Yachtmistress Anna Whitewater offered a weekend on her boat the Zanzara in exchange for a flattering submission to Port Edgar Yacht Club's yearly cruising log competition.
And a cooked dinner.

I chose a delicious belly pork, chorizo and chickpea stew as the foody bribe. A good use of some lovely leftover hog roast stock too.
Ken Mud selflessly volunteered to author an entirely fictional log of our weekend - carefully censoring any mention of drink, drugs or nautical stupidity.

Anna was so impressed she agreed to take us through the notoriously deadly Corryvreckan.
Ancient mariners speak softly of the Corryvreckan and the sea monsters which lurk there - the whirlpools with their deadly currents eager to suck a boat to its water grave, the terrible storms which whip up in an instant and dash vessels to pieces on the cruel rocks, and the sunken wrecks waiting to snare unwary vessels seeking safe anchorage.
Fortunately none of those things are true.
Well, except for the last one, as we found out to our cost when we tried to raise our anchor after a very comfortable night in the beautifully sheltered bay just south of Oban with the unpronounceable name of Puilladobhrain (Pool of the Otter). Handy also for the famous Bridge over the Atlantic and nearby 18th century Tigh an Truish pub.
It seemed we'd hooked a heavy chain from an old fishing boat mooring and despite wrecking the anchor windlass succeeded in raising the anchor no more than a foot off the bottom.
After much straining and grunting (on my part), and swinging of the boat and chain (on Anna's part) Ken finally remembered that he had brought aboard a waterproof, submersible camera for just such occasions and he managed to lower it down to get pictures of the cause of our predicament.
Once understood it was just a matter of persuading Anna to dive into the freezing jellyfish-infested waters to hook a line through the mooring chain so we could tie it off and hold the massive links up while we dropped our anchor free of it. Then it would be just a matter of hauling up the anchor and its ludicrously heavy chain past the busted windlass and sailing off. Simples.
All power to the skipper - she took to the task like a seal, and we finally set off for the vreckan only 4 hours later than any possible calculations of the tides allowed for us to make it there in time.

The problem is, the tide flowing through the corryvreckan is so strong (8½ knots at springs, perhaps 4 knots at neaps) that there is no way to pass through against it, and our anchorage was Pig's Bay (Bagh nam Muc) just out the other side. Undaunted we pressed on - even hoisting the dusty spinnaker (to Anna's horror) to capture every last ounce of wind, and surprised ourselves by arriving at the very slackest of the tide.
So much for our calculations!
As we motored through the gulf the tide beneath us swung madly between 2 knots with us to 2 knots against us, it was a little nerve-racking but we made it through.


So safe and sound for another night at anchor, a row ashore, and a knotty clamber to a fine view of the whirlpools, which are real. After a Karl Special breakfast, a gentle sail saw us back to Oban the next day and apologies to Anna's dad for wrecking the windlass and snapping the dinghy oar.
Well, at least Ken didn't set the outboard on fire this time!