Occasional notes from the chart table
nine knots
Ideas and observations at about nine knots.- George B
NOTES
What I've Learned Sailing at Night
When speaking with landlubbers about our adventures, many ask what we do at night. Do you anchor [mid Channel] and go to sleep?Tempting idea. Sadly not.My first proper night passage saw me sat on the helm, shivering and staring into darkness - convinced we were about to hit a submerged container, then get run down by tankers from either side.Every light was dangerously close and impossibly mysterious. The rigging made strange sounds. The sails made strange sounds. The off-watch crew made… you get the picture.Disaster seemed imminent.Despite this, I’ve always liked being out at night. On land – night walks down winding country lanes or across moonlit fields. The monochrome world feels mischievous – you’ve slipped into a place most people never see. Your senses sharpen; you notice things daytime people miss.Sailing at night feels the same.
The red lights are switched on below, so your eyes stay adjusted. The cabin glows dimly, everyone’s faces look slightly different under that light – pale, theatrical, a little military. Something from The Hunt for Red October.At the chart table, the logbook takes on a different character. By day, entries are neat and deliberate. At night they’re quick scribbles in the small pool of light from the chart lamp.From the whimsical “Beautiful clear sky and lots of stars”, to the slightly panicked “Dodged a ship – collision course so altered 40 to E – hailed, no answer. Yorke shone light on main - passed 0.5M!!!!” To the weary “RUFF going, heavy sea won’t let up, but going like a train. Due E though, home is somewhere N.”The truth is night sailing is unnerving. You can’t see where you’re going. Boats don’t have headlights.By day, the sea stretches away in reassuring shades of blue (ok, more often grey). At night the bow just points into a large and ominous void.You must trust the boat.They don’t know the difference between day and night. They only care that the sails are trimmed, the helm is balanced, and that someone is paying attention to the course. Ideally the correct course.***After a while, your eyes adjust. The horizon reappears as a faint band of grey and on a clear night, stars multiply overhead.Occasionally, your wake glows with phosphorescence. The masthead lights of a distant vessel rise and fall slowly.Other senses wake up too.You hear the change in wind before you feel it. The sound of water along the hull tells you the boat is moving well. Instead of staring at the sails, you must sail by feel.In many ways, the Channel is easier to cross at night. Shipping is clearer – navigation lights are distinct and easier to interpret.And if you call them on the VHF (which I rarely do during the day), a calm voice usually comes back. Somewhere high up, someone is staring out, face lit by a radar screen. You are both simply watchkeepers sharing the same patch of sea.Your world shrinks to the length of your watch. You measure it through small routines: scanning the horizon, trimming sails, making coffee, writing the log.Then occasionally… nothing happens.Night sailing can be mundane. The boat is settled, the course steady. The wind holds. No ships. No drama. An uneventful night can be more tiring than a busy one.“Passing a fishing boat. Bugger all else…”, then two hours later: “Saw a little ship, then a bigger ship.” Good grief.You sit, watch, wait. Eventually, the horizon to the East begins to soften.Sunrise at sea is one of sailing’s great rewards. A hint of colour. Then a pale band of light. Slowly the world returns – the waves, the sails, the slightly tired faces in the cockpit.You realise you’ve crossed an entire stretch of ocean - while most people were asleep.
Things I’m Still Learning About Sailing at NightNone of these are revolutionary insights. Most are probably the same habits that make sailing safer in daylight - they just become much more obvious at two in the morning.1. Reef early. Just do it. Future you agrees with me on this.
Every task more complex at night. Reef while you have light. The boat is slower, yes, but she’ll be calmer, and the crew less mutinous.2. Stick to the small routines.
Clipping on, tidying sheets, checking the deck. Habits that seem slightly fussy during the day feel sensible in the dark.3. Be kind to your eyes.
Avoid white lights in the galley, the heads and on screens. Learn night-mode on the plotter. Give your eyes ten minutes and suddenly the darkness becomes surprisingly readable. Also, you stop blinding the poor sod on the helm.4. Don’t obsess about lobster pots.
Yes, obviously try to avoid them. But don’t let the fear of invisible ropes ruin the passage. Chances of snagging one are small - probably only marginally higher than during the day. Keep a good lookout, sail rather than motor if you can, and then accept that worrying about them achieves little except raised blood pressure.5. Every distant light looks like a ship on collision course.
For at least thirty seconds, every light on the horizon will appear to be heading directly for you. It will eventually turn out to be a buoy, a fishing boat or a figment of your imagination entirely. Don’t panic. (At least not immediately.)6. Talk to ships early.
Commercial vessels are usually very friendly to sailors. They’d much rather sort things out calmly at five miles than urgently at half a mile. It probably improves their watch too.7. Keep warm, caffeinated, and lightly sugared.
Night watches are colder and longer than they appear on paper. Tog up early. Tea and coffee and cuppa-soup and Bovril are excellent navigational aids. Mars Bars too. I’d reckon there’s a direct correlation between chocolate consumption and navigational confidence. Accuracy is harder to prove.8. Write the log regularly.
A log entry every hour keeps you alert and reassures the next watch that someone was paying attention. It also creates a useful record of slightly ‘improved’ wind speeds, dolphin sightings and impressively sized waves.9. Boats are much noisier at night.
Or at least they seem to be. Every creak or thump briefly sounds like catastrophic mechanical failure. It almost never is. Usually.10. Don’t forget to pat yourself on the back.
Occasionally pause to remember that you’re doing something rather wonderful, while most sensible people are asleep.***At night, there is something reverent about being at sea. Even when nobody is asleep, voices drop, conversations soften. Your sails are reefed sensibly. The compass glows. The boat moves steadily forward.And somewhere ahead - still invisible for now - is land. Hopefully. That or a container ship.
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