I was working in Bristol for a couple of months and during my spare time I visited all the local creeks and moorings to see if there was a chance of any local sailing. I was struck by the complete absence of the cruising type of dinghy - racing dinghies on the river and heavy built cruising yachts in the basin but nothing in between. Eventually I found one at Pill, three miles up the Avon from Avonmouth. She was a solid built 14 foot clinker ex-ship’s dinghy with a small foredeck and rigged as an undercanvassed gaff sloop.

When I first saw her she was pounding against a wall with the owner enmeshed in a mass of ropes and sails frantically scanning through a copy of Peter Heaton’s “Sailing”. Eventually he gave up and came ashore. Over a pint of beer I introduced myself. He was only too keen to have a crew who knew something about sailing and we settled for a cruise to Deny’s Island (3 miles off Avonmouth) on the following Sunday. The Sunday morning dawned bright with a force 5 westerly. We had slept aboard a friend’s boat in order to catch the tide as high water was 0700 hrs and a 45 ft. tide ebbs “rather fast”. We tried a reef in and got underway armed with a chart of the Bristol Channel giving the portion Aust to English Welsh Lightship. I was looking forward to my first trip in the Bristol Channel.

We roared out of the Avon with an ever increasing ebb under us and bore away for Deny’s Island. We were doing close on five knots but it quickly became apparent that we were no match for the beam tide. Well it was good sailing so we close hauled, came about and decided to go to Clevedon instead. It soon became apparent we wouldn’t make Clevedon either - with a six knot tide under us, well we’d go to Weston Super Mare. We tacked again and stood out into the channel. The shore was slipping past at a cracking pace. A lightship hove into sight. “E-W Grounds” before we knew it we had been swept off our chart.

That’s when the trouble started. Ahead of us a mass of white water suddenly appeared. We tried to run but were swept into it just the same. I dropped the main just before we hit it. Suddenly we were roaring down the face of monster waves with water and breakers pouring in everywhere. The next few minutes passed like hours. Dick bailed like fury with a bucket while I put everything I knew into stopping the boat from broaching. Eventually we emerged, half full of water and very badly shaken. We were nearer the Welsh shore by now. Dick bailed her dry and we hoisted the reefed main again and headed for the Welsh shore.

Without warning large red banks of sand and mud started to heave themselves out of the water. Which way to go? We were cut off behind, there was a bank ahead and the plate was beginning to rumble. The water was like liquid mud, it was impossible to tell shallows from channels. We tried to follow the ebb. We sailed with board up, we rowed, we braved the quicksands and pushed, we struggled, we finally made it, we were in a channel! The rate at which a 45 ft. tide drops has to be seen to be believed.

By now the banks had grown to monster proportions and it was impossible to see over them. They were soft and had a reputation for quicksand, neither of us fancied climbing them to get a rough position so we sailed on down the channel. At last, rounding a bend we saw signs of habitation and a pier. The pier was high and dry but we managed to beach the boat nearby and wade ashore. It was midday and time for a drink. The pubs were closed so it must be Wales. We hailed a native who confirmed that we were indeed at Penarth. He took us to his leader at the Penarth Y.C. who quite obviously disbelieved that we had come from Bristol, but we did get a drink.

The twenty mile trip back on the flood took less than three hours. As Dick said in the bar later “Is sailing always like this?”.

So now, when you see me struggling aboard with a hold-all jammed full of tide atlases, charts and pilot books you know why.

(Members are invited to tell of experiences which have been salutary, though perhaps amusing In retrospect.)