by L.A. Gill

It wasn’t worth beating 5-6 miles back to Rye; Folkestone, the next port, was miles away and it was getting late. On we went, around the point, past the lighthouse and on into the calm waters on the lee side of the point.

And there was the answer: fishing boats, big ones, were hauled up on the shingle beach but this was steep-to so we sailed on looking for a shallow spot. Seeing two lads with a dinghy, we asked their advice. Motor winches were the answer, that’s how the fishing boats were hauled up. Unloading some of our gear, these two lads soon had Beachcomber on the end of their father’s block and tackle. Shoring her up with planks and fenders, we had the tent rigged and supper cooked in no time.

In case the customs at Rye were expecting us, we ‘phoned the coastguards to tell them where we were. If we were reported missing, there may have been a flap and perhaps a search organised. One of the lads’ father turned out to be the local lifeboat cox’n. He kindly lent us his ‘phone and made us very welcome. The customs later contacted us by telephone, thus we were cleared and free to proceed on the morrow, also we were thanked for reporting our arrival.

So, Beachcomber being on the beach, we turned in. Wednesday morning at daybreak, I peered out to see the tide right out and a large expanse of sand or mud exposed beneath the steep bank of shingle but even as I watched, it quickly began to be covered by the new flood. Vic and I had talked of spending a day ashore to dry out, we still had some wet gear between us. We planned to get away at high water early Thursday, just before dawn. Watching the water creep up that shingle back towards Beachcomber, I became restless; a quick walk to the ‘phone and I was soon talking to the control room of Silver City Airways at Lydd, quite near. “Wind,” they said, “W.S.W, about 15 knots.” “Vic,” says I running back, “we’re off.”

Reaching in a force 4 wind, we should make a good crossing. We launched Beachcomber, stowed the gear and were clear of the point by 12.30 p.m., a bit late to start off but we had 10 hours of daylight before us and we had had a good rest.

Whilst still at anchor off the beach, I had a look at the chart and set a compass course for Boulogne entrance, distant about 26 miles. The actual crossing was very enjoyable and more or less uneventful. The seas were still plenty big enough but not uncomfortable. We sailed with the centre plate right up so that Beachcomber slid over the beam seas rather than try to slice through them, thus we enjoyed a dry ride. This caused me to wonder if I had allowed enough for leeway. When the S.W. Colbert buoy, a feminine looking French buoy, came in sight, we found that our course took us within a few yards of it. It seemed to me that we were making too much easting. I preferred to arrive too far west of Boulogne, up wind of it, than arrive too far east and have to beat up wind to make the harbour. I altered course more to the south, the broad reach now became a close reach, the plate was lowered a little, spray began to come on board and the foredeck got wet for the first time that day. 16.30 hrs, we sighted land, visibility wasn’t so good but we took it to be Cape Gris Nez. In time we began to identify some of the shore marks with the aid of the chart. It soon became evident that we were two to three miles too far west.

Altering course, plate up, we began to run down to Boulogne breakwater, Beachcomber once again surfing. It was 19.30 hrs. when we passed between the piers, ‘Q’ signal flying.

In the lee of the railway station and quay, there was no wind, the glory of sailing into harbour had left us and we were now an insignificant rowing boat looking for a berth. Ahead, we spied a few tall masts, yachts tied up to an old steel barge. There we met ‘Tuggy’ and his crew who invited us to tie up alongside his yacht and, more important, invited us on board for a drink. We had arrived.

Five days we stayed in Boulogne, nobody took any notice of our yellow flag so we hauled it down and went ashore that evening. Friday we wandered over to the Passport Officer on the railway station to get our passports stamped.

Tied up to the barge at the end of the harbour, we were glad of our 5’ Prout to get us ashore, without it we should have been stranded. We must have presented a strange sight to the French as everyone seemed to stop whatever they were doing to watch us proceed from our berth to a landing stage tied up to the quay. There is a 25’ rise and fall in Boulogne Harbour at low water, it was quite some feat to climb up the vertical ladders which scaled the side of the quay and a bigger feat to come down after a few ‘vin blancs’. The bottom rungs at low water are covered with an oily slime collected from the polluted harbour waters. The first few mornings, our slumbers were disturbed by fishing boats berthing and unloading their catches onto the quay at any time from about 03.00 hrs. At about 06.00 hrs., one of us would row over in the Prout to bargain for a fish breakfast.

One morning, I discovered the Prout had gone. It had been banging against Beachcomber during the night and I had shifted it from aft to forward, hoping that the wind would keep it off — it did! I must have made a bad hitch. Tuggy sounded action stations and with one of his crew we began a search in his dinghy. We found it wind-rode between two lines of fishing boats.

