When I set out to sail the south coast in holiday stages I was content to save the tidal phenomenon of Portland Bill until I had more experience, but instead of the problem growing smaller as I completed the rest of the passages from Chichester to Helford it became bigger until I felt a fear of this notorious area.

One winter night, having dined too well, I offered my boat to a friend who was planning a holiday in Tor Bay; he accepted and said, “How will you get her there?” He laughed when I replied, “I’ll sail her there,” and we both staggered to bed. It was not until morning that I realised I had to make an attempt.

The date was the end of May and westerly tides were late afternoon. I had never sailed at night and knew I would have to, so decided to enlist a crew. The idea appealed to my son-in-law — young, strong and with more enthusiasm than experience. I rigged a light over my compass, loaded an old canvas sheet to wrap a sleeping body in and trailed to Christchurch the Friday evening before the Spring Holiday weekend. We slept that night aboard my old fourteen foot Jady Lane in the comfort to which she has made me accustomed; my rest was only disturbed by the constant thoughts of our chances of covering that distance against prevailing westerlies.

Saturday morning we shopped and loaded stores. The forecast was light but not easterly. We let go about noon and had an easy reach out to Swanage. Rounding Anvil Point proved difficult: I have been in trouble about here before. On this evening the air was lighter than the race and twice she turned right round completely out of my control. The sky was dark and uninspiring and I had sailed about my usual distance for a day. I am a short haul expert, and the thought of facing St. Albans at twilight did not excite me. I struggled on, on a sou’westerly course, knowing that it was not the way to Portland, but I wanted to get clear of that uncomfortable area before making any vital decision. Once clear we picked up the westerly tide and with all sheets hard in we moved slowly towards St. Albans Head. It was 1800h; we opened the bar, uplifted our morale and agreed to “press on”. The inside passage at St. Albans proved easy and before dark we were off Kimmeridge. Our plan was Weymouth, but Portland slows the tides in this bay and we were heading what little wind there was. Progress grew so slow that Worbarrow Head, which was just visible, seemed to stay on our starboard beam for hours. Still ten miles from Weymouth, we decided to settle for Lulworth, the only trouble was how to find it. I have had difficulty in daylight, and with no lights it is strictly for the locals. My fear was mistaking the entrance and sailing into a gap in the cliff. However, when we did reach the Cove the lights of the tiny village did mark the opening and with great caution and a powerful torch we crept into that extraordinary bowl in the Dorset chalk. Tired but content we ate well and slept soundly. Lulworth is no place for a dinghy in a southerly swell but on that night it was all peace except for the tinkling shingle playing at the water’s edge.

The hour to round Portland on Sunday was 1500. We took a short walk up Lulworth village and we let go about noon. It was a bright day with a fresh westerly and the chances of seeing Chesil Bank that day seemed slight. With Weymouth as our second choice we made for the Bill. The first hour got us well off shore but not far to the west; once we started to tack we were on course but progress became slow and the wind freshened to five. We were close to Portland, but knew the weather was now too heavy to make an attempt, so we gave up and sailed back for a look inside Portland Harbour. The low bank of the west side gave no protection from the wind then sweeping across Lyme Bay, and we were glad to be close to shelter. After a few wet tacks across the harbour in a very lively air we sailed into Weymouth and found a little space between two big boats to tie alongside the north wall. In the shelter of the town the sun was warm and we lazed a few hours before converting our open boat to a covered cabin for supper and sleep. The Spring Holiday dawned bright and the forecast was light sou’westerly. There was no hurry because 1500 was the time for the dreaded Bill, so we lingered in our sleeping bags and took a late breakfast. When I wandered up town to shop I telephoned the Coast Guard who helpfully confirmed my timing and assured me the day was alright. We prepared our ship and sailed down the river about an hour after noon. The sun was encouraging but the wind too southerly to make the first leg out to the Bill easy. After many tacks we were still a couple of miles from the corner and the recommended hour of 1500 was at hand. Anxious to take it at its best I started the Seagull and motored straight into the wind until, at last, we were over the ledge and able to sail through the inside passage. The angry white spray from the race roared offshore but close in the sea was disturbed but not difficult. I was surprised and a little deflated to find the local fishermen out there in rowing boats tending their lobster pots. We kept hard to the coast, then headed into West Bay for afternoon tea and to take our big decision.

