I wrote this piece in 1984 and promptly lost it, as I then thought for ever, as I moved house twice within the year. The rough draft has now come to light so I offer it hoping that its lack of topicality will add interest - the keen eyed will notice ore or two anomalies among the aids to navigation.

It was to be the Paglesham Rally that would be Snufkin, my Roamer's first trip across the Thames Estuary. The plan was, subject to weather of course, to launch at Upnor on the upper Medway after work on Friday, take the ebb down river to spend the night in Sharfleet Creek. Then I must be up at dawn on the Saturday to take the ebb out of the Medway and up to the mouth of the Crouch, and catch the flood into the Crouch and Roach to Paglesham. High water was about 5 am and there was a possible hitch in the plan in that the mouth of the Crouch is some distance offshore at low water. The forecast was good on Friday morning so I launched in the evening as planned and a light westerly and the ebb took me down to Stangate Creek from which I beat gently into Sharfleet in the gathering dark past several anchored yachts. As I slid past the stern of a large catamaran someone recognised the outline of the Roamer; Snufkin curtsied an acknowledgement of the remark as he came about. Anchoring away from the yachts to ensure a quiet night I soon had the boom tent up and drank my bedtime coffee as I buttered some rolls for the following day's lunch.

When I awoke in the morning there was more wind and the forecast, which I listened to during breakfast, gave SW 3-4 increasing to Force 5 possibly 6 later. It was a daunting looking morning with a yellowish overcast sky and I thought of all the nicer things I could be doing instead, as I folded the sodden canvas of the tent and prepared to haul in the cold wet anchor! However I stiffened my resolve and set the working jib, then tucked a reef in the main, more because of my low spirits than because of any obvious strength in the wind. The flares of the Isle of Grain oil refinery seemed to accentuate the gloom as I slid past the whistling buoy off Port Victoria, and with the tide under me and a freshening breeze up my tail I popped out of the narrows by Sheerness into the Thames like a cork out of a bottle. I laid my course for the West Swin and the wind grew stronger as I drew further from the Kent shore. Passing the wreck of the Richard Montgomery, a couple of miles off Sheerness, I began to have some doubts.

I was travelling fast and at the present rate would be off the Crouch before the ebb had finished running. If the Force 6 materialized I would have a long hard beat against the tide, or perhaps worse, wind against tide slop, to get into the Crouch. I had no intention of putting all my trust in an engine to get me out of trouble - in fact it had been a bit temperamental recently; and rowing could not even be considered as an option. In addition, I was convinced that the wind was already Force 5 and I could imagine even worse conditions ahead. This type of decision is always difficult, at least for me. On the one hand one feels a wimp for giving up although one knows that this is a stupid attitude: on the other hand if you believe that an essential part of seamanship is the art of sailing without taking unnecessary risks then of course you have no choice, and this is satisfying in itself. Paglesham was out. I would circumnavigate the Isle of Sheppey and take the flood back to Upnor.

Accordingly I changed course to starboard to reach across the Kentish Flats to the mouth of the East Swale. My change or course confirmed my impression of the wind strength as it was now no longer directly from behind. I found the Columbine buoy off the entrance without difficulty and started to beat in over the brown torrent that poured out of the Swale against me. I had found in trials of the Roamer that the dinghy would not point well to windward since I had fitted the roller-furling jib as it did not have the support of a tight forestay. Before this trip I had therefore replaced the pre-stretched polyester halyard with one of wire and had also fitted a tensioning lever. These measures now proved their worth as I now had a really tight luff on the jib. With as much mainsail as I could carry 1 made steady progress into the Swale. I cheated the tide as much as possible by venturing over the Whitstable Flats but these were slowly uncovering as the tide ebbed. Once I got into the narrows by Shellness I began to find progress almost non-existent and deciding that it was supposed to be a pleasure trip, motored for a mile or so until abreast the entrance of Faversham Creek. As I beat on over the weakening ebb thoughts of coffee and buns intruded and I picked up a vacant mooring off Harty Ferry, allowing some more of the ebb to run its course whilst I brewed up.