Most mornings, I ventured down to the beach all ready to meet the glamorous French girls that I had been told about by a D.C.A. member who had previously made the trip but the wind blew hard, sand flew about, the sea was rough, no place for glamour. In the evenings, we ate out and once lost some money in the casino, once was enough.

We planned to leave Sunday or Monday, which would give us a week to get back. Every morning, I studied the weather map in The Times and Tuggy invited us to listen to the forecasts on his radio. There was a large high pressure system off the west coast of France, I had great hopes of it coming north to give us N or even N.E. winds but by Sunday it was blowing as hard as ever from the S.W. The fishing boats hadn’t been out since Friday.

Sunday morning, Tuggy left in his yacht with crew who were due back in the U.K. Within a couple of hours, they were back. With a lady on board and the possibility of a broken limb, they had decided it wasn’t worth it. The crew left that afternoon by British Railways steamer and a new crew joined the next day, by the same route. All this was making Vic concerned about the return trip. From a blank stare, he would suddenly pipe up, “I suppose we could throw our gear over the side to lighten the boat if she filled up.” “What,” says I, “chuck my gear in the drink? Not likely!”

Monday, I accepted an invitation from Tuggy to take a short trip in his yacht to have a look at the seas outside and, sure enough, they seemed to be dying down. As the midnight shipping forecast was good, we had a conference to decide on what state of the tide we should leave, Tuggy having offered us a tow out of the harbour.

Tuesday; wakey-wakey at 04.30, boiled eggs for breakfast. 05.30 we were on the end of a tow rope. We were off, on our way to the U.K. The tow was cast off just before we passed between the breakwaters. Waving cheerio to Tuggy, we hoisted the jib and hauled in the main sheet. The time was 06.00 hrs.

Clear of the harbour entrance, a compass course was set for Rye. We found at first that we couldn’t lay it so I decided to tack by the clock as our speed appeared to be constant but, after the first two boards, the wind freed as we cleared the land and, close hauled on the port tack, we could just lay on course. So, keeping an eye on the compass, plate right down, we sliced our way through and over the seas.

At 12.00 Boulogne was still in sight astern and the white cliffs of Dover could be seen reflecting in the sun on our starboard bow. Visibility was pretty good, we were about halfway across. At 15.30 we had Dungeness lighthouse abeam, after just about 9½ hours sailing, still close hauled. We were beating up against the tide, this time we found Rye Harbour entrance and began to enter between the piers at 18.00 hrs. There we discovered the ebb flowing out but, by keeping close to the western groin, we managed to creep slowly in. Abeam the yacht clubhouse and pub, we hailed a figure on a motor yacht. He pointed upstream, starb’d side, so up we went and tied up alongside another motor yacht. I slipped ashore in search of the Harbour Master, he advised us to shift our berth and said that he would ring the customs.

Still wet and salty, I rigged the Prout and nipped ashore to ‘phone my wife, who had been worried by the weather forecasts. She was delighted to hear that we were back, in one piece. She asked when I thought we would arrive in Chichester. “Oh, I dunno,” says I, “Wednesday, Newhaven… Thursday, Littlehampton… on Friday or Saturday, dear!” Oh foolish me, to predict a schedule with a sailing boat,. And Vic, who had kept me supplied with hot soup and numerous cups of tea on the way over, was glad to be back on solid England.

That evening, Vic and I went ashore to the local in Rye Harbour, the ‘William the Conqueror’ and there we met ‘Sally’, boatman, fisherman, asst. Harbour Master and fairy god father to yachtsman. “You the two Boulogne Harriers?” he asks. I nodded. “What club?” “Dinghy Cruising Association.” “Well I’m b————, we had two crazy b———— from your club here last year. What’s this, a regular run?” Quietly to himself almost, he let forth various unprintable words, quite uninhibited, expressing surprise to see us and giving us an account of the two previous D.C.A. visitors’ antics. “Went into Boulogne under bare poles they did, mad so-and-sos.” Sally proved to be a real friend and with him around in the local, we needed no further entertainment.

Wednesday morning, it was again blowing hard from the west but I was anxious to get going. Against Sally’s advice, we struggled out of the harbour against the flood, rowing, pulling ourselves along hand over hand against the piles of the groins and finally towing with a warp from ashore. It was near midday when we started beating towards Fairlight, we were reefed down, the tide with us. It was hard going, the seas were big and vicious, with hissing white tops. Large dollops of spray had us both soaking wet in no time, frequent bailing became necessary. 16.00 hrs., we were about a mile from Fairlight, with about 30 odd miles to Newhaven. The wind was increasing, there seemed only one thing to do. It had taken us 4 hours to get where we were, it took us just about 30 minutes to get back to Rye Harbour, surfing like mad. Sally was expecting us back. “Had a good sail?” he shouted. I was proper choca. We tied up, hung up our wet gear in the motor yacht alongside, with the owner’s permission via Sally and cooked some hot food. Ashore that night, whilst Vic turned in, I drowned my sorrows in the local. Sympathetic, Sally wouldn’t let me pay for one drink. “You stay here as long as you like, we’ll look after you.”

