Getting Back
March 25, 2026
You’re reading the opening of Getting Away.
This is the true story of how we built a 44-foot yacht and sailed away from the UK.
👉 Continue reading below.
July 1st 2002, 3:00 AM Bay of Biscay
Something wakes me.
Not the engine — that’s been going for thirty-nine hours straight.
Broom. Thump. Gurgle. Over and over.
No… this is different.
I lift my head.
Monty doesn’t. He’s still asleep beside me, snoring quietly, as if we’re not crossing the Bay of Biscay in the middle of the night.
It takes a moment to remember where I am.
Ruffles Spray. Thirty-nine hours out from Camaret. Heading for La Coruña. One hundred miles still to go.
Too many.
If you’d prefer to read the full story, you can get the book here:
I’m wedged into my bed under the starboard saloon settee. It feels tighter than it used to. Not ideal.
Above me, That Woman — Ann — is on watch. I can hear her moving around.
She thinks she’s quiet.
She isn’t.
The engine drowns most things out, but not this.
I feel it again.
A slow rise beneath us.
Not right.
Two hours later, Ann comes down fast.
“Mike, wake up. Something’s going on.”
Now I’m fully awake.
July 1st, 2002, 5:00 AM, 96.4 Nautical Miles to La Coruna, Spain
Skipper Mike mumbles, “Another hour, couldn’t this wait another hour”?
I watch as he follows Ann up the companionway steps into the cockpit.
I thought, what’s going on now? Extracting myself neatly out of bed and thinking ‘in for a penny’ clamber up the companionway steps in two well-practised moves.
Front paws on step number three, pull up, back paws on the step two, then front paws on step five and hey presto into the cockpit.
Mike was staring Southwest, watching the inkwell like sea in the Bay of Biscay rolling in, not very high waves but short, sharp ones.
Swish, swish, swish. Rolling us gently over to port, then almost immediately, back the other way again.
Mike says, “Yes, it looks like we have got a bit of wind coming our way in a couple of hours or so but remember the forecast we looked at before we left Cameret, no wind for five days. Well, perhaps we can get a little more speed when it arrives”.
Ann says, “That would be good, can’t wait to arrive in La Coruna”, off she pops down below no doubt to put the kettle on.
I hear her shouting from below.
“Mike, do you want a cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
Told you so.
Both skipper and first mate drink tea, I have a slurp of water, skipper and first mate have Weetabix for breakfast. Chicken and rice for little Monty and me.
Two hours later the movement has become worse, the wind has increased, and I can hear Mike say, “I think it’s about ten knots gusting fifteen, I really should have fitted a wind speed system”.
I thought oh well, too late now. If this is their dream of cruising around the Mediterranean, count me out. I’ve had enough already.
86.2 Nautical Mile to La Coruna, Spain.
The VHF radio crackles, it’s Rowan’s voice in the loudspeaker.
“Ruffles Spray, Ruffles Spray, this is Grampus, Grampus over”.
Mike rushes to the radio, reaches up and unclips the hand mic from its holder screwed to the ceiling “Grampus, Grampus, this is Ruffles Spray. Go ahead, Rowan”.
Rowan replies, “Well, this sea is getting up a bit, but nothing to worry about, we think. What are your thoughts, Mike”?
Mike says, “My guess it’s about ten knots gusting fifteen. What have you got showing on your wind speed system?”
“It’s actually fifteen knots gusting twenty, Mike, but still OK for now”.
“Well, if the wind does get stronger, with this heading we won’t be able to make a course for La Coruna anymore. Let’s look at the chart and see if there is anywhere else to head for that is a little closer, just in case”.
There’s a slight quiver in Mike’s voice. I can tell he is a little worried, what with a new sailing yacht, little sailing experience in bad weather or even in good weather, I sniffed the air. Maybe that was fear I could smell?”
73.5 Nautical Miles to La Coruna
It’s midday, and both skippers have decided to change course for Ribadeo. A small town with a safe harbour about 133 nautical miles east of La Coruna and 56 nautical miles from our current position.
