Saturday 11th May, Refuge Bay, Scawfell Island.

Saturday 11^th May, Refuge Bay, Scawfell Island.

A glorious blue sky sunny morning and we're anchored here in Refuge Bay with the wind absolutely howling and spray flying. 

Thanks to our trusty satellite weather forecast we knew this was coming a couple of days ago so had a chance to study the charts and find a suitable hidey-hole in which to cower while waiting for the winds to abate. Scawfell Island seemed to have an appropriately hugging shape and we may also have been slightly swayed by the name of the bay. It has certainly focused the mind on how much you absolutely do not want to be out there in strong winds, and this is only 35-40 knots. We'll be here for a few more days according to the forecast. Enforced relaxation.

So this break is giving us a chance to pause and breathe and gather ourselves after a ridiculously busy few weeks. It's been nuts. Winding up work, packing up the house, cramming everything into storage, moving our necessary belongings onto the boat, cramming everything in, stocking up on food, cramming it all in and finally sailing away! I'm exhausted just thinking about it. Actually, I think I'm just plain exhausted.

 Hopefully enough non-perishables to survive on. And can't go wrong with muesli bars and Cup-a-Soup when the chef declares the galley off limits.

Karl was in charge of packing up the house with me working up to the day before we moved aboard. Every day I'd come home from work and there'd be a little less furniture, dining was demoted to cushions at the coffee table, we had one mug/plate/knife/fork each and finally we were sleeping in our camping beds. 

 

I drove to work on the last Wednesday and at some point during the day Karl sold the MX-5 out from underneath me and I drove home in the Feroza. Holy Thursday was my last day at work and we celebrated that evening (in a not very Holy fashion) with cocktails at Jungle and final drinks at our local, BOSC. Good Friday, the pre-ordained day of moving aboard no matter what, was crazy-busy last minute packing and desperately trying to win the Tetris game of getting everything to fit in our storage unit. We won. 

By evening we arrived at the marina and I dashed down the dock (trying to outrun a gathering downpour) with my backpack on my back, clutching my favourite salad bowl under my arm. We were welcomed by our neighbours to our new life as liveaboards. And then the heavens opened confining us to the cockpit for the rest of the evening. But we'd made it!

The following week involved: getting a box from the Feroza (still packed to the roof), disgorging the contents into the boat, finding little spots to cram things into until you could see floor/seats/table again, repeat. There were also some last minute things to be sorted on the boat and Karl had his hero moment while installing the satellite. He was attaching a very important piece high on the back rail when he dropped it (the not hero moment) into the water. This was a “two splash” piece of equipment – one that is sufficiently important that the splash it makes hitting the water is immediately followed by the splash of the person who dropped it hitting the water. I was down below and heard “little splash”, “!@#$”, “big splash”. He was too late. Hero moment happened when he quickly grabbed the dive gear and did a Jacques Cousteau retrieval.

So through all the preparing, preparing, preparing we had a bottle of champagne saved for the evening when we would be “ready to go” and just waiting for good weather. I think this bottle cursed us in its bid for survival as day after day there was just one or two more things to do. Then one Sunday afternoon we seemed to be done so we treated ourselves to a trip to the 10 Toes microbrewery where, over a couple of excellent IPAs, we checked the weather and set the departure date for the coming Wednesday. I didn't sleep well that night.