I much enjoyed looking at the Porth Dinllaen Lifeboat’s web site.
Not least because it enabled me to put names to the faces of those
crewmembers who recently turned out to tow ‘Pippa’ and myself back
from Ogof Goch, (less than half a mile from the Bardsey Sound).
‘Pippa’ is my Dad’s boat and has been moored at Porth Dinllaen each
summer for many a year, (and before then at Nefyn).
On Monday 14th June I had risen early planning a full days
fishing before having to drive back home to Liverpool later in the
day. I was passing the boathouse just as the sun was beginning to
break above the peaks of Yr Eifl, and after clearing the point I
headed west with the help of the ebb tide and set to searching out
deep water rocks for large pollock, and anything else that might be
lurking down there.
Just before lunch I found myself off Porth Ysgaden, which is as far
west as I had ever fished before, with a fair number of average sized
fish in the box, but nothing of a size to raise the pulse. But the day
was still young, the weather forecast still good, the tide still
favourable and the enigmatic blimp of Maen Mellt was taunting me on
the horizon to the south west. I have never seen this rock close-to
before, perhaps today was the day to go a little bit further? After
all ‘Pippa’ had been refitted only the year before, and Maen Mellt
looked a likely spot for some interesting fish.
After cutting through the inside of the island, (I followed a
fishing boat, I’m not that stupid), I manoeuvred ‘Pippa’ just seaward
of the rock, and just behind the rip of the tide, to join a pair of
dolphins and find the fishfinder going ballistic. I then enjoyed some
serious fun lifting some better than average fish into the boat. Every
drift over the same spot gave up one or two decent fish including a
wrasse and a codling by way of variety and spice.
However when it gets too easy its time to look for a new challenge.
I could see Porth Oer (Whistling Sands) to the south west, and across
its bay I could see the very end of the Llyn, and the mountainous
cliffs of the Briachs. There was an hour more of the ebb tide to run.
If I crossed the bay then I could fish for a while and then allow the
flood tide to assist me on my way home.
After crossing the bay, which has some surprisingly lumpy bits of
water in the middle, I picked up one of the better fish of the day,
but after managing to snag the bottom, which took a while to resolve,
as I had to motor over the spot every-which-way before the bottom
would let me get my gear back in, (I don’t like to give up a trace
without a fight), I headed inshore across another lump of water, took
my lines in, opened the throttle and began to head back home just
before slack water.
I lent back against the gunnels to relax and admire the impressive
view of the cliffs and caves. As I passed by I could see guillemots
nesting, and unusually a buzzard on patrol overhead. Then, all of a
sudden, the revs began dropping off, and I quickly jumped-to and put
her into neutral. Puzzled as to the cause of this I looked over the
stern, but there was no sign of any lines snagged in the prop, (and
anyway its been fitted with a cutter).
Must have been something and nothing. I ran the revs up in neutral,
dropped them back, put her into gear and pushed the throttle forward
again, but within in a minute the same-self thing happened again. This
time I checked that I had fuel.
I had fuel and there was no water showing in the fuel filter. I
tried to make progress once more but this time she plain stalled on
me. She then restarted, ran for half a minute, and then would have no
more of it at all.
Now I have been caught in a broken down boat before, but never so
far away from home, or in such a foreboding area of the coast, or in
such perplexing circumstances. Why had a brand new engine just
stopped? I’ve repaired recalcitrant old engines at sea before now, and
I once, with a friend, had to row a dinghy from Ty Coch to the
Aberafon caravan site after a lunch time drink turned into sobering
long slog home after the old outboard we were using decided it no
longer wanted to live. But what to do now? The incredibility of the
situation froze my mind.
‘Get the anchor out’ said a sensible voice in my head. Luckily I
was now in about 40ft of water over what looked like sand on the
sonar. Ten minutes earlier I was over a 90ft rocky bottom with nearly
1 knot of tide still running towards the northern entrance of the
Bardsey Sound. But with the anchor out and set, what next?
It was about 14:00hrs with variable winds predicted for the rest of
the day and the tide about to change in my favour, so I was in no
immediate danger, but this is still no place to stop and hang about
for more time than is really necessary. The cliffs behind would offer
no quarter whatsoever if the wind blew up, and the nearest beach,
Porth Oer, I knew from many past visits with both children and with
rod and line, is a steep shelving storm beach with no meaningful
shelter - and it’s no place to try and park a boat, not that I could
even have got there anyway.