Now that may not sound very far away. It isn’t in a car travelling at 60 miles per hour. However, in a sailing yacht that is only pottering along at 6 mph, that’s nearly ten more hours.
Apparently, there is a formula to work out how fast a sailing yacht can go, but it’s beyond me. I must have said ‘there’s a formula’ out loud as Monty chips in and says, “It’s the square root of the waterline length of the yacht in feet times 1.34”.
“For Ruffles Spray, the square root of 33 feet equals 5.74 times 1.34 equals 7.7 knots maximum speed”.
I give him my ‘do shut up Monty’ stare, and he is immediately silent. He is always full of these little bits of knowledge.
The harbour is due south of us which means that the sea is on our starboard side. Which is not good.
The sea to windward is a mess, little waves on top of larger waves, those larger waves on top of even bigger waves, white tops, all tumbling over each other. Tumbling to be swished up like in a large ladle and emptied on top of another wave. As far as my eyes can see, it’s all blueish green with white tops rolling towards the starboard side of Ruffles Spray. Hitting the starboard topsides with an almighty boom that throws white coloured sea high up in the air and onto Ruffles Spray’s doghouse, which I’m sitting in.
Kaboom, another bit of sea launches itself high in the air and lands on top of the doghouse, some of it smashing into the canvas doghouse cover side. It sounds like firecrackers are going off.
I look over to Mike, who is staring to windward like in a trance. I can smell the fear. It’s tangible in the air. Mike is always trying to hide it, especially when he is speaking to Ann, who is huddled down below, Monty wrapped in her right arm.
Monty is on duty with Ann keeping her safe, calming her. This is what Monty and me agreed on as soon as the waves started. Ann hates waves. I think she’s petrified of them. Her eyes, wide open, look as large as a full moon. The sparkle in them has given way to panic, a panic that she is keeping under control, but Monty has told me that just a little bit of anything else happening could push her over the top.
You see, the book Mike read on heavy weather sailing is to blame. He’s read dozens of books on the sailing subject, and this book advises how to get to grips with a storm. He read out the bit about the dangers of waves, the height of which compared with the beam of a hull. OK, I really don’t understand the technical details or if I’m giving it to you verbatim, but Monty said if a wave is higher than the beam or width of the boat, and that wave hits the boat on its beam, then the wave can roll the boat over.
A sailing yacht does have ballast and would technically right itself, but that’s not how I remember Mike reading this to Ann. The waves are high, probably four or so meters. So technically, if Ruffles Spray was in the wave’s trough and the next wave hit the starboard side as Ruffles Spray was going up the wave, it could roll Ruffles Spray over.
So, Monty and me had a meeting around the mast in the saloon earlier. It’s our usual meeting place, it’s our meeting room, no it’s our boardroom. Monty was in his usual place behind the mast next to the fridge. I was sat in front of the mast slightly towards the bar so I could see Monty better. The meeting was quick, it took less than a minute and agreement was reached that I would look after Mike and that he would look after Ann.
We agreed that subtleness is critical, don’t let them know that we know that they are frightened. I had reassured Monty back in Milford Haven that I had inspected every bit of Mike’s welding and that I deemed the hull tight as a badger’s bottom.
Yes, OK, Monty did point out that he knew a lot more about badgers. He was the expert on badgers. Well, he would be, being a Dachshund. He told me that if it were as tight as a badger’s bottom, then we would sink. I remember that meeting well. An agreement was reached in good time. I said OK the hull was watertight, forget about badgers, and that my friends means this storm could not do anything to Ruffles Spray.
Booom, kaboom snatches me out of my thoughts.
The wind is howling, the gusts are deafening, sounding like jets taking off from an airport. You can hear them starting their take-off run in the distance. Getting louder and louder until, with a roar, they pass over Ruffles Spray growing fainter, rumbling into the distance downwind. Then the next one starts and the next one and the next. Each time the boat rolls to port, all I can see is the sky, and when it rolls back again, all I can see is green sea, and ten more hours of this is going to be really bad.
