Funny… I reckon there should be an hour of slack yet; I could swear we’re going sideways. (Thinks: a transit — line up the Sconce with something on the island). Jesus!

“Good Evening. This is the BBC Home Service, and here is the six o’clock news. This afternoon the Yarmouth Isle of Wight lifeboat picked up the body of a canoeist who, it is believed, was attempting to make the crossing from Keyhaven to the Isle of Wight. His canoe was later washed up on the beach near Barton-on-Sea. A spokesman for the RNLI later said, “He couldn’t have had a clue about the local tides, and once the current got hold of him he’d be carried into the whirlpools off Hurst where he wouldn’t stand a chance.” The identity of the man is being withheld until his next of kin have been informed.”

What’ll I do? My God — get out of the current! That’s it, get out of the tide. Paddle like hell, must get back inside the spit. There’s an eddy inside the spit. Now think man, for God’s sake think! Paddle like hell; must keep paddling. Get out of the stream. Hell, it’s like the Thames in flood. Keep paddling. Must claw inside the spit. Must... must... God, my arms, my shoulders! Never mind that — keep going, keep paddling. Are we making some ground? Those ripples over there — that’s the edge of the current; thank God there isn’t much wind. Keep paddling. Get beyond the edge of the stream; but can I do it before the castle? Never mind that — get out of the stream. Push you bastard, push! You’ve made the choppy bit on the edge — now keep going. Push — the spit’s closing the Needles; you’re getting into the lee. Keep going, keep going...

Have we made it? There’s still a couple of cables to go. Get your breath. Look at the castle. Look at the water. Is that the eddy over there? My God, so it is! Phew... easy now... easy...

Okay — so what’s all the panic? Let’s take a walk round the beach and have a look at all these whirlpools and whatever. And if the tide’s going to Poole, then why not go with it? And anyway, everybody’s always saying there’s a calm bit in The Trap, and that’s the place to go through.

Y—e—s... I reckon we can manage that. Keep inside that big eddy over there, and it should be no worse than the average weirstream...

No trouble. Dunno what all the panic was about, and it’s great having this 4 knot tide. Be in Christchurch in no time. Okay Vasco — what about the sail? Mmmm: I must bring the halyards aft sometime before we capsize the boat getting it up to the... oops! Now where the hell’s the bailer? The sponge was here somewhere too. Ah — I might have known: right down the other end of the boat. Look out! Lawd — call yourself a sailor? Any more gibes like that and you’ll have the mast down. Now, just look what you’re doing and do one thing at a time; get the sail up... and let it lie to the wind... and never mind the sheet... and sort out the halyards... and bail out the wet stuff... and settle down in the stern, when all will be well. Okay? Right.

Now, where was I? Ah yes — we’re headed for Christchurch; and — let’s see — we’ve even got a buoy over there. What’s it say? ‘North Channel’ — as if we didn’t know. Such confidence!

Ah… that’s better. Looks like being a nice day. Nothing like a drop of the currant bun when the wind’s free. Mmmm — she reaches along a treat. I s’pose those ants over there on the beach are people; the grockle are in season. How terribly superior one feels. Snob! Look where you’re going. You nearly lost the wind again then. Funny, actually — we seem to be losing the tide. Let’s see; if that’s Barton, and that’s Mudeford, then that must be Highcliffe. Hmmm — we’re quite a way off. And if high water Christchurch is about the same as us... oh great! The tide’s gonna be peeing through The Run and we shan’t stand a chance. Brilliant! Ah well — at least drawing 9 inches will have its uses when we get among the sandbanks in a minute. Maybe we can get round the back, the same as Hurst. By the look of that yacht over there, I’d say she’s well and truly on. Could stooge over and see if he’s okay. Ensign looks familiar... “Bonjour m’sieur. Comment ca va?” “Eet is okay — vee speak a leetle Inglese. Vee vait for ze tide.”

He vaits, the yacht settling gently on her ear; vee go to approach The Run. But we can’t get ashore against that lot.

The contents of Christchurch Harbour are making their daily exit through the 20 yard entrance, and landing outside is the only possibility. Must I always get my feet wet? Slurp, slurp, slurp — the old canoe gets dragged along the foreshore until we’re opposite the Haven: a pub, begorrah, and it’s almost opening time!

Now, let’s see — in that kind of swill it’s the ferry glide, is it not? We’ll see how she goes... no trouble, and within minutes the little boat lay comfortably to the quay. Her owner, however, was to be seen deserting ashore.

“A pint of bitter and a double Scotch, please.”