Thursday, the weather forecast was most unfavourable. A yachtsman on holiday gave us a lift into Rye town in his car. There I went to see Mr. Bourne of Rye Harbour Sailing Club, whose address Sally had given me. Both Vic and I were due on duty at the hospital on Sunday. We were considering having Beachcomber towed home on a trailer if the westerlies continued. Mr. Bourne was very helpful, as were all the other members of the R.H.S.C. that we contacted that afternoon. It was eventually arranged that I should ‘phone the next day to confirm a tow arranged for Saturday with two members of the local club. What a way to end a cruise. That evening, we went to the only cinema in Rye. The film was terrible, the brew in ‘The Conquerer’ was much better.

Friday morning during breakfast, we were hailed from ashore. “Heard the forecast? Winds S.E., going round to the north.” What now! I dashed ashore to the ‘phone box, my question was answered, the tow was off. It couldn’t be arranged for Saturday, perhaps next weekend? Back to Beachcomber, we hurriedly began stowing the tent and some of the gear, just managing to get out into the stream before the ebb set us on the bottom. Anchored at the harbour entrance, we completed the stowing, got the dinghy aboard, then Vic waded ashore with his kit bag on his back. He was leaving Beachcomber to go home by train, one of us had better turn up for duty on time. I had ideas of sailing on as far west as I could whilst the weather lasted.

It was near low water. I rowed through the breakers, set the sails, waved to Vic ashore and once in deeper water, squared off once again setting a course for Fairlight. The time was 12.30 hrs. The S.E. breeze lasted till mid afternoon. 2-3 miles offshore abeam Hastings, I witnessed a first class thunderstorm. I expected a stronger breeze but it died off completely. Ashore, I could see some smoke drifting out to sea, the northerly had arrived so I edged inshore and found myself under a rain cloud. Ah well! Fresh water was a change. There was some wind with the rain, some compensation. But the rain stopped; so did the wind. Shipping the oars, I began to row away from the land and, sure enough, after an hour or two rowing, there was some wind, my old friend, from the west! Sheeting in, I stowed the oars and kept sailing away from the land, starboard tack off Pevensey Bay, the time about 18.00. Way ahead I could see the Royal Sovereign Light Vessel. I wondered if they would give me a weather report.

With the ebb under me, Beachy Head gradually came nearer on the starboard side and the Royal Sovereign became more distinguishable ahead. Reckoning there would be more wind out there, I stayed on course until about a mile from the lightship. As it began to get dark, I realised that I was approaching the shipping lanes, the Royal Sovereign is about seven miles out, caution got the better of me. I forgot about the weather report, lee—oh and I was on the port tack heading toward Eastbourne.

The wind became weaker and weaker until I shipped oars and began rowing straight for Beachy Head. I can’t remember how long I rowed, I was too disappointed to think. After some time I became awake of a breeze, still from the west — starboard tack again, Beachcomber pointing out to sea.

At 22.30 it was dark. I put on two pullovers, a lifebelt and an oilskin also a pair of jeans over my shorts and a pair of socks on my feet. Beachy Head lighthouse was abeam, the lights of Eastbourne on the starboard quarter, a long line of them suggesting a promenade. Newhaven was seven miles away, only seven miles but I wasn’t to get there for another eleven hours. I sailed through the water but the flood was now running against me and the light breeze was due west. I tacked out to sea, I tacked back again, always arriving with Beachy Head lighthouse abeam and the lights of Eastbourne on the starboard quarter.

So off out to sea again where white lights, green and red lights were gliding by like a fairyland ghost procession. Port tack, back to the lighthouse, group flashing two every 10 seconds and never a yard did I make towards the west. Fed up with this, I shipped oars and began to row towards the occulting light of Newhaven and, Oh Joy! the lights of Eastbourne began to go out one by one as Beachy Head shut them from view. One by one, until only the lighthouse flashed, the ships paraded the horizon and the loom of the Royal Sovereign showed astern. It was then that I heard a swishing noise. Looking up, I felt the fear of panic, there, quite near were two white lights, one above the other and a red and a green, all showing bunched together. A ship, coming straight for me. My Aldis lamp was rigged ready. I snatched it up, aimed it at those coloured lights and let off a series of’ flashes, then showed a light onto my sails, flashed at him again and put a red disc over a steady beam, my port light. Slowly, so slowly his red light went out and the big black mass passed by. That shook me! No more rowing. I’ll keep a good look out. Hauling in the sheets I began sailing again and there was the group flashing two plus all the ruddy lights of Eastbourne again. During that brief encounter, the tide had carried me right back.