Ten more hours, roll to the left, crash bang, roll to right crash bang, the noise is deafening. I don’t recommend being on a small boat in bad weather. By small, I mean less than cruise ship size.
The movement is wild. White water rafting wild, not that I have been, but I listen to people talking. It’s like sitting in a waltzer fairground ride and being on a roller coaster at the same time. Just at the moment when it tips over the edge to hurtle down the steep descent. The waltzer shoves you over to the left, then just as sharply the whole boat dips over forward, you get hurled in two directions at the same time.
Ten hours to go, once every minute or so, that’s only 600 times to go.
599…
Maths, I don’t like maths.
51.2 Nautical Miles to Ribadeo
Monty and me are sitting on the starboard side settee, Monty is next to Ann on her left, and I am on her other side. Ann has her feet pushed hard against the saloon table, which is anchored to the salon floor, to stop herself from being thrown around.
She is whispering, not sure who she is whispering to, not sure what she is saying, even with my hearing, it’s the same conversation every ten minutes. Something about let it all stop or something like that.
The engine is still doing its broom, broom, broom but without the gurgle gurgle noise.
That had changed to kaboom, kaboom, kaboom.
The whole boat shakes after each sharp dip forward.
Broom, broom, kaboom, kaboom.
Suddenly, the skipper’s head appears in the companionway hatch. Mike shouts down over the dim “Are the welds holding”?
What a question to ask. Ann, eyes glaring, mouth opening and closing for a few seconds. She shouts back, “How the heck do I know, how do you think I can see through all the wood, which you put there? It’s in the way. What a stupid question to ask”.
Mike says, “Sorry, I thought it was a good question”.
Nobody ever asks me what I think, but I agree it’s a stupid question. If the welds were not holding, then we would be at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay in hundreds of meters of water.
46.3 Nautical Mile to Ribadeo
Something is going on the aft deck.
I can smell it. It smells of feathers. It smells like a bird. I jump off the settee and walk over to the companionway steps.
Ann says, “Mitzie come here; you are not going up into the cockpit”.
I start the going up the steps routine, front paws on step three. But Ann says, “No, Mitzie come back here. You can’t go up there in this storm”. Reluctantly I go back to the settee. Mike’s head appears and asks, “What’s for tea? I am starving”?
“Now in the storm”?
“Yes”.
“OK, I’ll get to it”.
Ann crawls over to the fridge on all fours, opens the door, gets a pizza out, crawls back on two knees plus one hand with the pizza held tight in the other hand to the cooker. She opens the oven door, presses the ignition, lights the oven with the usual woosh. She opens the bottom door, extracts a baking tray, places the pizza on the tray, rips the plastic cover off then folds the cardboard packaging in half and places it in the bin.
I peer over and see it’s three kinds of cheese pizza.
Lovely.
My favourite.
Three kinds of cheese.
I love cheese.
Twenty minutes should do it.
Precisely 19 minutes later, she crawls back over and peers into the oven. Satisfied that the pizza is ready she opens the oven door. She pulls herself up and reaches for a plate, starts to slide the pizza carefully onto the plate. Suddenly there’s a colossal lurch, crash, kaboom, broom, broom, and the pizza falls off the baking tray.
I watch it fly through the air in slow motion,
Yummy yum, yum.
Hope it land upside down.
I watch it pirouette in mid-air and land face down on the carpet.
Hurray
I jump off the settee licking my lips on the way. Knowing that there will be some spoils for me. I must get there before Monty. Ann always favours little Monty. I quickly glance behind me, but Monty has not even stirred.
Oh, goody more for me.
I look back to the pizza and horror!
I watch Ann, a big grin on her face, flipping the pizza base back onto the plate with a fish slice. I get ready to slurp up all the topping of the carpet, but nooo, she’s using the fish slice and shovelling up the topping and pasting it back onto the pizza base. She looks very pleased with herself, fetches a knife and fork from the drawer and shouts, “Mike, the pizza is ready”.
Mike appears in the companionway hatch.
“Great, I’m starving”.
