A short open crossing to Arran, in pleasant sunshine and a F3 southerly, marred only by the strong suspicion that my VHF handset has developed a fault. I couldn't raise Clyde Coastguard on the first attempt, and on the second I was "weak and barely readable."The elegant lighthouse on Pladda was visible for the entire crossing and, as expected, the flood tidal stream increased as I neared the south end of Arran.
Northern Ireland is not far away, so could these rock formations be columnar basalt, similar to the Giant's Causeway? I found myself speculating that the entire Firth of Cyde might be a collapsed caldera, and I keenly await correction via a comment from an informed geologist!
On
reaching the beach by the (surprisingly crowded) campsite, a score or more of sturdy chaps in karate tunics gathered on the beach. Had I stumbled onto the set of a Bond movie? Was Campsite Security standing by to repel boarders? It turned out that numerous followers of obscure martial arts were taking a weekend break to beat each other up in scenic surroundings.The campsite itself was sporting some impressive, but clearly temporary, antennae - the visible evidence of a radio amateur competition, in which enthusiasts sit up all night, pondering the vicissitudes of the ionosphere, and exchanging callsigns with a mysterious interlocutor called "Old Man", gaining points for each island on which this gentleman is found. I confess to getting drawn into a fascinating description of radio licensing, volunteer emergency cover, antennae, reactance-compensating power amplifiers, band-pass filters, voice-spectrum-adjusting-thingammies, and other marvels. Apparently, these radio operators also spend a far bit of their free time helping at county fairs, car rallies, and other sorts of civil emergencies and natural disasters, where they man communications networks for the emergency services.
Expecting wind tonight.
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