One of the best sounds in the world is the chuckle of water around the hull as a sailing-boat picks up speed under a light wind. Another is the creak of timber as the "Celtic Waffler" heels away under a stiff breeze. There were too few days on the water in early summer. The weather was rotten for sailing. But then came glorious August with hot sun, blue skies and light breezes. Too light for sailing at times.....

When the wind dies to nothing, and the August sun beats down from an azure sky, those of us who enjoy sailing are forced to fall back on outboard engines. I suppose that the more energetic would say what's wrong with rowing, but when you get to my age....

So it was, one hot still afternoon that we set out - a friend and I - in the "Celtic Waffler" with the 4 horse Yamaha chuntering in the engine well. Gone were the gentle sounds of sail, we'd become a "stink-pot". For some people the world of power-boating consists of rushing up and down as fast as possible, with or without a skier in tow. We felt that there might be fun in challenging Neptune more demandingly and less noisily.

The vast, brooding bulk of Men-a-Vaur off the north of St Helen's seemed a good place to start. The two enormous cathedral-sized rocks are separated by a narrow channel at high-water. It's wide enough for a boat like the Coble, but an underwater boulder half-way into the channel is a reminder not to choose a day with any significant swell.

Into the Underworld

We went through with enough speed to maintain steerage way, but not enough to create a displacement that would suck us onto one wall or the other. Above us the sheer dark rock rose vertically to a tiny slit of the sky. The dampness and cold contrasted with the warmth we had just left outside. We thought of the thousands of tons of water that is thrown through here in a second during a winter storm. We were trespassing in the lair of a mighty and unforgiving God. We came out the other side buoyed up by our bravery - turned round, and went through the other way thumbing our noses..... tiny, insignificant beings in Neptune's Netherworld.

Then off round the North End where The Kettle simmered gently even in this calm sea - tons of water climbing a few feet up the rocks and slopping down again. All around it the surface of the sea lifted and fell. Next, we were looking at Shipman's Head at the end of Bryher. A tall-cliffed rocky island in its own right - separated from the main island by a narrow channel only just wider than the Coble. But this was a quite different scene to Men-a-Vaur. Two local teenagers, tanned by the sun, laughed and shouted as they jumped from the low cliffs into the sunny water before climbing out and doing it all over again. A scene from some Greek Idyll. We passed through as they waved to us - just about a foot to spare on each side.

So we found our way to Hell Bay, rock-hopping through channels and seaweed, then past Samson, and a short motor across to White Island. We decided to land and - in a flat calm sea, remember - I leapt out with difficulty onto the rocky beach. My companion reversed out while I explored the island where the survivors of the Delaware had been rescued [see Shipwreck]. It's hard to exaggerate the level of seamanship that the pilots of Bryher must have exhibited that December day in 1871. Regaining the Coble with some difficulty, we made off to Scilly Rock - the huge mass of rock which almost rivals Men-a-Vaur. It was here that the Isabo came to grief in 1927 and where again the men of Bryher and St Mary's distinguished themselves in another remarkable rescue [see Winter Edition 1997].

Conceding defeat

Scilly Rock is another place with an awesome appearance - and a narrow channel through the middle. At each end, are reefs just below the surface. We could see lobster-pot buoys in amongst them, so someone knew how to get in close.... We circled around, tried to make up our mind - in the end deciding to give Neptune best. Enough for one day, and back to Old Grimsby for a sundowner!In the balmy warmth of evening we ended up sitting on the wooden deck behind the cottage. The Editor joined us for a glass or two as we watched the evening sun sink low enough in the sky to cut through a gap in the hedge that shelters the garden from the field beyond. For a moment the leaves were back-lit and luminous against the dark shadows of the hedge - and the last rays picked out the blue tips of the lavender. "It seldom gets much better than this" said the Editor - as he uncorked another bottle of my chilled Chablis.

I had to agree with my friend. "We are" I said " among the luckiest of men".