01 Jun 2026 8 min read Trips

Fog, Swell and an Autopilot Tantrum: Salcombe to Fowey

We left Salcombe in thick fog and bigger swell than forecast, rode one long close-hauled line toward Fowey, and then—right at the river mouth—the autopilot threw a tantrum. Here’s how the day (and the fix) unfolded.

It's Monday 1 June and it's started with low cloud, drizzle, and a river view wrapped in fog. We stood in the companionway weighing that classic question—go or stay?—then went for it. Lines off the mooring buoy, Gemma on point with a smooth let-go, and the tide playing nice. Life jackets on today. We make a call each time, and while we skip them in flat, easy conditions, the forecasted swell and rain tipped the balance. They can snag on lines and hardware, but this was a helmets-on sort of morning.

Out over the bar

The bar at Salcombe was punchy. Forecast said 1.5–2 m, but we saw sets well over 3 m stacking and breaking as we cleared the entrance. The chartplotter’s autorouting suggested a direct line that would have skimmed the lumpiest water to starboard, where overfalls and eddies were already boiling. We ignored it, stood off a bit, and then bent back in once things eased.

As soon as we were clear of the worst of it, sails up—still fully reefed from the previous day. Not a hero move, just sensible. The breeze settled into a steady push and we locked into a close reach that would define the rest of the sail. Cheeky Monkey leaned into it and stayed there, a comfortable, consistent heel without any nasty overpowers. The motion was the thing: long, regular swell with the occasional slap and spray. Good for the boat. Good for us, once the initial nerves wore off.

It stayed foggy. We had the foghorn to hand, and while we never truly needed to make ourselves known, the day hammered home something we’ve been circling for a while: radar is definitely on the shopping list for longer runs. Visibility came and went in veils. Gemma took watch on the high side for most of it, BR2 offshore jacket zipped, hood up, utterly in her element. At one point, while clambering up the heeled deck to perch on the coaming, she misjudged a step and introduced her backside to the winch with real commitment. The bruise now looks like a very dark map of Australia. Morale remained high regardless.

Grey miles, one long line

From there, it was miles on miles: single tack, close-hauled, the world reduced to compass, tell-tales, and our own small patch of grey sea. We didn’t see land until around half to one nautical mile off—a sudden cliff line materialising from milk-glass air—and a cargo ship ghosting out of Fowey entrance just ahead of us.

We turned upwind in the swell to drop sails. The waves were still stacked quite close together, 1.5–2 m tops but frequent enough to make timing matter. Engine on, canvas away, tidy up, breathe. We were quietly pleased: the leg had been pure sail—no diesel burned from Salcombe to the river mouth.

Autopilot revolt at the river mouth

Then Cheeky Monkey spun. Not a gentle wander—somewhere between a 90 and 180-degree lurch as the helm went light and the boat rounded unexpectedly. Heart-skip stuff. I grabbed the tiller, checked bearings, and we both clocked the culprit: the tillerpilot had stopped driving. We could hear the motor whirring, but the ram itself wasn’t moving in or out. The timing was almost comical; at that very moment, the heavens opened and turned the deck into a waterfall.

Hand-steering it was. We motored in and called Fowey Harbour on the radio. The visitors’ blue buoys were the plan, but with weather moving in and space aplenty, they offered us the visitors’ pontoons—take our pick between 3 and 5. We came alongside with fenders set and lines ready. Smooth landing, strapped down tight in a proper downpour, then ducked below to let squalls pass before popping up to tweak springs and fenders between showers.

Across from us was Zambezi, whose crew wandered over mid-lull and kindly invited us aboard for a glass of wine. On any other night we’d have leapt at it, but we were in pajamas with the heating on and eyes already at half-mast. We promised to catch them the next day, though they thought they might be off early. The camaraderie of boat people never ceases to make us smile—and feel guilty when we say no.

Ambition in the fairway, and a plan forms

Morning broke bright and with a surprise. I popped the hatch and called Gemma up to see the kind of view that neither of us expected: a big cruise ship lying right ahead, later identified as Ambition. We guessed at lengths and passenger numbers over coffee and admired the contrast—yesterday’s pea soup swapped for sunshine and steel.

