The first signs of autumn were appearing in the Blackwater Estuary. I had been lucky enough to secure a year's course at an agricultural institute in Norfolk, on the River Bure opposite Horning, and planned to take my beloved boat with me. She was a vintage half decker, sixteen feet long, gunter and equipped with sufficient gear to make her into a reasonable cruiser for anyone with a spartan outlook on life. She wasn't as sound as some boats, and showed up poorly against the more modern Bermudian skimming dishes, but was very seaworthy, and during the summer I had acquired tremendous confidence in her ability to come through comparatively rough weather.

I allowed myself a week for the trip and set sail on Saturday lst. October. I ran down with the tide past Osea and met Corrie off Steeple Stone - I had left my blankets and duffle coat aboard her when sailing in her in the West Mersea - Ostend race the previous weekend. I left them at 1709 hours and made my way down to Osea Pier, where I had to anchor as the dying breeze was no longer strong enough to carry me over the growing flood. At 1900 hours there wasn't the faintest sign of a breeze, so I cancelled the night trip and had a good night's sleep. Zephyr had a tent of barrage balloon material that fitted over the boom giving just enough room to sit upright on the centre thwart. Forward of this was a pipe cot running starboard side of the mast. During the day the tent folded down on top of this to keep it dry. Most of the odds and ends of kit were stored in two large steel boxes, one each side of the dagger plate case - later they were moved aft, as the boat sails better with the weight aft and less spray comes over the bow. I had a pair of oars lashed to the bowsprit running back to the starboard shrouds, and the anchor was carried on the foredeck hooked round the samson post on top of the warp.

Sunday morning looked fine and clear. I sailed at 0815 hours over the last of the flood. I cut across the mud flats to Thirslett Creek, and by the time I passed Tollesbury pier at 1000 hours the Parita Bay, an old merchantman moored in midstream, was beginning to swing with the ebb. It was a very hot day and I had serious thoughts of sunstroke. The wind couldn't make up its mind and at times the foresail would fill, only to sag back again in the lee of the mainsail. I tried bearing it out with the boathook, but it wouldn't stand properly as it is rather a heavy sail. Sales Point drew abeam at 1110 hours, and the breeze became steadier. Bonch Read buoy abeam at 1205 hours - everywhere looked perfect. Essex has many critics, but few of them have sailed the coast thoroughly. I am no stranger to natural beauty, but the scene off Mersea Island that morning will live in my memory for a long time. Progress was poor, for it was 1350 hours when I reached Clacton Pier, but a fine breeze was emerging from the southwest and Zephyr began to roll along.

The tide turned before I reached Walton but she still made fine progress over the flood, and I began to wonder if I should have to reef. She had only single shrouds and I was always very cautious when running. Dovercourt Bay opened out to the west and I set the bows on the pylons behind Woodbridge haven. Felixstowe pier seemed to take a long time to pass onto the quarter, and I began to think of the night journey. The breeze looked very settled and I decided to press on. Accordingly I picked out the light on Orford Ness as a mark. It was getting dusk now and the coast grew dim. A light shone out temptingly from the mouth of the Ore. My original two pound piece of fruit cake was getting rather small, so I halved it to leave a bit for midnight. It is out of the question to cook anything at all under way, so I had a tin of Scotch broth, cold. I put on all the sweaters I had, topped them with a duffle coat, and wore an army gas cape to keep out the dew. There were no sailing lights, but I had a torch ready to shine on the sails, and in any case I kept close in to the shore, safe from steamers (famous last words?). The moon came out of the sea, and there was no dew. The wind was easier now, but still sufficient to keep her rolling along. I settled back on the stern bench and let my thoughts meander. Suddenly a large red and white striped buoy loomed out of the night on the port bow. It seemed to tower above me, and for several seconds I wondered what the devil it could be. I sailed in rather close to the ness, but seemed to take a very long time to pass it. The tides must run very strongly here. It was difficult to estimate the distance to the shore, but the noise of the breaking waves on the beach was very plain, far too plain for my liking so I eased off a little, steering north by a pocket hand bearing compass.

The lights of Aldeburgh drew abeam at 2245 hours, and I picked out a red light that bore approximately north. I assumed it to be Southwold, and made good progress towards it. The dim framework of the harbour entrance at Southwold identified itself at 0045 hours and I steered by the compass again, until I picked out a very bright light flashing due north - obviously Lowestoft. The tide was in my favour and I made very good progress. Gradually a maze of lights opened up ahead of me. An orange and blue light seemed to stand out from the rest, and between these I found the harbour entrance. Once through the pier heads I found an awful stench of fish and the steady throb on an engine somewhere in the distance. There was no sign of any activity and I didn't fancy mooring in such a place. The tide was still ebbing, so I had a quick glance at the map and decided to push on to Yarmouth. This journey took rather longer than I expected. Here again I found a maze of lights, but this time no answer offered itself. My eyes were beginning to play tricks and I seemed to see shoals and mudbanks all over the place. I sailed in on one light but found myself in shallow water, so I anchored and found it had taken me twenty one hours for the sixty five mile passage. In a few minutes I was sound asleep.

It was daylight when I woke, with clouds racing overhead. The entrance to the harbour was five hundred yards away to the north - the light on which I had steered must have been on the top of Gorlestone Cliffs. Up sails and into harbour. The tide soon carried me on to the first bridge, and I rounded up to the jetty to moor while I took the mast down. As the tide swept us under the bridges I maintained steerage way with one oar as I stood on the stern bench steering with my leg. The clouds rolled away and the sun shone once again. Yarmouth looked very uncomfortable, so I pressed on to Stokesby. This meant a long beat, but it was good to be on the broads again. I moored up at 1315 hours and hurried ashore for some bread then soon settled down to sleep the clock round. It was very misty next morning but the blue of the sky was visible overhead. The tide was flooding so I left the tent erected and padded along gondola fashion, making steady progress to Accle bridge where I had to lower the mast again. The breeze grew as the sun rose higher; and by the time I tacked past St. Bennets Abbey it was a really exhilarating day for sailing. The last few miles were very trying, as the banks are wooded and the breeze blew round the round in circles, or so it seemed to me. It was just after 1500 hours when I reached Horning.

So ended my biggest trip so far. It had seemed a big job, but in actual fact was one of the driest open water trips I have made. I was certainly lucky with the weather, but then - nothing ventured, nothing gained.