I have read in several places, including this Bulletin, that it is easy to sleep four in a National 18. Well, I would like to see it tried. It’s one of those things I just can’t visualise, like a man getting out of a strait-jacket, or perhaps, in this case, into one. I can’t see where the bags of wet sails, the mounds of soggy pullovers and dripping oilskins, the greasy pans, the jumbled cardboard ‘food-box’ already looking vague at the corners and round the bottom, all go to when there are four people in the boat.

Still, I know I am not as organised as some. The knowledge that I am so disorganised would probably get me down were it not for the fact that I know I am nowhere near the bottom in the cosmic scale of disorganisation. There is one person near the bottom — I should think he is probably the most disorganised person in Europe — my usual crew and mate, the notorious ‘Uncle’ Dave. I have occasionally, through piling all the gear in one quarter of the boat, managed to sleep three on board. Dave, however, firmly believes that two is a maximum and even then it’s breathing by numbers.

On this particular trip we had planned to sail from the Solent, my home base, to the West Country and back, taking a fortnight over it. My boat lies on a mooring in Seagrove Bay at the eastern end of the Isle of Wight and from there we made our way to Yarmouth.

Our first long leg was planned to be a night passage from Yarmouth to Weymouth, but it didn’t work out like that. About 5 o’clock in the afternoon on June 21st we left Yarmouth and with half the ebb and a light south-easterly breeze we ran down the Needles Channel and on out across Poole Bay. However, the wind gradually died and by the time the tide turned we were about six miles off Handfast Point — and there we stayed. We put on the largest jib and again progress was discernable. Ahead lay the wedge-shaped Isle of Portland.

By 2230 darkness had fallen but we could still see the dim outline of the coast with the regular breathing of St Dunstans light to the north and the loom of the Shambles ahead. With the tide now in our favour we were being carried down towards the ‘Bill’ and as we were well out we decided to miss out Weymouth and press onto Lyme Regis.

We rounded the Bill soon after midnight with the faintest of breezes and a long oily swell. It was different on the return. With dawn came the sun, and we gradually unstiffened. The wind gradually increased and the sun disappeared. By the time we had pinpointed Lyme Regis in the haze, it was blowing a good force 4, with a lumpy sea to match. We worked out which stone walls were which, shot through the entrance and barged about inside — our usual method — finally tying up on the Cobb. The leg had lasted eighteen hours, and now a scrabble around in the food box followed, as much to quell rebellious stomachs as to relieve hunger. We rigged the tent, for it had begun to rain, and had a damp, cramped doze on the floorboards. Finally, somewhat dispirited, we decided to ignore the rain, crawled out, dashed to the nearest cafe — decorated with plenty of vinyl, I was glad to see — and downed a couple of teas apiece. I always think there’s nothing like a bit of peeling vinyl to cheer you up on a rainy day. The rain now eased and we hit the town, cased the joint, and swung into the Silver Teapot for a meal. When finally back at the boat for the night, we were puzzled by police cars constantly driving up and down the Cobb.

We had now reached the stage in the voyage where those wretched plastic airbeds bought anew each year from a store which for the sake of the narrative I shall call Woolworths, started deflating during the night. Once the rot sets in it’s hopeless attempting the kiss of life or anything else. We spent an afternoon methodically plastering one tube with patches only to wake up during the night, stiff and rigid, on a single inflated tube, the remainder of the airbed having silently taken revenge and exhausted itself. For the remainder of the voyage I slept on a mound of life-jackets and oilskins resembling a funeral pyre, but ‘Uncle’ Dave exhibited another quirk of character by buying a proper canvas airbed in Lyme Regis. In most respects he is a sane man but when it comes to comfort he goes completely off balance. We spent two days in Lyme Regis while some bad weather blew itself out. Dave, (comfort again) spent two nights ashore with some relatives but although the offer was extended to me, I felt that this sort of opting out was not quite in the Long John Silver tradition, and spent the first of the two nights aboard bumping uncomfortably around in consequence, for the swell was considerable. The second night, with the weather moderating, was far more peaceful.

On the 25th we left Lyme Regis with a force 4 SW wind. Our target was Brixham and sailing close-hauled all day, progress was slow. About four miles off Exmouth I noticed a grey upright fin sticking out of the water astern. Within minutes several more momentarily appeared and dipped again. There was a bit of breath-stopping excitement when a smooth wet back heaved itself out of the water alongside the boat and about twenty feet away. We decided afterwards they must have been porbeagles not porpoises because of the upright tail fin.

During the late afternoon the wind gradually died and we finally crawled into Brixham at 11 o’clock that night. After cooking a meal in the dark, we went to bed.

The trip round to Dartmouth the following morning was uneventful apart from the boring necessity of having to get up early and row round Berry Head to catch the tide, for the dawn was windless. At Dartmouth we spent that day and the following one exploring locally, and a beautiful place it is too.