Time to triage the autopilot. I pulled the tiller ram apart enough to see the motor and gearing were fine; the drive itself was done. We hopped in the dinghy and headed upriver to the chandlery at Penmarlam Marina (Mixtow Marine). They were generous with advice and handed us the number for Sharp Sails, who might be able to repair or at least advise. Photos and a short video later, the verdict came back: terminal. A replacement ram would be around £800, and the unit on our boat dated to circa 2008. We started weighing options—new ram on old brains, or bite the bullet and modernise the whole system.

Decision-making is better with a pint. Back downriver we went, tied up near town, and made for the King of Prussia (Gemma briefly read it as King of Persia—cue a swift history refresher and a sheepish grin). We sketched pros and cons, then moved to the Ship Inn where we found a shelf of amazing old naval manuals and ship logs. It was a lovely, unexpected history rabbit hole—plus some dreadful dad-joke paperbacks for balance.

With about 13 minutes left for next-day delivery, we made the call: order the full new system from Marine Superstore. The bundle pricing was compelling compared to piece-by-piece, and future us will thank present us for the upgrade path. Gemma rang the harbour office to ask if we could ship to them—no problem, they said, wonderfully helpful as ever. Order placed; sigh of relief.

Because nothing happens alone, a stray smartwatch tap apparently popped the car boot and unlocked the doors back in Portishead. I dashed outside for signal, locked it again, checked cameras, and all was fine. Meanwhile, a power cut at home had knocked our server offline; George heroically swung by, reset trips, and brought the house (and pet cams—hi Bella) back to life. By the time we finished our pints, the day’s small fires were out.

Weather days in Fowey

Wednesday’s delivery slipped—held at Saltash—so we leaned into Fowey. We went on a hoodie hunt (summer packing optimism meets 12°C drizzle), struck out on menswear at a couple of shops, then switched to our favourite souvenir: a tea towel. We found a beauty in a tiny store where a whole wall swung open as the owner emerged from a hidden loo—a full-on Narnia moment. After that, Bufala tempted us off the street with the smell of pizza; the terrace was closed for wind, but the prosciutto pizza and a couple of glasses of wine more than made up for it.

We ended up at Havener’s under the awning, looking over the water with table service and another round (or three) of red wine. Uno came out, and before long we were “the couple with the red wine” to anyone walking by. When hunger struck again we stayed put: pork belly with cider cream for me, steak and ale pie for Gemma. Perfect cold, wet weather food. On the way back we popped into the harbour office to say the parcel wouldn’t arrive that day after all, so no need to wait on our account.

The box arrives, the ram lives

Thursday morning we hovered aboard, watching the tracking, because if the new kit didn’t play nicely we’d need a plan B for getting home without it. The window finally pinged 13:50–14:50, and the box landed just after 3. We bailed the dinghy (again), zipped over, and hefted the surprisingly light carton back to Cheeky Monkey.

We’d hoped to slide across to the power-and-water pontoon across the river for the night, and the harbour team said we were welcome if space opened—then two dive boats (one named Size Matters) nabbed the berths as we were halfway across. No matter; we had enough batteries and water to be fine, if not ideal.

Install was the best kind: plug-and-play. The new ram worked perfectly with our existing control gear. No calibration dances, no drama—just drive. We’ll fit the rest of the shiny new system when we’re back in Portishead, but for now we’d bought ourselves out of a tight spot and earned a proper exhale.

Family tapas and a soft landing

Showers aboard, then ashore to meet Gemma’s cousin Pete, his wife Helen, and their son Evan (fresh off his final economics exam). Havener’s and Sam’s were fully booked, so we ended up at Pintxo for tapas, which turned out to be a win: delicious plates, easy conversation, and the kind of evening that rounds off a few wet, foggy days with family and warmth.

Back on Cheeky Monkey, the power pontoon was still full, so we settled where we were, prepped what we could, and called it. Forecast looked workable for a Friday morning hop, and we were ready to get moving again. Fog, swell, a spin at the river mouth, and a box of electronics later—we were set.