The day dawned bright and early, and it wasn't long before seaman Finnigan had Bacon and eggs sizzling away on the stove. Kip Marina was surprisingly quiet for mid season, and we set about propping the ship for the voyage to come. Electrics were rewired, provisions stowed and the skipper spent most of the afternoon at the top of the mast getting heatstroke in the ferocity of the sun, all the while wrestling with a recalcitrant vhf aerial and cable. Following a quick diesel refueling, we left on our adventure at 6pm, beers already cracked open.
The sail down the Firth was a fast fetch in the light of the evening sun, and it wasn't long before we were headed up the East Kyle of the island of Bute, sailing into a magnificent sunset over the hills and forests of Argyll. By 10pm we were snugly tied up to one of the Colintraive Hotel moorings next to the Burnt Islands. A quick dinner of filled pasta and we were ashore at the hotel, supping a well earned pint and making enquiries with the barmaid as to whether or not she possessed a g string to replace the one missing from the guitar... The skipper, of course, scoffed at such dirty sailor banter from his crew, although after a day of hard work he decided that shore leave of a raucous nature was, on this occasion, fully justified. The evening ended with a gentle row back to the boat through the glassy still waters of the Kyle, phosphprescence (a kind of photochemical luminous sparkle created by movement in the water) dancing in the gurgling bow wave and each stroke of the oars. Back on deck, lying flat on our backs, the pitch darkness and clear skies afforded a panoramic view of the stars, laid out like an infinite carpet of light punctuated by the occasional streak of a shooting star...
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