I think it is true to say that every time I sail I learn something new, which is a very good reason for sailing! What is certainly true is that every time I read the Bulletin I learn something new — which is a very good reason for belonging to the DCA, and for reading the Bulletin, and for writing in to the editor to share with others one’s experience of the sea.

Wootton Creek was the venue, with the wind about force five from the south-west. I chose Lee-on-Solent for my launching point, partly because it was almost the nearest to my home in Surrey, and partly because it was familiar — I knew of a friendly garden in which to leave my trailer in safety, and somewhere convenient to leave the car. But with hindsight I reckon I would have done better to spend a bit more on petrol to avoid a downwind starting point which was very exposed to waves coming all the way up the Solent: not for nothing is Lee-on-Solent so called! Moral number one is to pick your start for seaman’s reasons, not for land-lubber’s!

Having arrived, rigged, loaded, it is arguable that I ought to have cancelled the outing because of the wind strength, which was borderline for a Heron with a none-too-experienced crew. But, being human, I was loathe to back down after motoring 70 miles and having made special arrangements to be free for the weekend of the rally. The fact that we went ahead and got away with it was largely because the weather did not deteriorate; one of the three others who eventually arrived decided to put his dinghy away and made the crossing in a pocket cruiser, which seems to say something about our decision to go ahead in the smallest boat of those attending. Moral number two is to make weather decisions on the basis of what might reasonably happen.

But I decided to go. I made several attempts to sail off the lee shore (which can often be done) but failed more because of the waves than the wind; repeatedly I was dumped back on the beach, which began to seem excessively familiar. So I resorted to rowing off, but even this sure-fire method (according to the books) failed until I got my long-suffering crew to help by wading and pushing the transom and finally scrambling in over the stern. Half my trouble was having short oars which fit tidily between bow and stern buoyancy tanks; in the interests of tidiness I sacrificed the ability to row to windward, which in some circumstances could have been dangerous.

But at last we made it safely out of the shallows, made sail and set off for the island. At this point I must indicate an advantage (surely the only one) in launching from a lee shore: this is a sort of fail-safe situation, in that if the conditions had been any worse we could not have got off, and when we got further out we found as much wind and waves as we could take in our sort of boat. Moral number three is not to be misled by the conditions at the launching point, especially if this is more sheltered than one’s sailing water; the classic example (culled from Lifeboat magazine) is that of the boat that strayed downwind from an upwind shore and found itself in an offshore wind against which it could make no progress — which is where the lifeboat became relevant!

After a few minutes of sailing, my crew commented on the amount of water in the boat, which I explained as the many waves which had broken into the boat during our attempt to launch. Obediently, my seventeen year old daughter began to pump the bilges (my Whale dinghy pump is the best extra I ever bought), but had to point out that the water level was not falling at all. “Is there a hole?” she asked, and in fact there was! Such was my confidence in the pump that we carried on and arrived at the island a couple of tired hours later — Liz was tired of pumping, and I was tired of sailing close-hauled in too much wind (even with a reefed mainsail and no jib at all.) Do you think I took an appalling risk sailing four miles in strong winds with a hole in the bottom? I did have a couple of buckets as well as the pump, and if the boat had become waterlogged to the point where it was too unstable to sail to windward, I could drop my sail and get back to the mainland under bare pole, drifting downwind; so I consider this was not foolhardy. Moral number four is belt, braces, a piece of string, and also hands in pockets.

We remained on starboard tack right across the Spithead: instead of going about and entering the creek on port tack, we went straight on to the beach. My crew was tired (and went ashore for a nap), we were too early for a favourable current up the creek and enough depth and width for sailing, and I wanted to do something about the hole in the bottom. I careened the boat, and put a thick plywood tingle over the inside of the damaged area (which was no bigger than my hand) with screws from the outside. No further pumping was required all weekend, so moral number five comes from the Heron Class Association handbook: always carry a tingle, together with tools and spare timber (a moment’s thought will show that I couldn’t screw an inside tingle from outside unless the tingle was first jammed in place under the thwart, which is where my boat is most vulnerable to beach damage).

Repairs and snooze completed, we set off again to get into the creek on the young flood; we got as far as the approach to the Fishbourne ferry terminal when my gaff halliard broke. As I wrote in an earlier Bulletin, I have two halliards permanently rove at the masthead, fitted to upper and lower gaff bands for use when reefed or not, so it was only a minute’s work to get out the screwdriver again and change over the halliards.

But moral number seven is far more important: the halliard that let go was old and probably frayed to a visible degree: it should have been checked beforehand and replaced. I can almost hear you saying to yourself, “Is there no limit to what this chap gets up to?” And I have to say that there is more to come, before we finally set off home. But first let me say what an encouragement it was for us to meet up with three other members, and to be offered a most welcome cup of soup almost as soon as we had dropped the hook. The wind showed no sign of abating as the evening wore on, so we upped our anchor and sailed right up to the bridge at the head of the creek where, after a spell indoors at the pub, we at last tied up and took the ground just after high water (10 pm) to enable us to float off before HW next morning. Compared with my only previous cruise, when I spent the night anxiously swinging at anchor, it was luxurious to spend a quiet night in a sheltered spot.

We made an early start next morning, reckoning that the wind would increase during the morning. It was just as well that we did, for after averaging about three knots with only a jib on a broad reach, the waves were breaking unpleasantly at our launching site, and it was with some trepidation that I turned downwind, picked my moment between breakers, let fly the jib and dropped the boat (almost literally!) on the stony beach. As we later struggled to get the trailer up to the car, with the help of a rope on the tow-bar, some casual but welcome assistants said it would have been easier up the concrete hard; so it might, but I hate to think what the hard might have done to my hull.

Last but not least, let me mention another, different, factor. Though we both started in good health, we were both struck by some sort of lightning ‘tummy bug’ which put us right off our food and weakened us somewhat. In fact we got back safely, but as I later reflected on the weekend, that could have tipped the balance against us if the weather had worsened or if the bug had hit us harder.

All in all it was a very eventful cruise, full of lessons — for me, if not for you. Did I hear someone say, ‘You can say that again!’?