On the 28th we were underway at 0730 to catch the last of the ebb out of Dartmouth. We planned to make Lyme Regis again that day, stopping for breakfast when clear of Dartmouth in one of the coves between there and Brixham. The wind was force 4-5 westerly, so they would all be sheltered. We picked a likely one — we thought — with a sandy bottom — so the chart thought. As we approached we decided to beach the boat, as it seemed flat calm. When about twenty yards from the shore we realised our mistake. There was a long swell running, and large, flat rocks right up to the shore line. The boat drove up into the shingle and in no time was broached to, waves bursting over the side, and the hull bumping on the rocks. The ‘18’ is a heavy boat at the best of times, and laden with camping gear it took a good deal of anxious pushing and shoving to get off again. It was a near thing. Another couple of minutes would have seen her holed. We had our breakfast in the lee of Brixham breakwater instead.

With a following wind, a brisk sail back to Lyme Regis followed, with the sun often out — although I’ve got a slide I took on that day with the sky as black as thunder and the white horses gleaming menacingly, and people say: “Ooh, isn’t it awful — were you out in that?” A good tonic for the pocket Nelson, that slide. We reached Lyme Regis at teatime.

The following day was almost the Armageddon of the trip. It was the sort of day which at the time made you vow that if you came out of it in one piece you would give up sailing and maybe take up one of the minor bloodsports instead. The forecast was not encouraging — winds F5-6 westerly, and no sun to make it cheerful. We decided to set off, however, for a variety of reasons, one of which was the bad one that the fortnight was drawing to a close, and in spite of the risks it was probably the best decision because the weather didn’t improve for the rest of the week.

We set the trysails and the smallest jib and set off. It was the first time I had used the trysail — a converted jib — and it looked absurdly small, as well as being stained and shabby. The usual audience lined the harbour wall drooling at our various mistakes and I felt rather ashamed of our ragamuffin appearance. We soon found we had plenty of sail up for the job in hand.

As we cleared the land and the fetch increased, the seas became progressively bigger — and bigger. The two sails we had enabled the boat to be managed; each time we roared down a wave the sails enabled some steerage way to be maintained, preventing a broach to. However, occasionally we were taken by surprise when a rogue wave sprang up from the side and emptied itself into the boat. The big toppling seas astern which looked so frightful, often passed harmlessly underneath. The biggest seas were encountered, as expected, with Portland abeam. I estimated, as dispassionately as I could, at ten feet from trough to crest, so applying Mr Adlard Coles’ two thirds rule, they were probably nearer seven. Suffice to say that while on a crest we could see the coast, and when in a trough we could see nothing. We cleared the Bill by about five miles. At one point a Naval Wessex A/S helicopter on exercise hovered close by, presumably wondering whether to effect a rescue! After some initial waving we were careful to make no further signs which might be misunderstood, After a minute or so it disappeared towards Portland.

We expected the seas to decrease after clearing the uneven bottom off Portland, but they did not seen to. We saw no sign of St Alban’s race. We had no real opportunity to relax until we rounded Durlstan Head and were sheltered from the westerly wind. Peveril race, after what we had been through, we ignored. We rounded Old Harry and dropped anchor in Studland Bay. After the rigours of the day, the peace — the stillness of the water, the quiet shoreline, the rapidly moderating wind — were sublime.

The following day saw us making a late start from Studland for the Isle of Wight. The wind was exactly as forecast for the previous day — F5-6 south-westerly. We started with the smallest jib and a well reefed main, but once out in Poole Bay, and contemplating the fracas at Hurst, when we would have to run through the narrows dead before the wind, we decided to swap the main for the trysail. We were now out in the open again, with no shelter even from Durlstan Head, and we rolled uncomfortably in the seas while we changed the mainsail. At last we got organised, and got underway. Between Hengistbury Head and Hurst we were caught by some really nasty waves, one of which, despite all our efforts, broached us and all but rolled us over — or so it seemed. I suspect that one’s heightened imagination at these points outstrips reality.

As we drew nearer Hurst (by the North Channel) the Shingles afforded some protection and the seas lessened. We could see the overfalls in the Narrows, and suddenly we were in amongst them. After the big seas, it was positively ‘fun’ with the boat tumbling about in great holes in the sea and pyramids leaping up alongside with clouts of water bursting against the hull sending up a continuous spray. We both roared with laughter. We edged round the Trap Shoal and the strong current here bore us up into the calm water over on the Island side. We reached Yarmouth at about 1400 and then spent a frustrating half an hour trying to tack inside, first going aground in the entrance and then getting securely lodged against a yacht’s topsides — one from Boston, USA, I am glad to say. After a leisurely clear-up between rain squalls, we went ashore for the evening.

The wind over the next couple of days gradually increased to about F7-8 and under these conditions we skidded round to Newtown, found ourselves a snug spot to anchor in Shalfleet Creek, and dared the weather to do its worst. It was nice to be home again.