A Singlehanded Passage from Plymouth to the Solent in a Solent Seagull

Spray is an 18ft centreboard one-design built by Camper and Nicholsons of Gosport in 1946, and I had been sailing her from Plymouth whilst stationed there during the summer months.

Shortly proceeding abroad, I wanted her back in her home waters of the Solent before I departed. So, on 24th July I stepped out of the train at Plymouth at 1900 to be met by John Whitaker with his car. John had undertaken the job of victualling up during my absence, so the rear of the car was piled high with an assortment of tinned and fresh foodstuffs. Thinking of my three dozen eggs, he drove very gently down to the Hoe, where I called to say goodbye to Mr McLoughlin, the Vice Commodore of the Plymouth RCYC and his family. Thence down to the boat moored in by Mount Wise.

We rowed Spray in by the small beach and loaded her up in the shallows; there was quite a lot of gear. The food I placed in boxes either side of the centreboard, and 1 gallon of water, in quart cider bottles, just aft of the mast. Two spare sets of clothing and a quilted sleeping suit were under the foredeck, as were the second suit of sails and the spinnaker. The after deck was my bos’ns locker and in this went my compass when not required and a small radio. Always at hand I kept an oilskin. A 3” brass tube held the charts, as I think this is the only way of keeping them dry in a small craft.

Forty-five minutes later I hoisted sail, determined to make a start — no matter how little — on my passage. With goodbyes ringing in my ears, I heave-to for 5 minutes 80 yards offshore to square off the last of the gear and adjust halyards. It was 2115 when I bore away and ran out to Devil’s Point and slowly over the bridge between Drake’s Island and Edgecombe. The light SW breeze took me across the Sand, plugging the tide, to the eastern entrance as the sun set.

Soon I was round the Mewstone and the tide was fair. Gradually Yealm Head came abeam, and I could make out the coastline about 2½ miles to the north, by the light of the moon, struggling behind a great mass of cloud to the south. It was a wonderful night but the wind died away shortly before midnight to leave Spray rolling most uncomfortably in the short swell. Start Point lay ahead. I aimed at keeping it just in sight round Prawle Point until abeam of Bolt Head — and over the starboard quarter my last link with Cornwall flashed from the Eddystone Rocks.

Occasional puffs helped Spray across Bilbury Bay, and I whiled away the time munching biscuits. At 0230, with Bolt Tail on the port bow, the westerly breeze steadied and speeded me on to 2 miles south of Bolt Head, when I reached for the north and Salcombe River.

The tide had been running out for two hours, so heading well clear from the blanketing western cliffs I caught the wind coming out of North Sands and the river. With the drop keel and the slight swell I had no worries over the bar, but found it tricky stemming the tide and catching the wind as it came if puffs. The first light was in the sky as I passed Wolfe Rock buoy; an occasional seagull called and lent colour to the continuous sound of surf breaking on the Pound Stone and Old Harry Rocks. To starboard was the emptiness and quiet of Sunny Cove, while the ruins of Fort Charles lay slumbering to port.

A run over to Millbay and the anchor went over the side with a splash to bury itself in the firm sand just out of the low water line at 0500.

Hungrily, I heated up some soup on the primus. Then, stretching the tarpaulin over the well, I turned in on the floorboards — an oilskin under me, and a fender for a pillow.

I awoke at 1400 to find a sea of mist had rolled over Salcombe from the south-west. I cooked a meal of soup, sausages, bacon, tomatoes, eggs, fried meat, tinned potato and beans; my intention was to have at least one very good meal a day — if possible two.

Over the steaming hot coffee, I decided to have a look at the weather outside, so I weighed at 1545 to beat out to the bar; the land disappeared completely from view. I scuttled back into harbour, not fancying meeting Davy Jones on Start Point Rocks. But no sooner was I inside than the fog began to clear, so again I beat out against the tide and headed east to pass Prawle Point a mile to the south.

In the bay were several craft, and so intent was I on watching a luxury cruiser that I failed to keep my weather eye open. An increase in speed made me look round to see the sky overcast in the west and a squall approaching from about a mile away. Down helm; I lowered and tied the mainsail inside 90 seconds then bore away to run under the fore. For ten minutes Spray scudded along at three or four knots as the rain lashed down, and then it was over.

There was a little jobbly water off Prawle Point, but once through I hoisted the mainsail and headed for Start Point as the dying wind veered to the ENE. South of the lighthouse at 1830, I missed the tide, so it was as much as Spray could do to hold her own beating backwards and forwards. But a fair wind came up as the sun sank at 2130. Close-hauled on the starboard tack, I laid a course four miles south of the Rocks and laid a course for Dartmouth. The Skerries buoy clanked ominously 50 feet away at 0200, as the tide began setting to the north-east. Half an hour later the wind had increased to force two and had backed to the north. Without the moon, and with just the leading light flashing in the harbour mouth and the glow from the binnacle, it seemed strange sushing over the water. Occasionally surf would popple on to the foredeck as we sped along at 4 knots. This was fine sailing, and I felt that I was getting somewhere.