I gave up, the mainsail lowered, I got out the stove, a tin of tomato soup, corned beef, cheese and biscuits and there sitting in the bottom of the boat, drifting about in the dark, with the oars shipped just in case, I feasted. The time was 02.30 hrs.

The tide was due to start going my way at 05.00 hrs. At about 04.00 hrs., all sail was set and I began to sail out to sea. As the daylight came, so did the wind. Changing tack, I began to close Beachy Head at 04.45 hrs., the breeze began to freshen until at 05.00 I had to reef down. Sailing close inshore, once more one by one the lights of Eastbourne, which were still on, went out. The tide had turned, I was making headway.

By 06.00 the west wind was blowing hard, wind against tide I was mountaineering, up on the crests I had to ease the jib sheet, down in the troughs it would flap through lack of wind. Tack and tack, up and down, slowly the Seven Sisters went by and I, wearing nearly all my gear, got wetter and wetter. Spray, bucketsful, came straight at me. Although I had an oilskin on, I was soaked. Fearing that my kitbag containing blankets would get wet from the water careering about inside the boat, I heaved to for a very short while to bail out. What a hectic ten minutes that was, being tossed about like a cork. Slowly I made way along the coast, until climbing over those three great sentinel seas that we had met on the outward journey, I was under the lee of the breakwater, Newhaven Harbour. What a relief but still great gusts of wind spilled over the wall and tried to lay us over. Soon, Pier 9, up tent and off the wet clothes. The time was 09.30, the day Saturday, I had a boat full of wet gear and due on duty Sunday, tomorrow.

There was one sensible thing to do. Reluctantly I left poor old Beachcomber in the care of the local boat yard, packed my wet gear and caught the train home.

During the following week, whilst on duty at the hospital and whilst at home, my eyes were constantly gazing out of the window. My main concern was the weather. I managed to wangle the weekend off. I had great hopes of going to Newhaven to sail Beachcomber home.

The anticyclone off the west coast of France that I had been watching whilst in Boulogne was beginning to move northeast but on the Atlantic chart, the procession of fronts continued bringing west winds and rain. By Friday, the high pressure system was sausage shaped in northern France. If only it would come north — but not a hope. Saturday dawned, I didn’t travel to Newhaven, I mooched around the house listening to that westerly wind. Force 6-7 the B.B.C. had forecast, even the Britannia was held up and the rain fell in torrents all day long.

It was costing me 10/— a week to keep Beachcomber in Newhaven, I had to make a decision, whether to get her towed home by road, or chance getting a day off when the weather would be kind enough to enable me to finish the trip by sea. I was thoroughly browned off. I could visualise my boat being at Newhaven for the rest of the season. In this mood I got on the ‘phone and arranged the tow. I ‘phoned Newhaven to tell them that I wouldn’t be coming after all, would they get Beachcomber up on the hard and, Oh Yes, send me an account. Sunday, the next day, dawned. The wind had dropped, it was almost calm, the sun shone, the barometer started to rise. The anticyclone was knocking on the door. By Wednesday my mind was in a state of indecision, the wind was now right round to the east and blowing force 2-3 during the day. Friday was to be my day off. Beachcomber was still at Newhaven. Thursday morning I rang the R.A.F. station at Tangmere and got onto the Met. office. They promised me a 15 knot east wind on Friday and Saturday.

My mind was now made up. I rang the yard to cancel the tow, a voice told me that the ‘guv’ner’ was at his home. No, he wasn’t on the ‘phone there. Feeling quite excited I jumped on my bike and began peddling furiously towards Bosham. I could take Saturday off too, to hell with work, an easterly force 4 couldn’t be missed. I’ll easily sail her home. As I tore round the corner, I saw a boat outside the ‘guv’ner’s’ house. I didn’t have to look close, there she was, perched up on a trailer, like a fish out of water. “We collected yesterday,” the ‘guv’ner’ said. “I’ll bring it round Cut Mill this afternoon.” So that was that.

It was good to see the old boat again, I spent Friday giving the bottom a fresh coat of anti-fouling and generally cleared her up. Stepped the mast, put her out on her mooring and watched as she jerked at her chain.

Roll on the next cruise.