Bridport was now 16 miles: to sail there would have been easy and we could possibly arrive before dark. The sky had overcast but a trial tack due west showed that this direction was also possible if close hauled so Tor Bay was ON! Selfishly I picked the 2000 to midnight watch because I wanted to sail her through the twilight and I wanted to be awake at dawn. My crew complained, but accepted my decision, so I headed him for the Lyme Bay buoy and crawled as far as I could under my coracle, which I carry upside down over the forward half of the cockpit, and attempted sleep. It was uncomfortable, I was cold and began to realise how difficult rest in a cruising dinghy can be while under way. I would have liked to have crept into my sleeping bag but had previously resolved never to remove my bed from its waterproof container if there was a chance of getting it wet. About an hour before my watch I came up to stretch my stiff limbs and prepare some supper before taking the tiller. Crew had done a fine job, Jady Lane was in her glory with Genoa and all set well and dead on course. Before he retired to the floor boards we passed within a few yards of the Lyme Bay buoy eighteen miles out from Portland and fourteen miles off shore. Crew’s last words as I helped him wrap a canvas sheet around himself in an attempt to keep him warm were “Keep the old girl going; don’t you dare reduce the sail!” But I knew she was sailing too hard for what I call comfort, and when he was asleep I quietly closed the rigger sail to lighten the helm and settled myself for my first night at sea. During the last ten years I have shamelessly neglected my family and my business to devote my thought and time to rigging, testing, scrapping and re-designing every aid or method my brain would conceive to perfect single-handed sailing. I do not know if it was the dark or the fatigue or both but the night brought me new problems. It was not the starlit night I had hoped for; it was dark and it rained a little. This caused me to wear oil skins over all the other heavy clothes that I had, which made movement difficult. I kept to my “may west” which avoided the necessity of a lifeline, yet still the cockpit became an appalling mess of ropes, spilt coffee and the long legs of my crew. In daylight I had learned to lash the tiller in one direction only so that she would sail herself but I could not make this work in the dark, possibly because I was anxious to keep hard to the wind, and self sail I can only achieve by giving away a few degrees. Back near the Bill I had realised the compass, which I had mounted neatly under a torch bulb, was reading wrongly. Hurriedly I had moved it to another position and tried to re-rig the light but the new arrangement was imperfect. Later I found that my transistor radio was close to the original compass position and it was this that had upset the reading. I decided that a torch bulb rigged under each side deck to give indirect light to the floor would illuminate the jobs to be done without upsetting my night eye, but with one hand on the tiller, the other round a cup of soup, my foot on the main sheet and an eye out for Berry Head light, any major electrical re-wiring was difficult! Heating food and drink proved the most difficult; this I did with a small gas stove but it was not fixed and it and the pan were in constant danger of capsize. I spent ages searching my pockets for matches and remembered reading a fly fisherman who said he made a strict habit of using the same pocket for the sane thing so he always knew where everything was. Everything I did from emptying the water bottle to filling the toilet bucket seemed to take twice as long at night, the only consolation was that of time — I had plenty. The only thing I did not once mislay was a small flask of brandy.

My method of navigation was a careful pre-study of the chart and a good memory. I had reckoned on two guiding lights, one from Berry Head and one from Exmouth which I understand is visible eleven miles. I never saw the Exmouth light and this did cause me some concern, also I failed to appreciate the value of the fixed red and green lights over Teignmouth, which would have put my mind to rest had I understood them then as I do now. All I read clearly was Berry to which I could not sail as the wind veered further westerly. At mid-night my crew was snoring loudly and I was feeling awake and excited. He was serving his purpose of reserve strength should my own fail me, so, selfishly, I kept the rest of that memorable night to myself and left him to sleep.

Dawn seemed hours arriving, yet once it showed, daylight seemed just minutes later. All my fears of error, which in the long hours of darkness had sometimes grown out of all proportion, vanished with one long look along that beautiful stretch of Devonshire coast; I was off Mackerel Cove, a few miles north of Hopes Nose, and about as far off Tor Bay as I had anticipated with that wind. Incidentally, I was satisfied with my position. I tacked her to sail southward but to my disappointment daylight brought calm and after floundering about the One Stone for an hour, I reluctantly started the Seagull and motored across Tor Bay, packing away the sails and clearing the decks ready for our eagerly awaited breakfast.

We entered Paignton Harbour about 0800 on Tuesday morning, 19 hours out from Weymouth, about 47 miles sailed at 2½ knots; a slow but comfortable passage. Not once had I bailed or been caused any alarm. Clearly this was my best performance, yet I did not feel as conquering as I had when I sailed to France.

We picked up a council buoy, then sat and slept until afternoon. After a little difficulty in convincing the harbour master I had really sailed from Christchurch I settled my bill, the most expensive mooring I had ever hired.

My boat and my friend spent the next few days mackerel fishing in the bay, and I returned two weekends later to trail her home. The weather was glorious and I delayed my return until Monday. The Harbour Master and the Sailing Club had looked after Jady Lane well; while she enjoyed their hospitality there were several harbour wall conversations about the little boat that crossed in the night.