I had worked very hard during the fitting-out period to have my boat, a North Welsh 1 design now rigged as a yawl, ready for the Whit rally at Piel Island, Barrow. The new boom tent looked really great when in position. It was to be my first meeting with fellow DCA members so I wanted my little ship to look extra smart. Also, there was to be the crowning of the new ‘King of Piel Island’. (The King of Piel Island is the landlord of the island pub).

A couple of days before Whit I started to get funny feelings of uneasiness, then I received a letter saying that Antony couldn’t make the rally and would I look out for any other DCA members attending.

For Saturday 24th May, the weather forecast was winds NW3-4 backing SSW5, and overcast. With all stores and crew aboard we set sail from North Scale on the ebb at 14.00, with a strong NW wind making me reef the mainsail. The tides were big so the current was strong and away we went in great style, but still with that funny feeling!

My crew, though used to local waters, was a power boat man and this was his first experience under sail. The 5 miles to Piel Island were soon over with the wind on our quarter. The anchorage was crowded with small boats of all descriptions. Working my way in proved difficult with the strong tide running and the wind increasing to f5. A friend who runs the ferry boat from the mainland gave me a tug into the sheltered water and then informed me that a f8 gale had just been forecast! That ‘feeling’ came over me again.

Turning to my crew I said we wouldn’t stay the night as planned, but return to North Scale on the flood. “Mind if I have a drink in the pub, Ron?” he asked, so making sure the boat was safe, I decided to go with him. “Just one,” I said, “and then back.” There was about 1 hour of ebb to go so we joined the crowd converging on the pub from near and far for the crowning which was to be held the next day. While enjoying my second pint I went to the door to check on our craft and there she was, ebbing-off. I had forgotten how big an ebb the spring tide was giving us. I informed my crew he could have a bit longer ashore, but I wanted him back on-board at 19.00 to return on the flood to North Scale. Going back to my now grounded vessel, I was joined by a friend from a boat close by, and we brewed tea in the cuddy and sheltered from the wind.

As time approached for the boat to float, the sky grew dark and the wind strengthened; also my crew was still missing. I realised I would not be able to sail up to Barrow in the dark, so I looked around for some way to make my little vessel safe from the approaching storm. I found a strong chain coming from a large mooring sucker 200 yards from where my boat lay, so when she floated I worked her down to this chain and placed my fisherman’s anchor through the last link, driving the fluke into the sand. Then I placed my heavy grapple hook through the eye of my anchor, also driving its fluke into the sand, and put both anchor chain and grapple line firmly over my fairlead and onto my strong mooring bit. I then placed my boom tent into place and fastened everything down firmly.

The owner of a large open boat next to me, also a friend of mine, was burying his anchor deep under the sand with a shovel. We were both wet through when we had finished and were preparing to carry my boarding dinghy up the beach when we were approached by an unsteady figure clutching a bottle of beer who proved to be my long lost crew. “Sorry Ron, got talking… are we going back now?” It was then 20.00 and dark, with the wind roaring from the SE bringing a rising sea right into the anchorage. The three of us carried the dinghy to the top of the beach and up-turned it onto the grass.

Having changed out of my boat clothes into spare dry gear I then joined a noisy crowd of revellers inside the warm pub. It was only 20.30 on 24th May, but you would have thought it was November outside. As the night went on the weather worsened. No boat could leave the island so everyone had to find somewhere to sleep, under up-turned dinghies, on pub benches, even in the new toilets just built on the island. I was lucky, for the ‘King of Piel’ gave me the key to his caravan for my crew and myself.

I awoke next morning at 9 am and staggered outside, joining a small group of bewildered yachtsmen looking out to the anchorage with the tide out. I said, “Great, my boat is still there.” The chap next to me said, “Mine isn’t.” It was a 20’ GRP yacht. Altogether 7 boats were missing and the wind still had a lot of strength in it, about f5-6. Turning to my crew I said, “We sail as soon as she floats and get to hell out of here.” That funny foreboding feeling was still there, but I had promised my wife I would be home for Sunday lunch.

My boat had faired well through the night. Something had carried away my bodkin, but it still lay on the sand, held to my mizzen sheet. The anchor and grapple iron were still in the chain but they had travelled in a wide arc showing what kind of a night it had been. It would be a reach up Barrow Channel and as the wind was still strong I reefed my jib and only set half of my mainsail. I couldn’t set my mizzen because of the bodkin being missing. My Johnson wouldn’t start so, with this much-reduced sail area we set off for home.

As we left the shelter of the anchorage to fight our way up Walney Channel we were met by a nasty short sea brought up by the wind against a big tide. My crew was sheltering by the cuddy and we were going smartly on starboard tack when I saw a large yacht moored ahead of me. We were closing fast so I put the helm smartly down. That’s when everything went wrong. My tiller pin had come out and I found a useless tiller in my hand. It all seemed to happen at once. I struck the smart yacht on her starboard bow making a horrible looking scar in her fibreglass hull, and stretched out the scar as far as her cockpit. My dinghy towing astern finished up on her port bow and my crew and I looked, bewildered, at each other whilst hanging onto the once smart yacht.

Casting off the dinghy painter we let go, put the tiller back into the rudder, retrieved the dinghy, and then anchored to clear up the mess. I half-heartedly pulled the outboard’s starter cord and, low and behold, she burst into life! I shouted to my crew to raise the anchor smartly and the outboard fought us across the heaving water until we gained the shelter of Walney Island, then all the way home to our moorings at North Scale.

THE RECKONING

I examined my boat closely and the only damage was my starboard cross-tree hanging down because the screws fastening it to the mast had been torn out in our tussle with the yacht, called Snow Goose.

As soon as I was home I phoned a committee man of the Roa Island Yacht Club and informed him I had damaged one of their yachts, also telling him I was not insured. That night I never slept, thinking how much it would cost me. I could see myself selling my beloved old boat to get funds together. Next morning I met the owner of Snow Goose and, with him and his crew, plus the local boatbuilder, went out to survey the damage. She was hauled out and repaired a couple of weeks later and I paid the sum of £100 on 17th June. I sailed past her on her mooring looking smart again on 19th June, but gave her a wide berth. My wife opened the local paper on Saturday 21st June and read out to me a story about a yacht catching fire after the owner had filled his fuel tank and decided to have a smoke. The match broke, fell into the cabin and set the tank alight. The yacht was completely destroyed. Yes my friends — it was Snow Goose, the one I had hit and just paid £100 for!

That is my story. What advice for insuring wooden boats?