To me, a cruise outside the Solent is "extensive'', and with a few seven day cruises to my experience my 1959 plan included that far away anchorage of Lulworth. After overlanding to the Hamble, my crew and I were under way on the evening ebb. Outside it seemed surprisingly rough for such a nice evening, and with all the time in the world, we decided to put back to the river for our first night.

The loan of a buoy off the hard at Hamble cost us half-a-crown, financially a disastrous start to any cruise, but after “tanking up” on the local brew we let go about the mid of our second day, still thinking we could make progress to the West.

The sky was clear except for the occasional large cloud, which, to us novices, suggested oilskins at the ready. Neither of us understood what force of wind a cloud could push before it, and a little beyond Calshot point, we found ourselves in the worst spot of trouble we had experienced so far. The wind that we had enjoyed on our beam down Southampton Water suddenly increased, and the sea became most unfriendly. Our little ship, heavily laden with "bare necessity", was moving too fast to be comfortable, and the shelter of Cowes was far away. Although, on reflection, I think a mistake, it seemed sensible at the time to put back. Within minutes we realised that this squall was funnelling out of Southampton Water, and that any headway to the North was impossible. By now we were prepared to accept any course on which she would ride most comfortably, and this was to the East.

My most vivid memory, during the next half hour, is of coming so close to the Cowes ferry that we were forced to heave to, with everything flapping about our ears, and water everywhere. I could plainly see, without taking my eyes off the rigging, a little group of ferry passengers anxiously waiting to witness our end. How many of' them were sympathetic and how many thought we were complete fools, I had not time to estimate but 1 will admit to asking myself why I exchanged the comfort of my home for this, which I called my "holiday”.

Water sloshing about inside a boat is, I believe, demoralising, and since I was crewing at the time, bailing was my responsibility. The difficulty was, that from my perch high on the side deck, I would not reach the opposite bilge, and nothing would induce me to move my eleven stone to the other side.

In our kit we carry an old civilian respirator bag, made of canvas with a drawstring round the top and a long webbing shoulder strap. While afloat, we stuff garbage in this and take it ashore for emptying. I found that by holding the strap and throwing the bag into the bilge, the bag could be filled with water and retrieved, full of that unwelcome green stuff. This unorthodox method of bailing kept me in the best position, my mind occupied, and the bilge water at a reasonable level.

Slowly we realised that we were winning. True, we had not intended sailing this course, but at least we were not completely out of control. When the time came to consider a revised plan, I remembered an inlet on the chart at the mouth of the River Meon. We felt sure that we could make this, but what shelter it afforded or what hazards lay in wait we had no idea. All that we knew was that it was closer than Portsmouth, and we were very wet, so the Meon it was.

Finding this welcome little creek short of water we got under the lee of its tiny peninsula and dropped the hook for a mug of tea, and a silent thanksgiving. We had survived our toughest battle to date and dinghy cruising became our favourite sport once more.

At high water we paddled in, little knowing that we were about to learn another lesson. The only space available was at the end of this pocket harbour, and we were to take the mud that night knowing that we would be awake by the morning high to get off. Why didn't someone toll us that the morning high is not always as high as the evening? Imagine our surprise when we found ourselves still aground when the tide began to ebb. Much as we appreciated the welcome given to us by Hill Head, the idea of the whole day on their mud did not appeal, so with as determined an effort as one can make before breakfast, she was dragged through the mud to the water, and floated down to the pool before taking our meal.

It was now two days since we first left the Harnble and still less than five miles away, so it was good to find conditions fair in the Solent, and by evening had sailed up the Medina and borrowed a mooring outside the Folly Inn.

Our hopes of getting to the West lasted until we rounded Egypt Point on our fourth day. The wind was increasing and the tide, whilst in our favour, was against the wind. The Solent was in large lumps and pushing our little yawl into this proved too much. So we slipped back into Cowes for a lazy lunch hoping the change in tide would improve our chances.

In the afternoon we were able to make a long tack to the NE, but after reckoning with a foul tide we could not even reach the Beaulieu River. Although disheartened at having to turn, we enjoyed sailing back on the reverse course. With so little difference between our speed and that of the waves, she sat high on the crests for long periods, and still exhilarated by this run, we sailed up Kings Quay.

We had heard much of this haven, but we were to spend a very rough night, with the wind funnelling through the valley and the slow revelation of a large and ugly rock directly beneath our stern as we were lowered violently onto the bed of the river. Whether it was the weather or the fact that we failed in our navigation through the woods to a pub, I do not know but I am sure that we shall never use Kings Quay again unless we are in need of shelter.

For the next few days, the wind blew hard, and having satisfied our appetite for battling against it, we decided to sail round to Wootton, where we laid on that lovely little beach until Saturday, the morning of the Round-the-Island Race. This was our first opportunity to sail westward, and in light air we reached Yarmouth without enough wind to carry us into harbour. At one stage we were forced to take to the oars to clear the way of the incoming ferry. It was one of those moments when I wish we had an outboard.

A cruising dinghy seems out of place in Yarmouth, so we dropped the stick and went above the bridge where, instead of mooring four abreast, we had the river to ourselves.

Never having sailed through the Needles, and having heard so much about going out sideways, we were both curious and determined. The hour of slack water was chosen, and we were almost disappointed to find that the only trouble was insufficient wind to keep her under way. That afternoon we drifted across Christchurch bay in blazing sunshine, and when the water started to pour out from Mudeford, we were still outside. To spend our last night at my favourite club at Christchurch, we had to wade, and tow her into the harbour. Inside, we brewed tea and then set sail for the river.

The chances of wind after such a hot day seemed slight, yet within half an hour it was blowing a fair force right in our teeth. Hurriedly the canvas was shortened, and every yard that shallow river proved a battle, with our centreboard scraping the bottom. Ruffled, but relieved, we reached the club, its waters crowded with boats, between which was one solitary buoy. From the balcony we were being watched by the Commodore himself and a few members. The stage was set for a "clanger” and when we missed the buoy, that "clanger'' was “dropped”. It seemed an age that we sat there, without way, everything flapping and boats moored on both sides. Had I thought to lift the plate, we might have drifted out, but alas, she fell away to the wind and leapt forward like a greyhound.

Thankfully we got our bow clear, but the noise of a glancing blow between our timbers and the stem of another boat seemed to rock the clubhouse. If I had over wished that the bottom would fall out of my boat, it was then. There was no alternative but to get that buoy, and then face the music. Our second attempt was successful, and when the coracle was assembled I rowed ashore, my crew apparently quite content to stay aboard and tidy the ship. Nervously I crossed the lawn, and climbed the steps to the balcony, where, to my relief, I was asked to have a drink; then they invited me to have a drink ……. and when that was finished, it was suggested that I should have another drink. I had just forgotten about the varnish that had been removed, when someone asked if my crew was teetotal. With shame, I admitted that I had completely forgotten him; I also explained that he could not get ashore because I had the coracle. Hurriedly 1 downed my beer only to find that I was not allowed to fetch him. A member put off in the club dinghy, and brought my crew ashore to join the party.

That was the extent of our "extensive" cruise. Lulworth is still an ambition, and Christchurch is still my favourite club.