Racing the Gale from Fowey to the Helford River

We woke to a shifting forecast, a looming gale warning, and that familiar itch to move. So we motor-sailed hard from Fowey to the Helford River, beat the gale winds in, and then hunkered down while the river winds howled.

I was up at 6.30am, as usual, with PredictWind open before my eyes had even fully focused. We’d checked the models before bed, but I can’t help refreshing in the morning to see if anything has changed - where are we going, is the plan still sensible, do we go sooner or wait? Rich stirred around 9am. We’d vaguely said we’d leave at 8am, but he hadn’t set an alarm, which in our language means: it’s a flexible plan. With the forecast now showing a gale force 8 warning later in the day, my call was to let him sleep and aim to be off by 10am latest to get us in before the strong winds arrived and certainly before the 7pm risk window we’d pencilled in.

Once Rich surfaced with a sleepy “Morning, babe”, I gave him the usual weather debrief: gale warning due later, likely as we’d be arriving at Helford if we dragged our feet. Translation: we need to go now. Like right now. We both snapped into departure mode. My routine is always to sort below deck first (clear, tidy, stow everything away and secure what can’t be stowed) before I head on up on deck to start work there. Meanwhile, without me realising, Rich had already snuck outside and done the outside jobs: switched lines into slips, sail pack open, sail rigging back in place. From Rich opening his eyes to off-the-pontoon was maybe 15 minutes, which is pretty quick for us from a berth (anchor stays are always faster with less lines).

By 09:15 we’d slipped our lines and hopped across to Beryl’s Yard pontoon for a sneaky water top-up. I leapt ashore barefoot like a fool and instantly regretted it. Gritted metal mesh pontoons are basically a mean ol’ cheese-grater for your feet. And not in a good way! Note to self: shoes on for hops, no exceptions. We topped up the water tank, lines off again around 9:30, and pointed Cheeky Monkey downriver.

Exiting Fowey, we clicked the autopilot on under power to see if it would actually hold a course. We’d seen it move the day before, but hadn’t truly tested it. It tracked straight and true, which felt like a small miracle, and a very welcome one at that with a gale somewhere out there looming on the horizon. We started to motor-sail keen to make up the miles and beat the gale to Helford.

The day was a close-hauled repeat performer. We love to tell ourselves we won’t end up racing weather again, and then we do exactly just that. It put me in mind of our 21-hour dash across to the Scilly Isles when we just about eked in ahead of a storm by the skin of our teeth. Cheeky was heeled, comfortable, (and this still feels new to admit) no longer spooking me. I used to tense up at the slightest angle of heel; now I’m “lets gooo! woo! This is fun!” 🙌 Maybe I’m actually progressing from “Boat Princess” to “Queen of the Seas” … maybe….

We started with a fully reefed main and kept it there. Cheeky Monkey likes to be reefed at 15 knots and fully reefed by 20; we were conservative on purpose with expected gusts of 25 knots. There was a moment where we debated shaking it out to squeeze out a touch more speed, because the wind didn’t look as bad as forecasted right then. But the models said the gusts would build, so we stayed reefed and were glad we did. Early on, a couple of fat squalls strode down our flank - big thick blankets of grey running parallel - but they never clipped us. Rich luck strikes again 💁‍♀️

The passage was mostly straightforward, though not quite the straight line I thought we’d do. We ended up with five tacks to keep our angle honest, sailing 30–60 degrees apparent, often closer to 30. A few other boats hugged the coast tighter than we were, which had me second-guessing for a moment “are we missing something here?“ but our track looked fine, the wind was working, so we stayed our course.

Wildlife and traffic were light. A bright pink cruising chute on a boat coming from the opposite direction had me convinced, from a distance, that it was some enormous cardinal mark or buoy. As it grew into a sail, I laughed at myself. We also spotted the diving boat—Size Matters—that had nabbed our power pontoon spot the night before. On the VHF, there was chatter about another sailing boat in their orbit; no AIS hit for us, so we just listened in and carried on. All fine in the end.

