The summer of 1990 produced splendid dinghy cruising weather, and I had high hopes of at last accomplishing my ambition to cruise from Chichester to Devon. However, with the start of my fortnight’s holiday my usual luck set in — two gales in the first four days, and upwards of f6 for the remainder of the fortnight. After amusing myself watching the surfers and sailboarders off Wittering for a couple of days, the wind moderated enough for me to sail to Wootton Creek on the Isle of Wight, but even during that short trip the weather deteriorated again, and I was thankful to arrive. During my stay I was made welcome by several of the residents of Wootton Creek, invited to an ‘Old Gaffers’ barbecue, and explored much of the IOW on foot. Five days and another gale later, during which time the wind never dropped below f6, I finally set off with a forecast of SW f5, having decided to return to Chichester Harbour and tow the boat to Devon for my second week.

Chichester bar is dangerous in strong southerlies, so I decided to assess the conditions outside, then choose whether to head for the nearest refuge (Portsmouth), or continue on to Chichester. Outside the creek huge rollers were marching up the Solent, not breaking, so I deemed it safe to continue, but Chichester was definitely out — it would have to be Portsmouth.

With most of the mains’l rolled round the boom, Black Swan was going flat out, planing down the waves. As long as we remained right way up we’d have a very fast crossing. All went well till about half way, when we got caught in a breaking wave — over she went onto her beam ends — I really thought we’d had it — a similar sensation to that moment in Scotland when the centreboard broke. This time, though, we were running, so the plate was up and we simply slid down the crest, with me hanging grimly over the weather gunwale — the wave slid harmlessly beneath us and we resumed equilibrium… whew!!!

As we neared Portsmouth the sea got rougher… and rougher… breakers all around, I was very grateful for the presence of a beautiful white ketch, the crew of which were watching us anxiously. I waved cheerily — I hoped — trying to look as if I was enjoying myself.

We were too far west — I couldn’t point Portsmouth without risking a gybe. I would have to wear round — there was no question of gybing in that sea. Twice we missed stays and were rapidly encroaching on an exposed a lee shore — then we made it… “thank heavens!” Here we were in tidal jopple and the sea was not only rough, but confused. Mine was the only dinghy out there, the other boats were all 30 and 40 footers — wonderful sailing for them. I was enjoying it too, really — but was just a little worried; I should have known that my beloved Black Swan would get me back safely.

Now we could round Gilkicker Point without fear of a gybe, and behind it I hoped for a modicum of shelter — the waves were just as big, but more regimental in their approach — great armies of breaking crests. I’d have thought it bad enough if I hadn’t just weathered worse. Then another gybe was threatening. Again the same problem getting round, helm down, harden up, and stagger to a halt. “Come on old girl — keep going — go on — you can do it — well done!” After two attempts, Black Swan had decided she didn’t fancy Chichester bar either and round we went. I heaved a huge sigh of relief: another 15 minutes and we’d be out of the worst.

There’s a nasty bit in the narrow Portsmouth entrance, always busy with ferries and shipping, where you lose the wind completely behind high stone jetties. Normally I’d prepare for this by getting my oars ready while still outside, but today I didn’t dare leave the tiller. Suddenly we were almost becalmed in smooth water, and with too much traffic about to heave-to and ship the oars — this was almost worse than being outside. Week-end yachtsmen in shorts and T-shirts gave me funny looks as I sat there becalmed, swathed in oilskins, woolly hat and lifejacket, and sporting such a tiny sail. “Just wait till you get outside,” I thought. We drifted through without mishap and then the wide expanse of Portsmouth harbour opened before us, the sail filled and we planed up towards Portchester.

Time for a weather forecast — one hand on the tiller I reached for the radio — SW 6-7. The weather men had changed their minds. Report for the Royal Sovereign and Channel Light Vessels SW7. I thought it seemed a bit more than f5. “Well done Black Swan!” I shouted. “You’ve got us back safely; you’re wonderful!”