Having prepared and talked of this cruise in the second week of July throughout the winter months, we had adequate preparations made by the start. As soon as I stepped out of my work train on Friday, the 8th, we had Cousteau III shored, scrubbed, and stores replenished. At 7.30 p.m. she took the water and was anchored a few yards off the club slip for final effects to be brought aboard. The crew amounted to three, Dermot, William, and myself, not forgetting our sea-going tender, a decrepit looking 13-foot canoe to be towed throughout the cruise.

At 7.50 up anchor and course set for Donaghadee across Belfast Lough. The visibility was good with a moderate sea enabling us to attend to our gear. William lashed the Primus and gimbals with the hurricane lamp at the mast step out of harm’s way while Dermot and I attended to packing the stern locker with the sleeping bags, charts and sailing instruction handbooks. With the spinnaker set rather elaborately on an oar we didn’t take long to reach Donaghadee sound, just before daylight was fading. On a broad reach through the sound, the tide with us, we were being slowly edged over onto Copeland Island, until we suddenly heard breakers not far off. These turned out to be a large shoal, giving us cause to make the harbour without any more pottering about.

On entering the harbour there was not much to see, but with slow and sure fending off we found a berth space where we anchored, and by paddling a warp ashore secured her stern to a bollard on the quay.

For the next two days the weather was very dirty, and only once did we attempt to set out, only to have to return reefed down in the company of an Albert-Strange designed yawl, Mist. We spent these two days photographing the numerous fine cruising boats lying alongside us. Disaster nearly overtook us as far as cooking was concerned, due to a rusty Primus pricker clogging the jet. A hardwareman-cum-blacksmith came to our aid.

After we had been harbour-bound for two days the third, a Monday, looked promising and we immediately set sail southwards. The wind strength and direction could not have been better, with the sun shining brightly. We took advantage of this sun by sunbathing, but one thing we found was that no sooner had we finished a meal than we were preparing for another. If only we could do without food and generate energy from the sun on a day like this!

Not being acquainted with this coastline, we quickly decided to photograph Cousteau III from the canoe, and start keeping a strict watch for reefs; but that didn’t seem to do the trick as we abruptly stopped, on hitting something. Dermot, who was watching, caught so surprisingly, fell overboard. After this, on the advice of Irish Cruising Sailing Directions we took Skulmartin Light Vessel on our starboard, keeping well clear of any reefs. We made a fix on Skulmartin Rock, which the sailing directions stated was marked by a perch, its position being three miles north of Burial Island and one mile offshore.

At 5.40 we noticed several fishing smacks heading out to the fishing grounds, in line ahead. This suggested to us that Portavogie Harbour was in close proximity. As long as we kept well out until abreast of the harbour we knew we would be in a safely dredged channel eighty feet wide. The harbour is one of the busiest fishing ports on our coast, offering exceptionally good shelter for its forty fishing smacks.

We kept a careful eye open on entering, because we had heard of these boys not giving much consideration to yachtsmen, but we were later proved wrong. It was hard to choose a safe berth, as every time we secured her someone would advise us to move elsewhere, as such and such a fishing boat would be returning at a certain early hour of the morning. We moved in the end to a spot not liable to be disturbed, so we thought. It was near the beach at the foot of the slipway, but apparently during the night a smack had been launched, our warps being slackened, and the boat moved and returned again, all while we slept. This, I think, proves how careful these men are, and so thoughtful of not wakening us.

Every port we called at, even though only thirty to forty miles from our own territory, customs men appeared asking our destination, our addresses, boat statistics, and numerous other tedious questions. The cause, we realised, was because we were nearing the border between Northern Ireland and Eire, and, as everybody knows, friction is often experienced and British troops are called in. We could I suppose, have been smuggling watches from Dublin, or maybe even a cow.

We were fortunate in procuring a hefty length of sisal rope for our mainsheets at a modest fee of five shillings.

It was Tuesday, so we thought we had better press on for Ardglass, this being another fishing district, known for its Ardglass herrings. On approaching Strangford mouth at its narrows, a bad spot known well by yachtsmen for its swift seven knot stream running six hours each way with little slack, we expected to experience some effect, but found thankfully that nothing materialised, obviously because we were not entering the narrows but just crossing the mouth. After a lunch of spaghetti bolognaise, when the wind dropped we paddled over to Gun’s Island, anchored and canoed ashore for a swim and a stroll over the island. It was a grand view from the top of the island to see the radar scanners active on Strangford peninsula. After the dip it was back to paddling to reach Ardglass that evening. We hadn’t paddled long until the wind came up and saw us to our next destination, which was only 2¾ miles north-east of Ardglass.