As we approached the mouth of the Helford River, the breeze freshened exactly as advertised—gusts into the mid-20s, and a lumpy bumpy feel in the entrance. Thankfully, we’ve been into Helford before, so the routine for catching a mooring buoy felt nicely familiar. This time there were loads—dozens in fact—such a change from last time when we nabbed the last one available. The abundance created a new comedy: Rich on the helm saying, “Pick one,” and me on the bow, wind in my ears, boat hook in hand, trying to describe which identical green buoy I meant from a totally different perspective. Even with our current half a boat hook situation we neatly picked up the chosen bouy on the first go. Threaded it through, tied it off. Our new home for the next few days.

One thing we love about Helford River Mooring: the mooring payment is blissfully simple. Each buoy has a little buddy float with a QR code, so you just scan and pay—no need to flag down or find a harbour master. Also, through their Moored App, you get a free nights stay once you reach 7 nights in a calendar year. Even better, you can sneak a peek online to check their availability, which I did en route while Rich helmed the boat. With a gale on the way and Falmouth looking busy, we were half-expecting everyone to have the same bright idea. But apparently not, we had our pick of the river.

We toyed with going to the pub, but the long, tilted morning caught up with us. Instead we settled into the cockpit, exhaled, had a drink or two, and slid into dinner mode. I cooked a roasted aubergine pesto pasta below, and we had sausages ticking toward their best by date, so Rich fired up the barbecue. Smoky sausages tossed through silky aubergine pesto pasta turned into a feast we absolutely demolished—unusual for our appetites, but it hit the spot. We rounded off the night with Monopoly Deal. I cleaned him out—cards, properties, the lot—and Rich remains convinced I was cheating. For the record: I play fair. He just underestimates my ruthlessness on games night.

Gale Day on the Mooring

Saturday was for hunkering. The forecast proved itself true pretty early: steady 30-plus knots barreling straight down the river from the west, not the southerly shelter we’d hoped for. Helford is lovely, but in that direction it turns into a bit of a wind tunnel. The boat pirouetted around the buoy and chop slapped in relentlessly. The water taxi and mooring officers stayed put; we watched their boats through the morning and nothing moved. Our planned pub-and-UNO day ashore dissolved pretty fast.

We debated taking the dinghy ashore and decided absolutely not. Even if we timed the shallows and prop-safe channels right (we know Helford’s tidal quirks from past visits) the wind would’ve bullied us all the way. Rowing was a theoretical option, but in that chop and breeze it crossed into “daft” territory. So we made tea, pulled up a blanket, and gave ourselves permission to have a TV marathon da. Several episodes of 9-1-1 later, we were thoroughly hooked.

Rich used the forced down-day to tinker: he improved our anchor watch system with multiple GPS sources and phone alerts for lost fixes or missed check-ins so that we can tell the actual difference between a system blip and an actual dragging scenario. It sounds dull, but that sort of reliability work is absolute gold when you need it.

Meanwhile, my back staged a protest. I woke with a sharp, can’t-bend kind of pain (probably a pulled muscle) so moving around was all careful angles and soft curses. If we’d needed to bounce ashore, it would’ve been grim. As it was, the rest did me good. The only deck job we took on between squalls was one of those quality-of-life fixes: a loud clanging at the bow turned out to be our split mooring lines banging the anchor. We unshackled it, stowed it in the locker, and led the mooring bouy lines to one side to stop the smack and prevent any chafe. Not a safety issue, just equipment harmony and some peace for the ears.

Looking Ahead

By evening the worst had blown through. The plan from here was to carry on southbound with Newlyn Harbour as the next hop, weather window permitting. For now, we’re grateful for a tidy mooring, a working autopilot, full water tanks, and that big empty pasta pot. Sometimes “uneventful” is exactly the kind of win we need, especially when it ends with card-game bragging rights.

Cheeky's Stats

• Route: Fowey to Helford River
• Departure: 5 June, 9:00 (left our berth; brief stop at Beryl's Yard for water)
• Arrival: 3:43am
• Distance: 33.1 miles
• Passage Time: 6 hours 42 minutes
• Average Speed: 4.9 knots
• Maximum Speed: 8.3 knots
• Average Wind Speed: 17 knots
• Maximum Wind Gust: 24 knots