I have been interested in boats for most of my life, and built my own just over ten years ago. Since then my enthusiasm has become directed away from racing and from inland waters, towards estuary and coastal sailing. That remains my great love, though I have become increasingly aware of the limitations of launching sites and day-sailing; so it was logical and inevitable that I should join the DCA. But more than three years of membership came and went before I actually cruised in the strict meaning of the word. I had lived under canvas quite extensively on more or less dry land, but getting my Heron ready to live aboard was no small problem, and I am not one to rush in hastily. What is more, it had to be a budget priced job, which meant cheap materials and a do-it-yourself job (far more fun anyway, and very satisfying if it does the job well enough).

At last the day dawned, the day I had worked towards, the day announced in the DCA Bulletin, but because of a poor forecast the fixture was cancelled. But I was not to be deprived. Instead of driving to the Medway (50 miles) for a long sail and a two-day cruise, I decided instead to drive just 5 miles to the nearest convenient stretch of the Thames for a cruise reduced to the irreducible minimum: launch at 6 pm, moor within an hour and spend the next twelve hours cooking, eating, and sleeping aboard. Twelve hours may sound a lot for just that, but you don’t know how long I sleep if undisturbed, and I didn’t know when I planned it how long it would take me to prepare my meals and clear up afterwards. And something would doubtless be less than ideal, so time would be needed to think out better arrangements.

As launching time drew near, and the sun shone relentlessly (as it had all day, despite the forecast) I half wished I had gone to Cuxton anyway, especially when the wind piped up nicely at the time we would have been setting out. But perhaps a cautious beginning is better, with home and help not far away if things go terribly wrong. Indeed, I ought to admit that I did spend a night ‘on board’ last autumn with the boat still on its trailer in the back garden — I wanted to be sure that my own system of constructing a sleeping platform would really give me a decent night’s sleep.

Nothing need be said about the sail to moorings beyond a grumble about the typical river wind — very variable in strength and direction, though with an annoying tendency to be right aft or dead on the nose (shades of the Norfolk rivers!). When ‘Thames Young Mariners’ basin was behind me, I had to start looking in earnest for a suitable anchorage in the few hundred yards before the boundary posts of the Thames Conservancy part of the river, for which my boat was not licensed; somewhere a bit sheltered from the wind if it strengthened during the night, out of the deeper part of the river and well clear of passing vessels and drifting tree trunks (which latter might have dragged my anchor, to say nothing of damaging the hull).

The simple business of dropping the hook turned out to be not so simple this time. I’ve anchored before, but (1) never while sleeping, (2) never on an uncertain bottom (I had a foul anchor next morning), (3) never with the considerable top-hamper of a camping cover, and (4) never in a wind-against-tide situation where I wasn’t sure what either would be doing later — in fact, the wind direction stayed constant, and to the best of my knowledge the tidal flow never reversed during the thirteen hours I was there (which is odd, even above the half-tide lock at Richmond, because I’ve seen it reverse on other occasions: perhaps neaps had something, to do with it). In the end, I used a kedge from the stern as well as the main anchor from the bows, but with the wind producing eddies athwartships the boat tended to billow from side to side, and still swung a good deal as the boat was held alternatively by the bow and stern anchor. All of which proves that nothing in this life is straightforward!

I was quite pleased with the position of the anchor cleat — well forward on the king-plank, so that the tail of the warp was not under tension as it passed under the camping cover and over the wash-boards on its way to the kedge reel — but it occurred to me that veering more warp would be very difficult with the cover up; I would have to unlace one of the forward joints. Certainly my arrangements for the stern warp were inadequate. I improvised a transom fairlead by passing a bight of the stern warp through the very large thimble of my main sheet, and then made fast that bight round the stern thwart. I must do better next time.

Setting up the camping cover went according to plan. I was glad I had spent time practising on the lawn, as the movement of the boat made the job somewhat more difficult. Once up, it proved very snug, and in fact showed up an unexpected problem — ventilation. It was soon necessary to shed some of my sailing clothing. And when the cooking started, there was the problem of humidity as well as temperature. Eventually, I shall have to provide ventilating apertures at the forward end. Leaving the stern doors open was insufficient (they stayed open all night, as it continued mild).

Cooking was designed to be relatively easy, and turned out like that. Packet soup, followed by packet curry (re-using the soup pan for the curried meat is feasible), and then tinned peaches and evaporated milk as a soothing balm for my scorched palate. Much as I enjoy fried food, I avoided it on this occasion for three reasons: the size and awkwardness of a frying pan, the danger of possibly spilling boiling fat, and difficulties with washing up (I did all my washing up in cold river water, with a quick rinse in fresh water for the purists!) but I need to provide a floor-level platform for the cooker: my bottom boards are not level anywhere.

Like camping covers, sleeping platforms are peculiar to each boat, only more so. I happen to have a spare rudder blade and centre board, which I was able to use to supplement the thwarts and sidebenches. An alternative arrangement which I used in the garden trials consisted of two-inch webbing right across the width of the cockpit between the sidebenches, which produces a softer and therefore better result.

There is no misery to be compared with being cold throughout a long night, so I always take two sleeping bags stowed in a polysack. As you see, I like to be comfortable, so I also use a three inch foam mattress acquired from an about-to-be-scrapped studio couch. I fold this in half lengthways, with a couple of fathoms of string spiralled round it to keep it from springing open again, and then slide it down a nine foot length of lay-flat polythene tubing (sold as fifteen inch, but the circumference is thirty inches). One end of the tube is sealed with a cool smoothing iron and a strip of cooking foil, while the other end is folded and re-folded to keep the contents dry. The completed item is then lashed down to the side-bench, where it acts as padding and additional buoyancy, and unwrapped when needed at night.

It is one thing, to say you are confident of your anchorage, but it is quite another to lie down and sleep peacefully when you imagine some of the things you might hit if your anchor did happen to drag. Your boat may stay put during the couple of hours between anchoring and putting your head on the pillow, but if the water level rises still further after you drop off, you may yet be in trouble. So it pays to have good ground tackle, heavy enough for the job, and it pays to know how to put it to best use. I have already made reference to fairleads and holdfasts — there must be no weak links in the metaphorical chain. A tripping line is certainly worth its cost and trouble. I used one, and the other anchor fouled!

The morning brought no problems apart from the foul anchor. Breakfast was no more than boiled eggs preceded by raw porridge oats with milk and sugar (which I find very satisfying and cheap; the rough raw taste is dealt with by leaving it to soak in the milk for about twenty minutes).