He takes the plate and starts munching away. I sit at the bottom of the steps and wait. There will be some for me in a little while.
Ann asks, “Is the pizza OK”?
“Yes, lovely, but there are some crunchy bits, not sure what they are, here Mitzie catch”.
I watch the piece of pizza fly down in my direction, and having already worked out its trajectory, it lands dead centre in my mouth.
Yum, yum.
This is just the beginning of the journey.
👉 Getting Away continues from building the boat to finally leaving the UK.
41.6 Nautical miles to Ribadeo
Whatever is on the aft deck is still there. I’m determined to have a look, so I jump off the settee and walk over to the companionway steps. It’s more of a dance really, step forward, get flung to the right into the port settee, then immediately left into the mainmast. Eventually, I make it to the steps.
Ann says “Mitzie, no, I told you can’t go up into the cockpit; it’s too dangerous. I take no notice and keep staring up the steps”.
Ann shouts, “Mike, I think Mitzie needs to go for a pee”.
Mike calls down “Now, really, now? It’s not the best time in the world”.
Ann says, “I know, but if she has to go, then you have to take her on deck”.
“OK, OK, I’ll try, put her harness on and her life jacket and I’ll clip on myself and take her aft on the sheltered side”.
Ann takes ages putting all the gear on me. I can’t move and struggle to heave myself up into the cockpit. Ann helps and shoves me up. Mike clips me on and starts to climb out of the cockpit. He turns around and says, “If we fall overboard, you know what to do, Ann, don’t you”?
I think, oh no, not the thing to say now.
I can see Ann is thinking about this. She goes more ashen in the face. I’m sure I can see steam coming out of her ears, she screams, “Know what to do? I don’t know what to do. If you fall overboard then you know as I do that is it. You’ll never get back on board in this sea”.
I think, what about me, who will get me back on board?
Mike is tugging at the lead I hate that! I jump up onto the coaming and look around.
The sea is wild.
Huge green waves, frothing white, rolling into the distance, the wind is deafening, howling like banshees, tugging at you.
It feels like the wind wants to push me onto those rolling waves.
I look behind me and see Mike struggling to stay on his feet. He is gripping the guardrails with his left hand, his knuckle white as a sheet. Every time the boat rolls to port, it feels like only gravity was keeping us glued to the deck. The green waters of the Bay of Biscay swishes past us as the wave roll under the keel. As soon as it passes, the boat lurches upright again with such a force that it throws me against the coachroof, gluing me to it and then swish, the next wave arrives.
In the middle of the back deck is the generator, it is screwed through the steel walkway on rubber pads with bolts. It has a burgundy cover with sides almost to the deck. Next to it, three clear plastic water containers sit strapped in with a blue rope. I slowly lift the cover with my nose, there they are, two pigeons bold as brass, sitting huddled together.
Stowaways.
Mike says, “Mitzie, what are you doing? Come on, go garden, we can’t stay out here much longer, go, garden girl, please just go quickly”.
I push my nose back between the frame and give my loudest shout.
“Mitzie, what is it? What’s there”?
I say, “Two pigeons”, but Mike doesn’t seem to hear me.
Mike, kneels down, squeezes in with me and lifts the cover a little.
“Two pigeons, how and when did they come aboard”?
“I told you there are two pigeons”.
Mike says, “Leave them, Mitzie, they are too tired to fly in this storm, leave them and go garden if you have to”.
I turn around and head back to the cockpit and jump onto the coaming then immediately onto the starboard seat. Mike follows me in and says to Ann, “There are two pigeons hitching a ride on the back deck. They are sitting under the generator cover, huddled together. They must have been happy to land on Ruffles Spray. They would have drowned, poor things. Mitzie didn’t go garden all she was interested in those pigeons”.
I think, go garden? Yea, right, how do they think I can go garden in this roller coaster ride? The skipper is losing it
29.4 Nautical miles to Ribadeo
Mike and Rowan are speaking to each other on the VHS radio. Grampus is about three hundred meters to our starboard and about the same distance ahead.
