Forty years of dreaming about boats, flying spray, cloud capped islands and sheltered anchorages at sunset do not add much value to an actual sailing experience of about 20 hrs. Nevertheless, in July 1972 we exchanged our battered car for an equally battered waterproof watch, loaded our carefully gathered provisions into our first boat, a wooden Drascombe Lugger, and motored, shakily, seawards among the hundreds of moored craft between Noss Mayo and Newton Ferrers. We had an unshakeable resolve to go home, to Leicester, by water.

Before tackling Lands End and the west and north coasts of Cornwall and Devon, however, a shakedown cruise was necessary. We decided first to go east, practising navigation and seamanship within the less treacherous waters of South Devon. How lucky we were in the last weeks of July to meet gentle breezes and fair visibility which allowed us to play tactical games with wind and tide to our hearts content.

We sunbathed in Bigbury Bay, found sharks off Start Point, fished for mackerel out of Brixham and ran goosewinged to Beer Head where, anchored off the steeply shelving beach, we sat for two days waving to the chair bound holiday makers on land and admiring the great tub-like iron keeled local boats as they toboganned down into the sea with great splashing belly flops. A six month diet of every book on sailing and navigation we could lay our hands on had not been wasted and we had made no bad mistakes. But a favourable weather forecast tempted us to over reach ourselves and push on for Poole.

Our first overnight sail through a halo of pale light before a glittering phosphorescent wake was such a fresh experience that we had no sleep. Morning brought no sign of land nor did the expected line of R.y. buoys off Chesil Beach materialise and one fleeting view of Straight Point to the west did not reassure us but at mid-day a low black cloud to N.East blew away and revealed Portland Bill. Then Thousands or More romped through the trawler lanes like a little ship with a bone in her mouth until at 14.30 hrs. the tide turned and Lulworth with the Purbeck Hills beyond appeared unnaturally clear to port. Our half lowered centreplace was screeching as we planed and as Polly inexpertly began to reef it spattered with rain. Then as the squall struck us it whipped the sea into some confusion and we handed all sail bar the jib. We found we could sail best by catching each wave full by the stern, surf for a moment, yaw a little and try to straighten up ready for the next big one. We had no alternative but to run, avoiding the race of St. Adhelms Head, all too evident as its malevolent black peaks popped up to port. Soaked with rain and spray we were tense with the efforts required to avoid broaching to, pumping out frequently and trying to keep track of our position on a soaking chart. We were brought "to earth" by our transistor radio, which, unregarded in its plastic bag, had drifted, about the cockpit floor, and, now suddently emitted the noise of wolves howling in a Siberian Forest. The contrast made us laugh, and relax, so we drank the last of our hot coffee.

By late afternoon we were able to alter course and go on a broad reach under jib and mizzen towards Anvil Point. We had now been too long, about 30 hrs, without sleep. We were soaking wet, very cold, and acting stupid. We knew we should put up the main and sail hard for Poole and yet as a yacht came in from the south, reefed, but going at twice our speed moved ahead of us, we still failed to summon up the energy. At about 20.00 hrs. we had Poole lead-in lights nicely in line but then everything was blotted out and another squall set up such a confusion of white water that once again we could only run out into Poole Bay. Now we were so tired that we could only fight to stay upright and awake.

One tiny cluster of lights intermittently appeared and provided a focus for attention. We, became certain that they were stationary and tried to keep them always within sight by alternately beating and running throughout the night. At dawn we beat towards them, finding them to belong to a large ship at anchor waiting, presumably, to gain entry to Poole. Then, at about 05.30 hrs. the sky cleared and we saw Sandbanks to windward and sailed joyfully, still under jib and mizzen, straight to the black buoy that marks the entrance to the channel. We then reached to the ferry slip where we landed to telephone and reassure the Weymouth coastguard, for by now we were long overdue.

At the last we suffered hallucinations and I well remember shouting at the little green hairy people who tried to get their twiggy fingers over our gunwales. As we put up our tent in a snug anchorage in the lee of Brownsea Island we wondered if we dare go back. In the event we were harbour bound for ten days and did not set off west until the second week of August brought settled conditions once again.

We had learnt to trust our boat, but to be wary of its crew's judgement and to know more about the limitations of our skill.

One thing that marks the professional from the amateur sailor is efficiency. We could, by motoring at night, have caught the first of the flood and been safely in Weymouth before it blew up. But even now, with a lot more experience behind us we often linger at sea too long because we like it. In this sense I think we shall be amateurs forever.

“Although we're not rich And although we're not poor We're as happy as those that's got Thousands Or More”

And we did get back, by water, to Leicester.