by L.A. Gill

The wind was blowing hard from the south-west against the ebb when Vic and I rowed out to Beachcomber one Sunday in July, the beginning of our holiday. Sailing from Bosham to East Head we got very wet and our plans to carry on to LittIehampton were revised when we saw the seas outside. We moored for the night but Beachcomber, with tent rigged, began to feel the wind, she swung around her anchor and rolled in the chop. Vic, who was not used to sailing, began to feel sick.

We cleared the harbour entrance at 0900 the following morning, wind mainly due west, occasional white horses, force 3-4. At midday we were off Selsey, sailing through the Looe channel we found some big rollers fortunately going our way. Beachcomber began surfing and Vic began to feel sea-sick. At about 1330 I decided to heave to and take in a reef. We stayed hove-to for about 30 minutes while I had some hot tomato soup, cold meat and biscuits. Vic was now lying full length on the side bench while I sat admiring the way Beachcomber lay to in what seemed to be half a gale when we luffed up into the wind and sea.

Lunch over we were soon surfing along on a course for Newhaven which would take us close to Shoreham harbour if things got sticky. By now Vic was feeling a little better and provided he kept his head down he was able to keep down a few dry biscuits. With the boom over the port side and the seas to starboard the helm began to get heavy again and she had a tendency to broach to on the crests. We altered course slightly towards the beach, gybed and brought the seas dead aft and found it more comfortable. But before long, fearing shorter seas inshore we gybed again and reverted to our old course. When Shoreham came abeam I kept quiet and kept going — Vic remained prone. Our surfing spells were getting longer, obviously we were going too fast but it was smashing sailing and I was enjoying it. To obtain a better balance Vic sat on the centre thwart facing aft and saw the seas for the first time. His white face turned grey. “Look at ‘em!” he cried, “‘Look at this one coming!”’ I told him they’d been like that all the time.

As we approached Newhaven harbour the rollers got bigger and began to break. I supposed the water was getting shallow and in case we filled up at the last minute I kept well away from the solid looking wall which is the western breakwater of the harbour. Keeping the seas dead astern we surfed by the end of the wall on the three biggest seas of the day. I’m sure at one time we were almost level with the onlookers standing on top of the Western breakwater. The time was 1900. We moored alongside another yacht and were visited by the customs who had heard from the harbour master that we were going to Boulogne. Since Rye was our next port of call they asked us to report there. Once ashore, Vic — who hadn’t eaten all day — felt hungry, the aroma of a fish and chip shop lured us in but poor old Vic could still feel the motion and dashed off half way through his meal. Vic turned in and I went for a pint alone. We both slept well that night Vic from exhaustion and me from the local brew.

Tuesday 0900 I went ashore to do some shopping and ring my wife, among the purchases were a tube of Marzine tablets which proved to be very successful. We cleared the harbour entrance at 1130 and set a course for Beachy Head. The wind was still westerly about force 3—4. Vic was feeling well and we both ate well on the way heating tomato soup on our spirit stove which is fitted into a biscuit tin in the bottom of the boat. Abeam of Fairlight we gazed ahead hoping to catch a glimpse of Dungeness lighthouse. Not bothering to set a compass course we began to sail across the bay keeping an eye lifted shorewards for Rye harbour. Soon Dungeness L.H. could be seen on the horizon. We sailed on altering course to close the shore. Our estimated time of arrival off Rye, 2000, came up and passed by but there was no sign of a break in the shore. Dungeness came nearer. Consulting the chart — Vic called it a map — we began to look for shore marks and gradually it dawned on us. We had sailed past Rye. When and how I do not know but clinging to a hope we might be mistaken we sailed on. But no, there was Dungeon Point on the port bow and still not a break in that beach. What a blow, I was dejected. What now? (to be continued)