Shoes and broken sleep.

Noia's church

We made it right up to the end of the ría – a town called Noia. It was a lovely sail, under spinnaker, navigating the various rocks awash and numerous ‘viveros’ (big platforms used for mussel farming). Taking care to avoid the dredged channel, marked clearly by substantial poles and lit markers, we anchored in shallow water – literally at the end of the line – and soon were aground. This was all part of the plan only when the water came back up the tide and Impulse played some strange little game and we woke in the early hours to the sound of the anchor lines groaning. Somehow Impulse had got her bridle stuck round one hull and her anchor rode twisted round the opposite keel. This sorted we resolved to move her to deeper water at daybreak.

The dredged channel leading to Noia

The day broke wet and foggy reminding us of Devon and our plan to sail SOUTH. We moved Impulse to deeper water as planned. She appeared comfortable even though she insisted on turning her stern to the wind and lying the opposite way to every other boat in the bay (none yachts).

We made a run for town between showers, enjoying the earthy smells of autumn, marvelling at the sudden apparition of sweet chestnuts, acorns, rusting bracken in the time we had been at sea. We strode out, our lazy legs now happy for the exercise.

Our pilot book dubbed Noia ‘Little Florence’, which is pretty far fetched, but it had some sweet pockets in the car free old town: arches and cobbles and heavy timber doorways. We spent a good few hours, managing to squeeze in some beers and octopus before setting off again for the boat.

Noia is approached and left, from the North, by a bridge from which the anchorage is visible. We made a dash over the busy roundabout onto the bridge and cast a glance down river. What we saw is what no boat owner wants to see, ever: their boat in a place where they did not leave it. Impulse had drifted. I muttered something about taxis before breaking into a trot to catch up with Casper.

We sped the 1.4 km walk back and confirmed our worst fear. She was 40 metres or so downwind of where she had been, now sitting in the middle of the dredged channel, having dragged past the starboard marker light, a mini lighthouse on a huge concrete base. As Casper rowed us in I felt sick at the prospect of the damage that could be awaiting us under Impulse’s water line.

Impulse peeking out from the light and concrete stump she drifted past - the little tramp

We tugged up the anchor and sped off as fast as possible. Once anchored again in the comfortable lee of Isla Quiebra, I donned mask and snorkel to assess the damage. We’ve lost most of a keel shoe on the starboard side, but I reckon the sea pixies were looking out for us and we got off lightly. A postmortem pillow talk has brought us to the conclusion that it was the fault of the anchor trip line which was too long and had too big a fender on it. Next time we’ll try a shorter line with no fender but with a looped end, which we can grab with a boat hook or dive on.

I thought that was enough excitement for one day but soon after midnight I woke my heart pounding in my ears. We flung the aft hatch open and looked up to the source of the frighteningly loud noise: a helicopter flying worryingly low, hovering infact just above, shining a search light at us before making off North.

Bewildered and shattered from the sudden adrenaline hit we crashed.

But there was more to come.

I kid you not but and hour later I was awoken again with a kafuffle in Spanish. I grabbed the nearest garb and scrambled on deck afraid that some fisherman was about to motor over our newly devised anchor trip line. A big vessel lay to our starboard a boat length away, rolling and rocking and grinding its engines, blinding me with torchlight. I could just make out someone yelling ‘Capitano! Capitano!’ so I just responded with ‘que?’ (it was a bit Faulty Towers) and shone the torch back. This is when I was able to see that the boat had nothing to do with fishing but was in fact a customs vessel. I switched on the VHF waiting for them to communicate something other than ‘capitano’ but nothing came. They went quiet but for their grinding engine and I noticed three specs of orange glow at the bows of the vessel – the buggers who had just interrupted my night (again) and refused to tell me why were now nonchalantly having a smoke before motoring off up the ría. Bastards.

Isla Quiebra, before the peace was broken...