The forecast wind is still southeast. The same section that was no-go against tide to clear Pentland Firth for the North Sea
is a good breeze for home.  We'd just need to go with tide, clear of Hoy and get the right angle to hover between Cape Wrath and Tiumpan Head. Bit it's due to start whistling from midnight. We're offered a more sheltered berth at Stromness and the comforts of "da peedie coffee house"  – Hamish and Frieda's flat and dinner to boot. Part of me wants to sail now on the evening tide, get clear before the wind gets up. Then reef down and ride them with a scrap of sail.  The other side knows we're going to have a hard sail whichever way we do it. Best to start with a rested team. The wind-direction is viable.
 

So we had another night of Stromness hospitality, but with the quieter tone that comes from knowing you're sailing early.
We cleared before the ferry.  Looking back to Hoy Sound and Bring Deep, benign now that you're not fighting to clear. The same sea-route is never the same road. The landscape when you see it changes by the second in light and cloud. So does the water. El Vigo was soon sailing as fast as she's gone, in our custody. We had the smallest main we could show and a smallish jib with a high cut so it's not inclined to catch waves. The exhilaration is awesome.
 

It also fools you into thinking you can safely carry the cloth you've set. When the same boom that looked high above you is trailing the water, it's time to do something about it. But then you've to turn back uphill for as long as it takes to stow some sail. So the cabin windows get a wash as you turn. Then you gain relief as the front sail backs – diluting the power of the wind that's now gusting to gale force but still in weak sunlight.
 

When I was preparing the boat, I knew that the smallest mainsail we could hoist – 3 reefs in – was still too much cloth for gale force winds.

Well, fine if there's not a build-up of sea but we were now out in open water, stuff that was sweeping up all the way from the Pentland Firth. But I'd left it too late to have the sail altered so the only option now was to do away with it or with the foresail. The jib took us all the way home. Except that we were daft enough to hoist the main again in a lull when the boatspeed dropped.  So we had to have another short bash uphill till we got it down again.
 

You can't be complacent near home, at night, in strong breeze. So we ticked off the marks. Glad to hear the roar of surf at Chicken Rock and the Beasts of Holm, a decent gap off. It's when you don't see them, you get worried. So the port of arrival is the port of departure. What have you gained? The company along the way will do for me. I learned from a grand group of writers at a workshop at StAnza Poetry Festival, that the log of your own way through water is the people who've gone before you. Entering harbour, their voices are cheery.
 

Growlers, (top end of the North Minch)

They say you want to look a beast in the eye
but see the growlers, come a long way,
I'm not so sure it helps to look behind
and they're usually just playful
scratching their backs on your keel
a hiss of steam and on where they're bound.

Then there's the sloppy ones,
always in 3, the Mull guys tell me,
when the pressure's been high and
the strong dry breeze stays Southeast.
They don't mean to make a menace
more curious like as one of them breaks,
a slap on the shoulder and into the cockpit,
maybe another, a rough greeting
just to catch the craic of your ship.

Chicken Rock (Approaches to Stornoway)

Jock Stewart's red face shone in fog.
A hillwalking compass got us to the mark.
The lythe surrendered, 30 years back.

We're rolling close and the leeway's heavy.
I'm scanning for a quick 6, one long.
There's a cardinal mark, these days
except that it's not bloody on.
And it's a combo as always,
the feel of the helm gives the figure
and the satellites send a wee beam down
to give you a handhold.