In my youthful days, I often embarked on offshore sailing adventures. As a nation of islanders, the British have a rich maritime heritage, with our coastlines presenting both beauty and formidable tides. Navigating these waters requires meticulous attention to tide tables and charts; neglecting this can lead to grounding, rock collisions, or being swept off course by powerful tides. Additionally, the winds and storms that brew over the vast Atlantic can wreak havoc upon our western shores.

One memorable summer, I joined a crew to sail a 35-foot yacht along the stunning coastline of Cornwall — the south-western tip of England — and across the Irish Sea to the Republic of Ireland. Our mission was to complete this journey within a week, ultimately handing over the vessel to a new crew in Wexford.

For the initial days, we leisurely navigated the rugged Cornish coastline, discovering lush estuaries and inlets, fishing for mackerel, and anchoring in quaint fishing villages protected by ancient stone harbors.

To me, sailing serves as the ultimate form of escapism. It exhausts you physically without the need for strenuous effort, as you constantly adjust your posture to maintain balance on a vessel that bobs and sways. Preparing meals on a stove or resting in a berth tilted at an angle are challenges that demand your full attention. Calculating the interplay of tides, winds, speed, and drift is mentally demanding, and being confined in a space smaller than my kitchen with a handful of others for days fosters the need for teamwork and effective communication.

These various elements combine to dissolve the worries of everyday life, enabling a sense of liberation both literally and metaphorically. Sailing offers a retreat to expansive horizons, far removed from mobile signals, routines, and obligations, compelling one to focus solely on the rhythms of nature — the winds and tides.

Our itinerary for that trip involved spending the first half of the week exploring the Cornish coast before making the crossing to Ireland and delving into the Wexford region for the remainder of our time.

However, the weather had other ideas.

While modern weather forecasting is remarkably precise and accessible through the internet, at that time, we relied mainly on the Shipping Forecast, a twice-daily broadcast on BBC Radio.

This five-minute forecast charts the British coastline, delivering wind direction, speed, visibility, and air pressure for 31 maritime areas. It has been a staple for seafarers since 1857.

Each day, our crew would gather silently around the chart table, ready to transcribe the forecast for our current location — Plymouth — and our intended destinations — Lundy and Fastnet.

Early in that week, it became apparent we were sailing straight into trouble. The air pressure was plummeting off the western coast of Ireland, creating a swirling vortex that signaled an impending storm.

By the time we reached Land’s End, the storm was upon us. The calm, detached tone of the Shipping Forecast warned of turmoil ahead: Gale Force winds were imminent, reaching Force 8, 9, 10, and beyond.

We attempted to ride out the storm, sheltering in a harbor east of Land’s End, indulging in a few games of Scrabble as we waited for the winds to subside. However, by Thursday, we could delay no longer. The next crew awaited us 150 miles away in Wexford, and we had their accommodation and transport.

We divided our crew of six into three watches of two sailors each, as we estimated it would take a minimum of 24 hours to cross the Irish Sea. The day was divided into six watches of four hours each, alternating between sailing, resting, and assisting with cooking. I had been sailing for about eight years by then and was appointed leader of one watch, paired with a young novice named Malcolm. I often wonder if he ever sailed again after that experience.

We set sail at 5 am when the tide turned in our favor. As we were heading directly into the storm, we couldn't sail in a straight line; we had to beat into the wind, with the sails pulled tight, causing the boat to lean at an extreme angle. It was an exhilarating yet exhausting experience.

After clearing the Lizard, the last hint of Cornwall, we tacked northward, confronting towering, tumultuous seas. The howling wind felt like a physical assault, making communication nearly impossible. The waves loomed taller than the mast, and as we rose over each crest, we plunged down into the next trough, surrounded by mountains of green-black water.

Despite it being summer, the Irish Sea offered no hint of warmth. We donned full oilskins, boots, and hats, chilled by the relentless wind and soaking waves, our fingers shriveling from the saltwater. We remained tethered to the boat by a line akin to a climber’s rope.

During one of our watches, Malcolm and I took the helm in the middle of the day, with one of us steering and the other managing the ropes. We worked to navigate the crashing waves, aiming to allow our crewmates some much-needed rest below deck. We remained vigilant as we crossed a busy shipping lane, aware that massive container ships could easily sink us without a second thought.

After our watch, we collapsed into one of the bunks on the uphill side of the boat, fully dressed and drenched. Wrapped in a damp sleeping bag and secured by a canvas lee cloth to prevent us from rolling out, we managed to catch some sleep. Exhaustion has a way of making it possible to slumber through anything.

When we returned to duty at 1 am, the storm continued to rage. The night was pitch black — clouds obscured the moon and stars, leaving only the small red and green navigation lights on the boat's bow and mast as beacons. The compass, perched on the wheel post, emitted an eerie green glow.

That night felt like one of the longest of my life. Four terrifying, freezing hours battling the ocean, confronting each massive wave as it came.

To lift my spirits, I attempted to sing. The only songs I could recall were either hymns learned in school or lyrics from childhood films like Mary Poppins or The Jungle Book. I belted out “The Bear Necessities” and “High on a Hill Stood a Lonely Goat Herd,” occasionally getting a mouthful of saltwater mid-verse. At one point, I found myself willing land to materialize on the horizon, repeatedly chanting lines from the hymn “Jerusalem”:

“And did those feet, in ancient times, walk upon England’s mountains green…. MOUNTAINS GREEN!!”

Though I’m a strong swimmer and have always felt at ease on the water, that night, gazing into the furious seas, I realized that if I fell overboard, there would be no chance of rescue in those waves.

As the clock approached 4 am, with just one hour left of our watch, the first hints of dawn emerged behind us. I was at the helm, scanning the water for any potential dangers. Suddenly, I noticed unusual movements off to starboard. My eyes, now attuned to the waves, detected a smooth hump, perhaps four feet long, moving against the current. It submerged, only to be followed by more and more.

It remained dark. Was I hallucinating due to fatigue? I squinted into the wind and the gloom, and then I saw one of the humps leap from the water, only to dive back in. And then it clicked.

At that early hour, when the human spirit wanes, we were accompanied by a pod of porpoises. They swam just off our stern, leaping and frolicking in the wake created by our bow. I counted at least twenty of them. In all my sailing adventures around the British Isles, I had never encountered a porpoise before or since that trip.

They accompanied us throughout our watch. Perhaps it was delirium, but I felt they were the guardians of the sea, guiding us to safety. Their presence — the only warm-blooded beings in that vast expanse of ocean — was comforting and uplifting.

Around 5 am, we finally spotted the flickering light of the Hook lighthouse, reputedly the oldest in the world, beckoning us toward safety. Shortly after, as the sun rose, our aquatic escorts disappeared.

We limped into the port of Wexford that morning, mooring alongside a fishing boat. Standing on solid ground, the stone quay felt as if it was still swaying beneath us. The next crew was astonished to see us and receive the keys to the battered vessel.

“We didn’t think you’d make it,” the skipper admitted, “We thought you’d have to turn back.”

We were scheduled to fly out that night, so we secured a hotel room to take turns showering off the salt encrustations. We then sprawled out on the bed, sofa, and floor, catching up on sleep until it was time to head to the airport.

Flying back over that sea, it appeared no more menacing than a tranquil pond.

“Thanks to Dennett for the inspiration that led me to recall this adventure. The entire journey still feels surreal.”