“Well, Mike, every time you go into the trough of a wave, all I can see is the top half of the mainmast. The rest of the boat can’t be seen. The waves must be about four meters high, add the swell to that, and it doesn’t add up to anything good. Let’s hope it doesn’t get any worse, over”.
Mike says, “Same with Grampus, you keep disappearing in the troughs. What is the wind speed, over”?
“It’s around thirty knots gusting forty”.
Mike says, “Thirty knots, you are kidding me, it feels more like forty gusting fifty, you telling me the truth Rowan”?
“OK, you are right, Mike, it is blowing forty-two knots, gusting fifty. Any increase in wind speed or gusts and we will be in trouble. We have five and a half hours to go, let’s hope it decreases soon”.
They both sign off.
Broom, broom, Kaboom, kaboom, broom, broom, kaboom…
24.3 Nautical miles to Ribadeo
Mike’s head appears in the companionway hatch.
“Ann, there’s a fishing trawler bows to the wind just sitting there riding the waves. It’s right on our course, about one thousand meters ahead. Let’s hope the skipper realises we have the right of way”.
Ann says, “Whatever next this is getting ridiculous one thing after another. If it’s not the wind, it’s the waves, if it’s not the waves, it’s pigeons, and now it’s a trawler right on our course”.
She gets up off the settee and crawls over to the companionway steps, pulls herself up and climbs slowly into the cockpit to take a look.
I hear Mike say, “The trawler is over there. Can you see it, no over there, a little to the left, off the port bow”?
“I can see it. It’s huge and getting bigger as we get closer. I’m going back down below to get the grab bag ready”.
The grab bag is a waterproof bag with all the essential documents, passports, bank cards, boat registration, boat insurance, photos, and many other things.
With a shaking hand, she reaches under the port side settee, pulls out the grab bag, blue in colour with black straps. It has a drawstring on the top, which she pulls open. She releases the double flap and peers inside. Checking the contents and adding the mobile phone, the handheld VHF Radio.
She crawls over to the chartable and lifts the flap, reaches in and takes out a large-scale chart of the Bay of Biscay, adds it to the contents of the grab bag. She adds a torch, protractor, calculator, and handheld GPS. Then proceeds to fasten the bag up, ensuring the flap is correctly shut to stop any water from getting in. She placed the bag next to the fridge, located just to the left of the steps behind the mainmast.
Mike’s voice shouts, “The stupid trawler is not moving. We can’t head more into the wind. We’ll just get pushed back towards him. If we go round his stern, we will get pushed off course, and it will take ages to get the westing back. In fact, it will be very uncomfortable and wet, heading more or less directly into the waves. It’ll be a nightmare”.
Mike says, “They must realise that we can’t manoeuvre as well as they can, we’re a third of his size. I’m going to keep on this course, they must let us pass, we have the right of way, come on trawler make some room let us pass ahead of you”.
800 meters to go.
“Come on, move over”.
Mike reaches up and pulls the VHF radio mic off its mount and calls “Fishing trawler, fishing trawler in position 44 Degrees 0.64 North, 6 degrees 57.76 West this is sailing yacht Ruffles Spray, 800 meters off your starboard beam do you read me over”?
Boom, boom, kaboom, kaboom
“Fishing trawler in position 44 Degrees 0.64 North, 6 degrees 57.76 West this is sailing yacht Ruffles Spray, 800 meters off your starboard beam do you read me over”?
Boom, boom, kaboom, kaboom
“Fishing trawler in position 44 Degrees 0.64 North, 6 degrees 57.76 West this is sailing yacht Ruffles Spray, 800 meters off your starboard beam do you read me over”?
Boom, boom, kaboom, kaboom
Mike says, “700 meters to go, come on, man, get out of the way”.
Boom, boom, kaboom, kaboom.
What happens next?
The story doesn’t end here.
👉 Getting Away starts the journey, from building the boat to leaving everything behind.
👉 And in Getting Back, the story takes a different turn when reality catches up.
👉 Read Book 1 – Getting Away →
If this feels familiar, you’re probably closer to this kind of decision than you think.