We had only the intention of spending a couple of hours supplementing our stores and setting out again for our final southerly destination, Newcastle, as the evening weather looked more settled for a night sail. This little town looked a bit more fetching than Portavogie, but having decided to continue that evening we left at 20.15 hours. From Ardglass to Newcastle there is only a distance of 13 miles, which we hoped to cover by the early hours of the morning. After rounding St. John’s Point lighthouse there was only a ten-mile wide bay with an evil reputation for its nasty water, its coastline consisting only of dreaded sandhills, containing a sole army camp. Dermot agreed to take the first watch, with weather conditions most comforting. St. John’s Point came up rather swiftly, and across the bay we could see the four sets of town lights, namely Kilkeel, Annalong, Newcastle and Dundrum.

It was only twenty minutes after rounding St. John’s Point that we began to experience the weather which was to give us cause for anxiety during the next seven hours. Water poured down the mast through the deck step, and also in trickles through the cabin top joints, soaking ourselves and every possible solitary dry article aboard. A chemical analysis might have proved that a large percentage of the bilge water was paraffin and meths, as the stove, lamp, and the contents of a meths bottle were all swilling among the bilge water with our sleeping gear. At the halfway stage across the bay it was all hands on deck to take in the first reef of the night’s ordeal, but shortly after, on approaching the shores at the foot of the Mourne Mountains, the wind increased, necessitating a second reef. This mountain range has Ireland’s largest mountain, Slieve Donard, which would stand out a fine sight on any night but this one.

We found ourselves in a rather amusing situation on discovering Cousteau III would not go about, and would get “in stays”. This we accounted for by the fact that, as we reefed the main, the jib remained unaltered simply because it would not reef, and we hadn’t a smaller jib. For going about we had to do intentional gybes, which were highly dangerous. In the end William suggested letting her sail herself hove-to; this we did by backing the jib and leaving the helm. This seemed the solution, as it was out of the question to try and beat up and find the harbour in this weather, and as we were several miles down past Newcastle. Cousteau III was now pointing within a few points of St John’s Point, close by our old course from that very point. Even now sleep was impossible, life-belts had been donned for the first time in our cruising experience, and we might have expected the Newcastle lifeboat out to stand by at least.

The obedience of Cousteau III while hove-to eased our minds to a certain extent eventually, and only when dawn appeared just within a couple of miles of Dundrum Strand did we climb out, tend her sheets, and re-set our course for Newcastle. Tired, wet and depressed as we were, we had a strenuous beat for one and a half hours to the harbour yet ahead of us. Not quite having a chart to Newcastle, we could not find the harbour for a while until quite close.

At 6.35 we entered the harbour to find a disgusting jobble. On securing at the quay we let her drift out into the harbour, and anchored. We were very kindly helped out when someone offered to dry our sleeping bags and clothes.

After a meal ashore we returned to find the tide had ebbed considerably, and was going to leave Cousteau III high and dry. We had not predicted this, as we thought there would be some water somewhere at low tide. We were advised by the lifeboatmen, who were, by the way, fishermen, to move Cousteau III alongside the quay and secure her at highest tide just touching the sea-bed. We were not sure how to secure her in this way, as she rejected by rocking every time we boarded her. It was later learned that we should have used the main halyard, securing one end to a bollard ashore while suspending a 56 lb weight on the other end. As the tide rises and falls, the halyard securing the weight will run freely through the sheave with the tidal movement.

The fishing fraternity could not believe we had come through the ill weather safely, and, to cap it all, a few hours after we departed, homebound, the weather deteriorated again.

We spent three days in all ashore at Newcastle, there being nowhere for single day cruises of interest to visit.

We headed home from Newcastle on Saturday at midday, hoping to take advantage of the ebb tide out of the North Channel from the Irish Sea. There was a gentle breeze which took us across Dundrum Bay to within two miles of St. John’s Point. It then died away, leaving us to paddle round a headland to a quiet little bay, whose name we found to be Rossglass. We anchored here for the night, having been guided in by a rector paddling in the bay. The rector most obligingly drove us into Ardglass to purchase stores and visit the local. In the morning the rector would accept nothing for milk we asked for.

We slipped anchor at 3.15 in a good breeze which freshened on rounding St. John’s. With the wind dead ahead we had a sixteen mile beat to Portavogie around a treacherous coast of broken reefs. We even encountered a disused lighthouse which was no more help than an unmarked reef or rock. It was during this long beat to Portavogie that we realized how slow and helpless a sailing craft was against tide and wind. Cousteau III, on closing on Portavogie, was pacing herself against a larger craft obviously making for the same destination, until our friend slowly began to leave us. We were rather worried about this until it was learned that the other boat had started her engine, thinking how hopeless it was. I hope I don’t fall into this belief and invest in a motor yacht. If I did I would only use the engine in a case of life and death, or to get out of a dreadful calm. I believe a sailor should be able to get out of any predicament without an engine if he has any endurance.

We entered Portavogie as usual at a most precarious speed, even to the possibility of endangering any fishing boat liable to come out. I am sorry to say I had to leave Portavogie by bus for work in the morning, leaving William and Dermot to return Cousteau III successfully to her permanent moorings at Whitehead without incident.

This was an experimental but as thoroughly successful a cruise of any distance or duration as we have yet experienced. It has taught us a lot, but never enough.