Autopilot

Despite having done nothing the previous day apart from pishing about in boats, followed by a spell of pishing about, when Mr M contacted me for a final wee sail of the year, I couldn't resist.
So off we set in a good breeze down to Granton with the intention of having a look at my boat and having a pint and scampi & chips at the exclusive club that is the RFYC.
Not so fast! It appeared that Mr M had rigged up his GPS and netbook to his autotiller! By entering a few well chosen waypoints, the bliddy boat sailed itself to Granton! I kid you not. It was obvious that getting these disparate devices to talk to each other had taken some time, trawling the internet to source sockets and soldering up the new configuration. Smart chap, Mr M. And how did he test it? He entered in a few waypoints at home after dark and then set off on a course walking down the garden holding his kit. I tell you, if he wasn't such an obviously clean shaven white chap, he'd be of interest to the security services.

On the way back (above), there were some fine gusts so we disconnected the autotiller and got as fine and close to the wind as only well oiled seamen can.