuinely, but given my particular circumstances, it wasn’t the best place for me to remain.

The plan was set, I was going to leave at high water the following day and take the ebb up to Arbroath. The next day came, and along with it came fresh winds.  I checked my passage plan and realised that I’d be arriving at Arbroath around low water.  I couldn’t have got in, so I decided not to set off. I think in reality I just didn’t want to go out in that wind, and the tide times were an excuse.

The next day arrived and the weather stayed the same. I went for breakfast and played it over in my mind. I really do need to find a laundrette, and I really do miss the internet. ‘I’m leaving today’. All the day I was hesitant about my decision; it was blustery, but not extremely. I spoke with the harbour master and the forecast was suggesting that today was the best day for the foreseeable future. The long range forecast had Tuesday as the next reasonable day. I couldn’t wait that long, and so my mind was set. I was going to leave at high water, catch the ebb out of the Forth, and if I needed to wait to get into Arbroath then so be it. I’d be further North, and have clean clothes when I got there.

At about 1400, just before high water, I untied from the pontoon and left the harbour entrance to be greeted by a choppy sea. It wasn’t great sailing conditions as we surfed down the waves although I’d seen much, much worse so I pressed on.

As I got further and further out of the Forth, the sea began to get bigger and bigger. By the time I arrived at Fife Ness, I was down to a scrap of sail in a squall, and staring nervously into the trough of waves metres below Kudu as she perched on top of its countering peak. This was, without any doubt, the biggest sea I had ever been in.

I got to the cardinal, east of Fife Ness, and altered course, heading directly for Arbroath. Another squall hit. 38 knots.  Kudu’s decks were awash with sea water and rain.  Waves flooded over the bow and forced their way through the forehatch, gushing water onto my bunk below it. The big waves made their way over the coachroof and in to the companionway hatch, causing a stream of water to poor on to the chart table.

My fresh water tanks had got knocked over, and despite having a screw cap on, managed to empty their contents into the bilges. Some 25 litres of fresh water was now in a place it shouldn’t be. That’s no great catastrophe in itself, but was just a little extra help towards making my day a hard one.

As Kudu started slamming in the waves, I got nervous. Boats do slam when the wind is up, this is normal, but the severity of some of these drops off wave tops was enough for me to wonder if the little plastic hull could stand up to it. Heck, could my repair to the hull stand up to it?

I shifted my gaze to the aft port bunk, threw the clutter into the forepeak, and pulled the life raft forward to a position where I could grab it quickly if I needed to. I didn’t think sinking was an imminent threat, and needing that life raft was not something I thought about in any depth, but having it in a place where I could grab it, just in case, was comforting.

Three hours to Arbroath. Three hours of this, and then I didn’t know if I could get in or not. Would the tide height allow it? Would the swell allow it? A glance at the chart showed St Andrews bay as a closer alternative. It would provide some shelter from the wind, and the offshore nature of the weather would mean the sea would be relatively calm when I got close to land. I didn’t take too much thinking about. I altered course and was now beating towards St Andrews, 2 hours away.

The marine VHF radio chirped up with the voice of Forth coastguard. The maritime safety information broadcast on the VHF informed me of gale warnings in my area. Kudu was beating hard into the wind, the big gusts forcing her bow away from the weather, and off my course. I was not enjoying myself. I was having a “I don’t want to be here” moment.

Come on Kudu! Come on. One hour and forty five minutes to go. I could see St Andrews in the distance, but we were only making 3 knots and it didn’t seem to be getting any closer, at least not quickly enough.

Eventually I arrived at the harbour entrance, surrounded on both sides by rocks. The sea was almost flat here, thankfully, so as long as there was enough water, I should be ok to get in. I was a bit late and the water was quickly running out of the harbour as the ebb neared its demise.

I slowly motored towards the harbour entrance but didn’t like the depth, so spun the boat around and headed out for deep water, where I dropped the anchor. I was soaking wet, I was cold, everything on the boat was wet, I had no dry clothes to change into, and no towels to dry myself with. I wasn’t happy and just wanted to get into the harbour. It was  just 30 meters away, but I couldn’t get there.

I couldn’t find any information about St Andrews in the pilot book, or my chart, so I rang my mum, who was put to action looking for a phone number on the internet. She called me back with the mobile number for the harbour master.

I rang it, but there was no answer. I left a message. A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was the harbour master’s girlfriend. The HM was away, but I asked her if she could find out when I’ll be able to get into the harbour. She said she would try to contact the assistant harbour master, and call me back. About ten minutes later the phone rang again. “The assistant harbour master says, if you go now you’ll get in, but you have to go now since it’s draining fast.” I quickly ended the call, jumped to the foredeck, and weighed the anchor. I motored towards the entrance again, staring at the depth sounder… 1.2m…..1.1……. thud. Kudu is on the deck in about 0.7m, and apparently a surprise sand bar had caught me out. I tried my best to get off the sand, the outboard was full throttle in reverse, but it did no good. Every time the waves landed we got picked up and shoved further aground. Eventually Kudu wasn’t afloat enough to be moved, so we stayed still, almost. At first we were in deep enough water to be attacked by the swell. The waves came and picked up one side of Kudu, threw her over to about 30 degrees, then dropped her with no regard for politeness back on her keels. This was a bit scary. Could she stand up to it? If one of those keels broke I’m in trouble. The boat would flood almost instantly. I was in no danger, I could have jumped overboard and taken a wet walk ashore, but my life is contained within that boat. Losing her was unthinkable.

I rang the phone number again. “Erm, it’s Nathan again. The assistant harbour master was wrong, I’m aground 20 meters off the entrance”.

Eventually the assistant HM rang me directly, and I explained where I was. He said he was on his way.

