28 August 2012

For the love of a waffle

I am partial to a certain type of food.
one which cannot be easily found in the UK.

Crepes and waffles.

last year I went to Dunkirque for a crepe.

this year I went to Breskens for a waffle.

 Just getting past Burnham is a feat in itself. each time I have headed up there, something breaks and forces me back to camp.
 But, at least I earnt my t-shirt and got as far as the windfarm
Des the instructor, looked a bit like this... he was nursing a sore head after a night out with friends. so he was quieter than usual. which was a blessed relief. not too many of his rubbish jokes.

  I love being out of the sight of land. I really feel like Im going somewhere.

 The waffle was a real treat. every bit and better than I had hoped. washed down with a nice cold beer. perfect.
and then to quickly reprovision with a bits from the supermarket... those crazy dutch know how to eat well dont they.

adding extra sheets to the self tacking jib to make it set better to windward.
high levels of concentration require powernaps to maintain.
the instructor Des seems to have lost his washboard. or fancies himself as a teapot. not sure which.
thanks Des for the instruction and the company of course.
the snake pit.
the windfarms in the night. menacing. enticing. mesmirising.
all of those. and when I went for my sleep... we tacked just before. and then 2 hours later we were back exactly where we were when I went for my sleep. just goes to show. theres no time for complacency or sleeping across the channel or north sea. the track shows the route before my phone died. I didnt sink. the windfarm was just off to starboard the whole time. we missed it by just a few meters. I could hear the blades turning.

the westerly... the fucking bastard westerly that always gets me on the way home. just when you think you're winning having tacked 100 times into the entrance of the Crouch and think... yes! im onto a long reach now... come on... yes yes... NO. the wind backs and you end up facing 3 more hours of relentless tacking... or...

Put the bloody engine on. I admit it. I gave up near the river roach and engined back.