For some weeks now, I have been ashamed of Blue Moon. Or, to put it more traditionally, she has been ashamed of me. There have been occasions when I have walked away up a pontoon, or even rowed away in a dinghy, and caught sight of the huge tentacles of slimy green weed growing around her waterline, especially on that annoying port side where thanks to the extra kit it is always under water. I’ve been able to walk on to the shower, bakery, Co-op, pub, chandlery etc and soon put it out of my mind, but she, poor thing, being a boat, can’t admonish me and can’t do anything about it either, while presumably other swankier, better-cared-for and highly polished boats laugh at her behind my back or just freeze her out of their boaty conversations.
Enough anthropomorphic nonsense! It’s a boat! What is really pissing me off is that we are going slower, which offends the ex-racer in me, and burning more diesel, which offends the cash-strapped eco-warrior in me (you’re not – Ed). So it’s time for a scrub. In fact it has been for some time.
Many months ago, back in the cold winter of Emsworth, Saint Steve the Shipwright and I had many conversations about antifouling. Usually I slap on several coats of soft stuff that is deisgned to wear off slowly, taking the weed and baby barnacles with it, but knowing I would be away for two summers Steve suggested that I (OK, he) apply a load of what’s called in the trade Hard Racing,: Hard because it’s durable enough to last, and Racing because it’s what race crews put on so they can sand it down before regattas to make the hull smooth and fast, without it wearing away when they sneeze. Sadly the only bit I heard was Racing, which makes me feel young, choosing to ignore the bit about sanding down before regattas, which frankly I never did anyway. I haven’t entered any regattas, and the boat has been in the water since March, so it’s really no surprise that there is weed on the hull. Lots.
Now for the unlucky 99.9% of the yacht-owning population a scrub involves either paying a boatyard hundreds of pounds to crane the boat out and pressure wash it, or doing it yourself by leaning against some grotty harbour wall hoping the boat doesn’t fall over while the tide’s out. But for the blessed lift keel brigade, this is a chance to show off by lifting your keel, running your boat up your favourite beach and putting the kettle on while the tide goes out. However, on Scotland’s rocky, unfamiliar West Coast this is not so easy: I don’t know where the safe beaches are and there is no-one else with a lifting keel to ask.
This has been preying on my mind, so when two weeks ago Neil and I were walking around Canna Harbour with the tide out and we came across a piece of sheltered flat sand, quite clearly free of rocks and other nastiness, the penny dropped. This was my chance. And also where the smugness begins, because I set out on a journey which could result in a textbook on How To Dry Out Your Lift Keel Boat in Unfamiliar Waters, a surefire bestseller. Read on and learn.
First, I took a picture so I could remember where I was. The dent in the path in line with the old church that is now a Gaelic study centre apparently.
That felt a bit vague, so Neil kindly waited while I walked out onto the sand and stood on the bit that didn’t even have any kelp, just in case there were rocks hiding under it. Then – masterstroke – I whipped out my navigation app on my phone and entered a waypoint where I was standing.
I even noted the state of the tide (it was low water, obviously, two days off Springs) and thought it would be nice to come back. And on Wednesday I did: having left Sarah and Marnie on the train in Mallaig I made a beeline for Canna in a feisty but sunny Northerly, ready for scrubbing action next day.
Sadly Thursday was even feistier, and I decided that drying out in strange waters in 28 knots was a bit reckless, so booked an extra day. I did motor up to the spot in the dinghy to check the depths with a leadline (non-sailors, don’t panic, it’s just a piece of string with a heavy shackle on the end), and also made sure I wouldn’t run aground on the way in. Then I sat down with a piece of paper and worked out how deep it should be the next day, what time I would go aground and when I’d float again, and when it would be deep enough in the evening to put the keel down and leave. I know, belt and braces, but I am a long way from Chichester Harbour and I was a bit nervous.
To calm the nerves I walked most of the way around Canna and can confirm that I am totally in love with the place. It has white sand beaches…
…ancient settlements…
…ridiculously precipitous cliffs where the rain blows upwards…
…and a hill called Compass Hill because your compass spins round and round at the top of it.
Best of all, I saw frequent confirmation of the defining feature that makes it better than Rum – because Rum is so mountainous the clouds ignore Canna and whizz straight across it to sit on Rum’s peaks, and rain on them.
Well, some of the time, it’s all relative around here, but as with the relativity of happiness so it is with islands: it might rain a bit on your island, but if you’ve spent the day in sunshine watching your neighbours being pissed on continuously since breakfast, you’re still happier than them when it rains a bit at teatime.
And so the fateful day dawned. Sadly, it was raining on both islands but at least the wind had gone so I dropped the mooring, motored gingerly into position, slung the anchor out and sat down to wait. Then I realised I had missed the spot, and being a perfectionist, pulled the anchor up and moved 50 yards away and tried again. An unexpected boon: water so clear you can see every bit of weed three metres down. I’m on clean white sand, and stay there while the kettle goes on and the water ebbs away.
Smug git that I now am: we go aground at exactly the time I thought we would, and to my astonishment the sun comes out and it is as warm as East Head. Warmer in fact as this was the week that Storm Antoni cancelled Cowes Week.
Up in calm, balmy Canna I spend a happy couple of hours in shorts splashing around scrubbing, rubbing, sanding, even polishing. No bits have fallen off the bottom of the boat. The keel appears to be still bolted on. The propellor is still attached. None of my nightmares have come to pass. By the end the boat looks as shiny as she was in March, and the Hard Racing is ready for its next regatta. Or not.
I celebrate by walking across the sand to the Gaelic Centre (locked), back up the path to the bridge and up to the showers at the campsite (cold) and treat myself to a jar of Canna Chutney (for later, I didn’t eat it for tea). I’m aware of a couple of intrigued onlookers as I splash out through the incoming tide, pick up the anchor and move it round to where the tide’s flooding from, have another cup of tea and half an hour later we’re afloat. By six-thirty there’s enough water to put the keel half down, pull up the anchor and potter around to a mooring. By seven I am sitting outside the café with a well-earned pint of Canna Pale Ale.
Then the fun starts. Gareth the café owner (who, it turns out, owns the yacht on a mooring in front of us) comes out to congratulate me on a job well done. His boat has a fixed keel and a bit of weed, and he is plainly jealous. His front of house assistant (who I’d chatted to the day before about the plan) is full of it: you’re the talk of the island, she says, half of them thought you’d run aground by accident so I had to keep telling them you meant to do it. It’s clearly the most interesting thing to have happened on Canna for some time. I’m joined by a couple of yachtsmen from Strangford Lough – unbelievably they recognised the boat name from our visit earlier (“we don’t get that many visitors you know, it’s the Narrows that puts them off”) – who admit that they too arrived and thought some idiot had ignored the chart and run horribly aground, but are now happy to bathe in reflected glory. I sup a second pint, Gareth brings a delicious burger made out of one of the cows next door, and for an evening I enjoy my smug local hero status before dinghying back to a clean, shiny, happy and – most importantly – fast boat for a wee dram.
Blue Moon's trip around the UK 
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