I could see the rocks all around Kudu. They were close. VERY close, and as the tide ebbed further I could see more and more rock. A prod with the boat hook over the side told me I was on a decent patch of sand, but what would happen later when she floated again and swung around, is there rock near? I was scared. I thought I was going to lose my boat. I rang Rob of Harbour Chandlery, since he’s a fellow sailor with quite a bit more experience than me. I just wanted to speak to somebody who understood what my situation was, and might, just might, have a suggestion to make.

“call the coastguard, now”

“erm, yeah, I’ll ring them..”

“No, now, over the radio. If you’re near the rocks you need to call them”

“erm, yeah, I’ll get their number and ring them”

I ended the call and thought about it. I didn’t want to ring them. My life was in no danger, and if I lost my boat it’s my own fault. There’s nothing they can do anyway. No, I can’t call the coastguard. I won’t. Pride got the better of me I think, but I suspect Rob knew that it would because ten minutes later he called me back… “The coastguard are on there way. Keep a watch on 16, they’ll be contacting you shortly”.

I ended the call and let out a mental sigh. I didn’t want to involve the coastguard. I wasn’t in any danger, I didn’t want to call for help. I didn’t need help. I could do it on my own! I’m too stubborn for my own good sometimes. The reality was that I was relived that Rob had called them. The thought that somebody who knows the area was on their way was a great relief. The thought of having company in my plight was comforting. I wasn’t going to be sat on a boat on my own with no idea what to do for much longer.

The radio piped up… “Kudu, Kudu, Kudu, this is Forth coastguard, over”

“Forth coastgaurd, this is Kudu, over”

“We’ve had a report that you are aground off St Andrews, over”

“Forth, Kudu. That would be an accurate report, over”

He asked if I was in any danger to which I replied “negative”. I wasn’t, I could see the sand now, I could see all the rocks, and I could have walked ashore. He told me the coastguard was on their way, and we ended the conversation.

I’m not going to lie about it, I was now quite glad that Rob had called them. Help was coming, maybe these boys would be able to save my boat.

The coastguard arrived at the beach with their truck at the same time as the assistant harbour master arrived. The coastguard donned their dry suites and began to wade out. The assistant HM removed his t-shirt and waded out in his jeans. I jumped in to knee high water and walked out to meet them.

After shaking hands, we walked over to the boat and had a chat about the situation. There was nothing they could do to move the boat, but there would be enough water to get into the harbour at 2300.  They waded out and set the anchor in a place where, as long as it didn’t drag, I would have a safe swinging circle, avoiding the rocks.

We all splashed our way ashore, and the Colin, the assistant HM offered me a coffee. We chatted for a while, and I was glad to be on dry land. At 2130 I wondered back out to the boat. It was low water and I had to sit it out until 2300. As the tide came back in, the same beastly process started all over again, but this time in reverse. First came the breakers, smashing against Kudu’s keels. Then came the swell slamming us on to the hard sand. Then slowly, the slamming became a gentle thud, and then just rolling.

Just over 30 minutes to go. I was wishing somebody was on the boat with me. The wind was picking up a little, and the darkness made it feel worse. The pier head was a black tower not too far away, and all around me was nothing. Nothing visible at least. All around me were in fact rocks. I was worried about weighing the anchor. How far would I drift in the between hauling in the chain, and making my way back to the cockpit. It wouldn’t take long for the wind to put me on the rocks once the anchor stopped holding the boat. Oh, I wished somebody was on the boat with me.

I replaced the batteries in my old climbing head torch. It’s a Petzl and has both LED’s and a halogen bulb. The halogen is great for shining a beam into the distance, yet it didn’t do much to illuminate the pier head.

Not to worry, the coastguard was back and on the pier head with a torch. “10 minutes!” they bellowed.

Very nervous now. I’m so close to the pub, but so much could go wrong in the next 20 minutes. “No, stop being a prat Nathan. You’re weighing anchor and motoring into a harbour. It’s not exactly hard. Stop your whining.” I managed to convince myself I’d be fine. I had to, it’s no good doing these things when you’re thinking about being worried. It distracts from the problem, and that gives genuine cause for concern.

Time to go. I stopped thinking about anything at all and just went into autopilot. I’ve done this plenty of times before. I was actually relived to be doing something other than sitting and waiting.

I went to the foredeck and hauled on the anchor warp has hard as I could. The harder I pulled, the quicker the job would be done, and the more forward motion I’d give the boat which would give us a little more distance from the rocks. The warp turned to chain and I continued pulling, hand over hand, leaving a mess of ground gear on the foredeck. This was no time to neatly stow things. Eventually the anchor was out of the water. I didn’t bother securing it, I just cleated off the chain and jumped back into the cockpit.

We hadn’t drifted far. I’d had the engine running for the last 10 minutes. I wanted it to be warm and ready for work when I needed it as it has a tendency to stall if you suddenly demand it to rev when it’s cold. I clicked it into gear and applied half throttle to get me moving enough to control the boat. Once I had steerage, I killed the throttle and ran on tick over in to the harbour.

Just as I got to the pier head, my head torch halogen bulb packed up. Great timing! Luckily the coastguard was shining a light on the water below the pier. It isn’t just a pier wall, it’s a pier wall build on top of rock, and so you can’t just hug it and expect water. There are semi submerged rocks to avoid. I had to stay as close in to it as possible to stay in the channel, but not too close as to make friends with the hard rock.

After a few minutes the boat was tied up along side. Thanks were given, and Colin took me to the pub.

This was written on a diminishing laptop battery in a cafe, and then finished whilst sat on the steps of a war memorial. It hasn’t bee proof read, so please excuse the numerous errors it no doubt contains.