… because our engine isn’t working. “Phil the
Bill”, the marine diesel mechanic, confirmed Paul’s diagnosis: the fuel lift
pump had died. The good news was that he found a replacement pump; the bad news
was that the replacement pump required new fittings which were not available.
The pigeon post to Islay will deliver the new parts on Thursday. Seven go mad
on Islay.
Paul clearly doesn’t like sitting around doing nothing, so decided to do
further work on Frangi. Not content with sending Jane up the mast once, he sent
her up again and left her there for an hour, investigating the recurring
problem with the tricolour and anchor lights. Jane did a sterling job undoing
the wiring – not an easy job whilst trussed up in harness 70 ft above deck –
and discovered that the wrong bulbs had been fitted and something looked
suspect with the wiring. Bob and Clive – our budding electrical engineers –
after much discussion decided that one of them had to go up the mast to sort it
out. Now that he realised that climbing the mast didn’t involve shimmying up
like a monkey, Clive volunteered to go up, and soon had the wiring back in
order. But… ooopps.. he forgot to check the orientation of the lights before
descending. Later that evening we discovered the port light was shining astern.
Mast climbing seems to be theme of this trip!
Bob, Clive, Dave, David and I went off on Tuesday afternoon to explore
footpaths round the bay to the lighthouse and onwards round the coast. A
glorious walk with old woodland, white beaches, wild goats, blue seas and
spectacular views over to the Mull of Kintyre and to northern Ireland. I
was grateful for my past life as a goat when the promised footpath
disappeared, and I led the team up faint goat tracks, up gulleys through
head-high bracken, and through the occasional bog. Not sure the rest of the
team appreciated this diversion.
Tuesday evening saw us in the pub (where else?) along with the crew of the
large Swedish yacht which had arrived that afternoon. Jane decided they were an
aging rock band staging a revival, and they duly obliged by playing air guitar
for us. Later that evening, our intrepid crew blagged their way onto the
Swedish yacht (an Eagle 64)with the excuse of seeing pictures of the Lofoten Islands. How the other half live - a galley fit for GordonRamsey, leather bucket seats, plush cabins and a circular dining table with
bottles of aged malt… If Frangi’s replacement parts don’t arrive soon, we are planning a bank robbery to pay for the charter costs to continue the round Britain trip in a style to which we could become accustomed.
Wednesday saw us swelling the tourist coffers by hiring a fishing boat (Clive,
Carol and Dave) and bicycles (Bob and David). The fishermen came back with
supper of mackerel and Pollock, and the cyclists with tales of nice lunches in
the Ardbeg distillery. Jane, much to her amazement, discovered that the owner
of the local B&B where we had showers is an old college friend, and Carol
continued her perusal of boats beginning with R by chatting up the owner of the
(Hallberg) Rassy 36 .
After a few glasses of wine the crew all decided it would be a really good idea
to visit the pub again and drink as much 70 shilling as they could possibly
muster. The even wiser members decided they could also do with a whiskey or
two, just to make sure that grape and grain were well and truly mixed! It does
not take a chemist to figure out the effects!
This morning was a late rise but we were up in time to watch the plane fly
overhead with the post and our much needed fuel uplift pump to ensure the
engine could suck squeeze bang and blow!! Most of the male crew members seem to
like this way of describing the four stroke cycle! What it must be to be ruled
by testosterone! Paul decided that the best hangover cure was for me to be hoisted up the
mast to rotate the tricolour lens so that we would not have to sail backwards
the whole way!!
As this is written soup and a roll are being consumed by all before Phil the
Bill (local boat engineer) comes to fit us up so we can move out off up the
Sound of Islay to ‘womble town’ as Tobermory has come to be known. Despite the
good times we have had it is definitely time to go before our livers are
pickled beyond belief.