Quaker Girl is waiting patiently at the end of steep granite steps for her third skipper. Not that she needs three, or even one for that matter. But as I step on board, the usual argument about who is in charge breaks out – and, as usual, no one backs down. Our shared enthusiasm can sometimes get in a (modern) girl’s way. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you,’ I state as I emerge from the galley with beer for them, and the almanac for me.

There’s a 24-hour weather window that should get us to the Turks Head (St Agnes, Isles of Scilly) in time for dinner – and back. Our start is determined by the tidal gate at Penzance Harbour, and wind. Or lack of it.

It’s a journey of 36 miles that can be notoriously bumpy. So, we are thankful for light seas and clear skies when we eventually set off several hours ahead of the fair-going tide.

Quaker Girl awaits her third skipper in Penzance Harbour. Photo: Anna Bingham

‘Looking goooood baby!’ Dan croons from the bow. He and Aly are dancing – pleased with themselves for having captured precisely one extra breath of wind in the spinnaker they’ve been wrestling for the past 25 minutes. ‘Woooo hoo! It’s adding almost a knot.’ Yup, it’s true, our speed has crept up to a heady 4.2 knots. Shame we are heading in the wrong direction.

But patience, I remind myself, makes a good sailor and it’s not a bad idea to use this time to try stuff out. I reach into the cabin for the Cockpit Companion and study markers and knots so as not to be outdone.

Stacking stones on St Agnes. Photo: Anna Bingham

But chasing the wind has led us a few miles south of Runnel Stone and we are currently heading for the hazardous, unseparated junction between the east-west and north-south shipping zones. Fortunately, the wind has strengthened so we beat north-west, passing the Scillonian ferry – or Sickollian as we call it – and are going well. Before you can say ‘sick bag’, we’re heading south towards St Agnes and a familiar anchorage on the far side of her isthmus.

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Day sailing to the Isles of Scilly: St Agnes

We love St Agnes precisely because there’s not much to do except stack stones and go to the pub. I scramble out of the dinghy keen to do both – just as it starts to rain. Then it pours, soaking through my borrowed jacket. We dismiss a walk around the island in favour of a sprint to the pub.

Aly lets the spinnaker fly. Photo: Anna Bingham

Three fish pies later, the boys row back. Yup. Looks like that feminist fell overboard. But we can’t see her in the dark (those boys must have forgotten the mast light). Instead, we gaze upon golden sparkles twinkling in the water like captured starlight. Is it phosphorescence? Or bio phosphorescence perhaps? The scene is surreal – like something from Life of Pi – sea and sky indistinguishable. Rain adds to the moment.

We awake to sunshine, and squabble over plans before a quick swim. Refreshed, we organise a reef, coffee and helm between us. We’re on a united mission to reach Penzance Harbour gates before they close. Aly stations himself at the bow and looks out as I steer through a series of unnerving eddies around the Spanish Ledges.

Pot Buoys Gallery on St Agnes sells jewellery and gifts. Photo: Anna Bingham

The predicted Force 5 doesn’t materialise, so as soon as we are beyond the rotary (island) tide we shake out the reef and let Quaker Girl stretch her legs. I’m trying to steer a course of 80° but only manage to maintain speed steering 70° so by the time we reach the shipping lanes we’re already further north than ideal.

And they’re busy. Really busy. The thumping AIS alarm punches us in the ear for the millionth time. ‘Bloody alarm. Your turn Aly,’ Dan and I chorus. He ducks below, popping his head up with news – it’s Auto Aspire again. Dan picks up the compass somewhat reluctantly and takes another bearing. It’s only changed by 1°.

St Agnes is a favoured stop-off with sheltered bays on the other side of the isthmus. Photo: Anna Bingham

‘That doesn’t sound like much,’ I state the obvious (I’m good at that), before suggesting we check the radios. We’ve had trouble with them this season resulting in the sound being either intermittent or muffled. But Dan reckons he’s fixed them, and turns both on.

With that the hand-held crackles into life and an Italian-sounding accent says something or other. We throw the damn thing between us – desperate not to be holding it when it next speaks, but ‘Quakkkkerrr Girrrl’ is clearly audible when it does. We look at it, and then at the growing ship, then at the handset, but not at each other.

For once, no one wants to be in charge. Dan and I are hoping, no, willing Aly to pick it up. We know he will; he always does. Come on Aly, you’ve got this.

Anna Bingham shares her Nicholson 32 with partner Dan and friend Aly. ‘Knowing nothing has bonded us,’ she says. Photo: Anna Bingham

He picks it up and speaks. ‘Hello. This is Quaker Girl.’ Crackle crackle, ‘what?’ crackle crackle, ‘…courrrse’ it says. ‘What?’ Several ‘whats’ later it’s clear that the captain is proposing that he move his 35,000-tonne boat out of the way of ours.

‘Oh yes please,’ Aly replies. We wonder if this is what they normally do. Maybe it’s obvious that we’re sailing as close to the wind as possible and he wants to save us the effort of taking the sails down to alter course. Or maybe he is just ‘a really nice man’ as Aly suggests. Who knows? This is our first time. And we marvel at being able to read the labels on the cargo as she bears away.

Dan aboard Quaker Girl. Photo: Anna Bingham

‘Right. Let’s see if Land’s End can move a bit to the north for us, because it’s slightly in the way right now,’ I point out. But we agree that this is unlikely, so we stick the engine on for a while and head south to clear Runnel Stone. Three pairs of hands make lunch, set up a game of cards, and steer in blissful unison.

It’s a good job that Quaker Girl has three (most excellent) skippers. And with that thought, the real boss lifts herself out of the water and heads home.

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