Gail and I watched the Wind, Tide & Oar last night at Falmouth Poly. It’s still with me this morning—the rhythm of the tide, the sound of sails filling, the creak of old timbers underfoot.

It’s an unconventional film.

Directed by Huw Wahl, it’s a documentary about sailing without engines—literally and philosophically. It was filmed over three years on a hand-wound 16 mm camera, and it centres on people who sail by harnessing the wind, the tide, and oar power alone. One of them is the director’s sister, Rose Ravetz, who sails Defiance, a Falmouth quay punt built of ferrocement.

The documentary is structured into three parts: “The Tide Flows In,” “The Tide Flows Out,” and “The Turning Tide,” each capturing different facets of the sailing experience.

The film asks you to slow down, to meet it on its own terms. And if you do, it rewards you with something rare and quietly powerful.

Several boats featured in the film are based close to home.

Guide Me, a Cornish lugger built in 1911, is kept on the Helford up at Gweek.

Perhaps the most original of her kind still afloat, she worked out of Looe and Mevagissey until 1966 and later sailed to South Africa under the ownership of Judy Brickhill. The family still own her today. She’s a living, working link to a way of life nearly gone.

Then there’s Katrina, a 23’ gaff cutter built in 1913. Her owner, Jonathan Bailey, has dredged for oysters in the Carrick Roads with her since the 1970s.

He’s a character — never learned to swim!

And then there’s a row boat called Dorothy, based on the lines of an old St Michael’s Mount post boat, now used by her builder and owner, Giles Gilbert, to catch fish in and around the harbour. Giles also runs a local fish shop—Pysk—where you can occasionally buy a catch brought in by Dorothy.

These boats aren’t museum pieces. They’re part of the present. Working boats with soul.

These local connections all added to the film’s appeal. These are my waters. My neighbours, in a way. I recognised the places, the light, the feel of it all.

What struck me most—besides the stillness and the beauty of the imagery —was the sense of deliberation exhibited by the skippers. These sailors choose to go without an engine not to prove anything, but because it asks something more of them. It demands attention. Patience. Seamanship. A willingness to wait for wind, to read water, to work with what the sea offers rather than try to impose on it.

Watching the film reminded me of a book I once owned, Sailing with Purpose by Jerome Fitzgerald. I bought it years ago, back when I was still learning to sail. At the time, I was eager but inexperienced—impatient, probably. Fitzgerald’s book inspired me to slow down, to think more deeply about what I was doing and why. It encouraged me to become not just a sailor, but someone learning to sail with intention.

After watching Wind, Tide & Oar, I want to find myself another copy. I would like to read it again now, from where I stand in life today, with more years behind me and a different kind of purpose in mind.

The truth is, I’d love to go engineless with Sólmara, my little junk-rigged boat. I so admire those who do. But it’s just not realistic in my case. I keep her on a tight marina berth on the Penryn River, some way from the main channel. Getting in and out often involves narrow windows, light, fluky winds, or unpredictable currents. I rely on the engine to stay safe and avoid becoming a nuisance to others.

That said, I’ve been thinking hard about what it means to “sail with purpose” in my own context. I might not be able to remove the engine—but I can choose when and how I use it. I can aim to sail as if I don’t have one. Use it only when I have no other choice. That alone changes the way I think about every trip, every tack, every tide.

It becomes a personal discipline. A mindset. A quiet challenge. Not to perform or impress, but to become better. More patient. More in tune with my boat, the wind, and the surrounding water. It’s about listening. Trusting. Slowing down enough to be present.

Wind, Tide & Oar isn’t a film for everyone. It’s slow. Quiet. Introspective. But for those who know what it’s pointing to, it’s profoundly moving. It captures something that’s difficult to describe—the deep satisfaction of letting the world move you instead of trying to move the world.

And it’s not just about boats. It’s about life, really. About stepping away from speed and convenience to do something the hard way, the right way—for no reason apart from that it feels more honest.

I sometimes worry that this way of sailing—and living—is fading. That the old knowledge is being lost. But then I watch a film like this, and I remember: it’s not gone. It’s still here, tucked into quiet creeks and hidden waters.

The film is currently being shown in cinemas across the UK and Ireland. If you get the chance to see it on the big screen, I’d urge you to go. Let it wash over you. Don’t expect drama. Expect something slow, beautiful and quietly radical.

For me, the takeaway is simple. I’m going to keep learning. Keep practising. Keep trying to sail Sólmara better. And I’ll do my best to sail her with intention. To sail with purpose.