The green sector leading light came into view followed by the white, and as the red beam shone forth from the tower, I went about to begin tacking into the Dart against the ebbing tide. Past the castle and the Crusaders’ Chapel, I considered whether to go to the yacht anchorage off Kingswear, but fatigue got the better of me, and I came to on the low water line off Warfleet Cove, tired out. As the light grew in the east, I turned in to the cocks crowing.

Wednesday 26th July. The boat was rocking as I lifted the edge of my tarpaulin at 1430. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. A light breeze was ruffling the surface of the water and craft of all descriptions were about. Then was I thankful that I had not gone farther up the river, for large motor cruisers — almost bow to stern — were careering up harbour, and it appeared that a regatta was in progress.

Hungrily, I prepared an enormous meal, knowing that it would be my last for some time. As I ate, two ladies pulled out in a boat and kindly offered me water, which I didn’t accept, for I still had ¾ of a gallon. They were very pessimistic over my intended passage to Lee-on-Solent — Spray’s home club — and wished me luck.

I was wasting time, so I soon got underway, tacking out of the harbour against the flood tide. A number of motorboats passed me entering the river mouth. At 1700 Dartmouth Castle was abeam and I set out across Lyme Bay.

Now the tide was under her, Spray made good 3-4 knots to the east before a steady light soldier’s wind from the SW. There was a light swell, and few waves to stop her scudding over the sea. Gradually Devon faded astern into the haze, and I listened to the radio as fancy took me. There was only one other sail in sight, coming from Exmouth, and at 2100 I passed 25 yards astern of her — a 15 ton cutter en route for Brest.

The sun set on a perfect evening, and it was still light when I ran through a circling fleet of French trawlers an hour later.

Bubbling steadily along, a supper of biscuits and cheese, hard boiled eggs, tomatoes and water was never better enjoyed.

Then the dark, for the moon was lurking behind clouds. When I wasn’t listening to the radio everything seemed incredibly quiet — mysteriously quiet — for Spray was alone, though an occasional light to the south revealed the steamer track. At 2230 I gybed, for the wind had gradually veered to the WNW, and all being well I proposed to pass about 6 miles to the south of Portland Bill with the flood tide, in the early hours of the morning.

A few minutes after 2300 I shut off the radio as she began to heel. The wind strengthened, and a few minutes later Spray was running at a steady 5-6 knots. Soon waves began piling up astern — little breaking waves — and the wind was singing in the rigging. A quarter of an hour later I considered reefing, for a nasty swell had got up and she was going too fast for comfortable handling. A rushing noise as the wind rose made me decide very quickly, and, watching the seas, I rounded on to the port tack. In a moment the foresail was down and the mainsail was stropped along the boom. Having just secured the sails, I hung on to the mast as the first gust came and the lee deck went under. Aft again, I put the helm up to run before the wind and sea, which was fast rising behind. The seas gleamed white and ugly as they reared up astern; gracefully Spray would lift and let them swoosh under, with a song in the rigging. Even under bare poles I estimated my speed at 2-3 knots.

Midnight, and out of the darkness flashed the Bill, broad on the bow. I was further to the south than I had thought. Concentrating on a few merchantmen’s lights, it seemed that I was crossing their track at a fine angle, so I headed E by N. The breaking seas gave me many anxious moments as they rushed against the transom, and sheets of spray hurled over the boat and flew away to leeward, leaving the boat like a piece of driftwood. At 0100 the wind eased down to force 5, so up went the foresail, and Spray ploughed on — on the port gybe.

An hour later the loom of the Shambles light vessel could be seen to the north, which put me 12 miles south of the Bill and clear of the Race; I set a course ENE.

Thursday the 27th dawned cold, but wet and shivering in my oilskins I was never more grateful to see the day.

A tanker passed 100 yards to windward and its wash worried me as it clashed with the sea that was running.

East to St. Albans Head; Anvil Point lay 5 miles to the north by 0630, and the wind was dying. Up went the mainsail, reefed to half the luff. 0800, and 4 miles SE of Anvil Point found Spray becalmed in light airs and rolling badly. Out came the reef, and I was rewarded before 0900 with a breeze from the west, giving a straight run.

I breakfasted on tomatoes, biscuits and water with the sun blazing down — a wonderful sailing day. The white cliffs of the Isle of Wight gleamed in the sunlight ahead of me as I sailed for hour after hour across Christchurch Bay. It seemed that the bearing of Hengistbury Head would never change.

But the tides had fitted in well, for I had timed them to help me past Portland Bill and through the Needles. And so, keeping well to the south to avoid being swept by the cross tide on to the Shingles, the early flood tide carried Spray up the Needles channel at 1530. Nodding at the helm in the hot sun, I saw the holidaymakers in Totland Bay. But there was little time to speculate, for the tide was carrying her fast. Through the jobble of water milling off Hurst Castle we went on into the calm waters of the Solent. I left Yarmouth and a forest of varnished spars to starboard, and went on to Newtown to thread my way in between the banks which have so often claimed the hasty and unwary.

My passage ended at 1645 as the anchor splashed overboard and I secured the sails. The last 110 miles I had completed in under 24 hours. My celebration lay in a good meal and blessed sleep.

And so a few days later I sailed over to Lee-on-Solent. It was the end of the season.