Moon Landing by Jan Brown
It was July 20th 1969 and we were part way through a long weekend away on our 21’ ‘Spurn’ class sloop, ‘Mallard’ which we kept on a mooring at Helensburgh on the River Clyde.
The previous day we had had a hard sail down the river, on the wind the whole way, to Rothesay Bay on the Isle of Bute. Completely exhausted, we slept well in the comfortable anchorage, awaking refreshed and raring to go once more. After breakfast we set off towards the eastern arm of the Kyle of Bute in a light south west wind. Once in the Kyle itself the wind became variable, dropping off completely at times, but we resisted starting the engine and sailed on slowly enjoying the peace and the scenery. On our port side, we could see the lush green of the Bute fields and along the shoreline, families of Eider duck swam, the handsome black and white males calling to their drabber mates with a distinctive ‘ah-hoo’. The scenery on the starboard (mainland) side was very different; large houses, originally built by the Glasgow tea merchants were strung out along the shore, their impressive gardens leading down to private moorings, where boats sat motionless in the calm water.
At the northern end of the Kyle a narrow passage, marked by buoys, enables one either to turn west and carry on to the West Kyle, or to continue north into Loch Riddon, which was our destination. It was at this point, just as we reached the tricky narrows that we had a minor excitement; two mackerel took the lures that we were trailing at the same moment that my husband, Clive, was fully occupied avoiding going on the rocks and I was down below making soup. With the mackerel thrashing about astern somehow we managed to avoid the rocks, land the fish and save the soup before we reached Ormidale pier where we had planned to anchor. Once the boat was secure and after enjoying the attentions of a seal which entertained us while we ate our lunch, we went ashore for a walk, returning to the boat as torrential rain started.
After dining on fresh mackerel we stood together at the aft end of the cabin (the only place on the boat with standing head room) staring out at the glassy grey world and watching the rain falling steadily, peppering the surface of the sea with tiny whirlpools, while all around terns wheeled and dived, their grating ‘keeyik’s almost drowning out the drumming of the rain falling on the cabin roof. I turned on the little brown transistor radio which we carried and twiddled the tuning knob; miraculously it picked up a signal and, surreally, the cabin was filled with the American accents of Houston control and then, as Neil Armstrong stepped out of the Colombia spacecraft we heard the, now famous, words ‘One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind’. Completely isolated in our own little world, with, in those days, no mobile ‘phone and no VHF radio we were uncontactable and we could contact no-one and yet, somewhere above the grey, grey clouds there were men walking on the moon - it was a moment that we would never forget.
