All five boats arrived and dropped anchors in Studland Bay within twenty minutes of each other, which may have given the impression that our mini rally had been well organised! Two of us had left Lymington, two Keyhaven and one Christchurch, and all boats had somewhat different characteristics. What mysterious guidance had brought us so closely into Studland? Had the same force guided Stuart Jones (DCA) and his crew Henry quite independently to the same flower seller at the same time the previous day? A full week before, Stuart had tipped Henry that, in his home, a bunch of flowers scored a massive 50 points, against only 10 for dishwashing and 15 for lawn-mowing. Both had thus opted to secure their weekend passes by use of the floral secret weapon.

We congratulated ourselves as we drank coffee in the spacious cockpit of Robin and Jack’s ‘E’ boat, and considered the advisability of spending the night in Studland Bay. The wind was southerly force 4, and although we were tucked in to the south of the bay, in the lee of Old Harry, none of us felt confident that we were in a safe overnight anchorage. Besides, it was too crowded; probably 70 or 80 boats were anchored in the bay, and what seemed like an equal number of water skiers busily chased their speed boats in and out of the anchored yachts.

Greg wondered if the speedboat drivers were aware of the extent of anchor warps in front of the yachts. We doubted it. Joe ferried us back to our boats in his Tarpon, a boat which impressed us for the large flat floor for sleeping, the folding thwart, small cuddy and snug gunter rig. Joe had sailed in company with Stuart’s Drascombe Lugger, and with a beam wind had kept apace. Above all else now, we admired that the boat was in perfect control under oars. The idea of rowing my Devon Yawl around a crowded anchorage in a force 4 horrifies me.

We decided for Poole Harbour, and duly set off, the five of us spread over half a mile. The strong ebb tide against the southerly wind created an exciting sea state in the Swash channel, and we sailed a dead run for about 2 miles with a continuous series of 5 and 6 foot high waves overtaking us. The occasional surfing-plane had Greg’s 16’ clinker sloop and my own yawl overtaking most other boats less than about 25’ long, and the adrenalin started flowing.

We screamed our “Yahoos!” as we took off, and startled the life out of many innocent skippers. As the traffic became denser, capsizing Lasers, overtaking ocean racers and the threat of an accidental gybe or a broach made the sail exciting to the extent that I wanted it all to be over. The last half mile had me concerned about missing the chain ferry, and so I forgot about the elements.

I missed the chain ferry, it missed me, and before I knew it we were inside Poole harbour and safe. We turned left down South Deep on a close reach, the ‘E’ boat well ahead, Greg and I in close company and the Lugger and Tarpon somewhere behind. “Had Joe been all right in the Swash?” I had no sooner thought of him when, to my astonishment, I saw him on my port beam. As we closed, I asked him where he had come from.

“Short cut!” he shouted. He’d sailed in between the exposed sand banks immediately inside South Haven Point, something we larger boats would not have dared undertake. The occupants of both the Lugger and the Tarpon had enjoyed the run down the Swash and had felt no anxiety: good hulls and snug rigs.

We sailed south into Brands Bay until we could sail no further, coming to a slow stop close to Redhorn Point at just about low tide. With its keel wound up the ‘E’ boat had no trouble wriggling up to the smaller boats and dropping anchor; an impressive boat, but we dinghy sailors gave no quarter in sending insults alluding to its palatial comforts.

“What’s on tele, Robin?”

“May we use your dishwasher, Robin?”

“Got any bubbly in the cellar, Robin?”

Our various attitudes to catering were soon revealed. Greg had forgotten or misplaced his stove but was able to knock up meat and two veg on my single burner. I ate my usual tin of Irish stew straight from the mess tin (army upbringing) whilst Stuart, his crew Henry and Joe as guest settled down to a three course meal prepared on what looked like an Aga range. Later Joe ferried us ashore and we were able to step onto Redhorn Point, those of us in canvas shoes managing to do so without wetting our feet. Those in sailing wellies soon regretted them as we walked the 2 miles to the pub at Studland — those boots were not made for walking.

The walk back was less painful I’m told.

After coffee and brandy on the ‘E’ boat (where else?) we dispersed by way of Joe’s taxi. Joe himself had accepted Robin’s offer of bed and breakfast on the ‘E’ boat.

“Electric blankets on, Robin?”

“A hot bath before bed, Joe?”

We stumbled aboard the other three rafted-up dinghies in good humour but more than ready for sleep. Greg, true to form, improvised a tent with boat covers and sails, and no-one else has even found the entrance much less seen inside. My own home-made brown canvas tent over the small cockpit created a dark cramped cave in distinct contrast to the spacious bright quarters formed under Stuart’s white tent over the open lugger.

I slept quite well, jammed under the thwart of my yawl. This was my first night on an inflatable bed. I was grateful to be off the hard floorboards but had not foreseen that room for movement under the thwart would be further restricted because my body was now 2 or 3 inches higher. The boat is not ideal for sleeping on. Overnight I became aware that the wind was increasing, and by morning we had a force 6 easterly.

As we ate breakfast we congratulated ourselves on our decision not to remain in Studland Bay overnight, and we considered what lay ahead. Sixteen miles across Christchurch Bay against both wind and tide, Hurst narrows, and a further 4 or 5 miles to our various moorings. Joe decided that it would be folly to attempt the journey in his Tarpon and opted to travel back by road. It was a wise decision.

The ‘E’ boat was in its element, and had a hard but enjoyable beat back to Christchurch. Stuart’s Lugger displayed its weakness to windward, the sea-kindliness of its hull, but above all the virtues of travelling ‘British Seagull’.

Greg’s lovely 16’ sloop put up a fine performance, but even with a good reef it was occasionally overpowered with insufficient live ballast. My own boat made up for its poor accommodation by a fine windward performance. Even so it took me 9 hard hours to reach the security of the Lymington River and my mooring.

Five entirely different boats had successfully cruised together, each displaying its own particular virtues. We had all recognised our weaknesses and limitations, we had learnt lessons, but above all we had enjoyed ourselves.