I had noticed a small boat not much bigger than dinghy which had
been following my drifts for over an hour. Either they knew less than
I about the fishing in this area and were following me, or they really
knew what they were doing and by chance I was following them from in
front, (if you know what I mean). It turns out that the later was
true. I could see that like me they were coming inshore and were about
to turn back up the coast, and would therefore pass my position. So I
waited until they were within shouting distance. What help I expected
them to give I do not know because I doubted that they had sailed all
the way from Porth Dinllaen in such a small boat, and by the same
token it was obvious that they were not big enough to tow ‘Pippa’
anywhere, (not that Pippa is big, but their boat was half her size).
Like so many local people they gave a first (false) impression of
gruff un-caring indifference that so fools so many English people. But
within minutes an old man who looked like he was too frail to stand,
never mind come aboard, insisted on so doing to look at the engine. He
was, his companion forcefully made clear, a mechanic. With some
difficulty and discomfort to himself, (he has a bad back, the result,
I later learned, of a head-on car smash), he came aboard and was soon
undoing bits of the engine and instructing me to suck on fuel lines,
(unfortunately to no avail). It turns out didn’t Elwyn, ( Elwyn Hughes
of Rhyd-y-Clafdy), work for 30 years servicing fuel pumps for Lucas in
Caernarfon, and there’s not much if anything he doesn’t know about
fuel supply problems, (which I now realised, thanks to him, was the
cause of my predicament). And didn’t he and his mate Bob turn out to
be two of the nicest guys you might like to meet when you’re in a bit
of a jam. Calm, sensible and cheerful. Bob just kept on fishing and
caught several fish to Elwyn’s mock annoyance whist riding behind
‘Pippa’ in Elwyn’s boat.
With Elwyn’s help we soon established that the problem was a
blocked fuel line somewhere near the fuel tank, (I stripped this all
down the next day and the blockage was actually in the riser pipe
within the fuel tank which, with the benefit of hindsight, I could
have repaired at sea - but hindsight is something you just don’t have
at the time when you need it, and it is no point looking back and
saying ‘if only I had known ..’ because the bottom line is you can
only use the knowledge you have at the time). And with Elwyn’s help I
realised that I had no other choice than to bite the bullet and call
for help, and for this, if nothing else, I am indebted to him. I could
have easily wasted a lot more time prevaricating with myself as to
what best to do.
So for the first time ever I had to use the VHF. I always have it
on, but have never used it. Over the years I’ve heard the Coastguard
deal with all manner of calls for help, suspect fireworks etc. But now
I would have to make that call myself. Having made the Pan-Pan call
it’s a surreal experience to then listen to the radio traffic as the
Coastguard fields the various responses. Elwyn had to nudge me a
couple of times to point out that the Coastguard was actually calling
me and that I needed to respond to their questions about position,
type of boat etc. In the past these communications have always been
with some far away boat in some distant place like Abersoch, but now
they were all about me.
Having established that I was in no immediate danger but that no
other suitable boat was able to tow ‘Pippa’ back, the Coastguard
requested that the Porth Dinllaen lifeboat be launched to give me
assistance and I was given an ETA of about 40 minutes for her arrival.
I was also told that by now a mobile Coastguard unit had me in sight
from the shore, (presumably from the old lookout above the Briachs). I
had never felt to be in any real danger, but now with Elwyn and Bob
for company, the lifeboat on its way and the Coastguard watching over
‘Pippa’ from the shore, I felt safer than if I were watching TV in my
sitting room at home.
Of course ‘Hetty Rampton’ turned up like a train exactly on her
ETA, (well actually not like a train), and a tow rope was passed over,
(they even lifted ‘Pippa’s’ anchor for me), and Elwyn and Bob, (who
had refused to leave me until the lifeboat arrived), went back to
complete their afternoon’s fishing. And so began a long tow back to
Porth Dinllaen, (‘Hetty Ramptom’ may have been able to make her full
17 knots on her outward leg, but unfortunately she was obliged to
return at ‘Pippa’s’ more sedately top hull speed of about 5 knots, so
it took nearly two hours to get back).
In due course ‘Pippa’ was put back on her mooring and I found
myself buying one of the larger round of drinks I’ve ever bought at
the Ty Coch, (but never so gratefully purchased).
What struck me about my afternoon adventure was not the shining
professionalism of the Coastguard and the lifeboat crew, which was
exactly what one would expect, but the way the crew thanked me for
giving them the opportunity to come to my assistance, (not to mention
again the selfless friendship of Elwyn and Bob).
So through yourself I would like to offer my thanks again to the
Porth Dinllaen lifeboat and her crew. Not only do they maintain a
fantastic boat but more than that they maintain the wonderful
philosophy that it’s a virtue to work together to help others in need,
without making judgement, and without expectation of reward.
So again, many thanks.
Geoff Evans
Liverpool