Once refreshed I continued on my way up the Swale, beating in long and short legs. The water was a bit thin but the centreboard grated its warnings and I was thankful at times that the Roamer could make progress with it right up, thanks to its residual keel. The water deepened once past Elmley but I was surprised all the same when a small cargo ship emerged from Ridham dock as I approached. This proved useful; as the lifting span on Kingsferry Bridge, which carries road and rail from the mainland, was raised for the ship and I scuttled in behind; saving me having to decide whether my mast would go under with the span down. As the ship drew away and disappeared ahead of me I became aware of the sun coming through. I turned on the radio and was rewarded by a much improved weather forecast of light southerly winds and sunny spells. This reinforced my decision to have another go at Paglesham, but this time across the Maplin sands and through Havengore Bridge. I carried on past Queenborough with plenty of yachting activity going on in the sunshine. All these people at once came as quite a shock after the empty wildnerness of the middle Swale, where especially at low tide, one can be entirely alone with only the occasional sign of human habitation to be seen on the horizon.

I emerged into the Medway and as I passed Sheerness again, perhaps to the surprise of the coastguards in their observation tower, I set the genoa boomed out and hoped that lack of wind was not now going to be a problem. We moved along well at first but as we approached the shipping channel on the other side of the estuary progress gradually became slower. It was apparent that I was being carried up river towards Southend pier. With a couple of tankers bearing down on me mechanical assistance had better be called for. The outboard did its duty once more and I kept it going until I was over the edge of the Maplins by the artificial island built as a test piece for the proposed Maplin airport. The light air drifted me onwards over the sands until I was about half a mile from the sea wall and then left me becalmed. I sat on the raised rear deck with my binoculars to my eyes to search for the small red buoys that marked the channel to the bridge. I'd no sooner spotted them than they were replaced by red stars when the boom, caught by a sudden puff of wind, caught me a solid whack on the forehead. Cursing my stupidity I quickly dropped down onto the thwart to ascertain the damage. It is amazing how helpless one feels in this situation when one hasn't got a mirror. Blood appeared to be gushing down my face and I could feel with my fingers a flap of skin peeled back on my forehead. The gush of blood was of course only a trickle in reality although it made a fair sized patch on my shirt. Five minutes later after raiding the first-aid box, I had staunched the flow and cleared up.

The puff of wind proved to be the overture to the see breeze which was just starting, and of course caused by the warming up-in the afternoon sun of the land I was approaching. As I sailed gently on the bridge opened smoothly at my coming and I entered the complex of small creeks that ran round Potton Island. This part was idyllic as with a leading wind I threaded my way through the gutways, engaging in abbreviated conversations with the occupants of the various yachts on moorings that I passed on my way. Eventually I emerged into the relative spaciousness of the Roach just above Paglesham. I ran down to a cluster of dinghies lying off Shuttlewood's yard to find Eric and Maureen Coleman in Rebel with three or four other DCA members’ dinghies lying astern. I luffed round the sterns of the assembly and threw a line to Eric, who caught it in one hand and passed me a steaming mug of tea with the other. I had arrived!

Later I made the mistake of taking the mud close by the side of the Shuttlewood ramp and was disturbed in the early hours by late night revellers launching their tenders to return to their yachts. The DCA pub crawlers were of course much earlier and better behaved!

The clear still evening, rosy sunset and heavy dew made it probable that there would be little wind at the morning high tide when I would have to pass out again through Havengore. I had resigned myself to a bit of motoring but would first have to find some petrol. My 4 hp had proved a bit greedy as it would only run on the way out with the choke right out. Fortunately another member had some to spare as a week-end evening is not the best time to seek fuel at Paglesham.

Guiltily at dawn Jim and Renee Bailey in their Devon Yawl powered by a contraption Jim called 'Smelly' and Snufkin propelled by 'Thirsty' “enhanced” the morning calm with their clamour. The further we could get before the London River started moving seawards the sooner we could sail. It was a pity then that the bridge keeper did not arrive until after high water. Jim and Renee decided to spend the day, because of the lovely weather, at the artificial island and travel onwards to Southend later. I had further to go so decided that I must get out of the Thames tide into the Medway where I could anchor if necessary to await the flood.

As it happened the petrol just lasted across the Thames and a light NE wind allowed me to stem the ebb into the Medway providing that I kept to the edge of the channel out of the tide. In the gentle conditions Snufkin sailed himself upriver with the tiller pegged with only occasional correction. The day passed very pleasantly as I was able to sunbathe, prepare meals and listen to music. A stop for a swim just before Kingsnorth and then I dressed myself; ready for the hazards of the ramp at the club where the racers would be hauling out their dinghies in a frenzy of sweaty wet suits.

Snufkin is quite capable of looking after himself in this robust company however. He sat in the shallows on a short anchor line with the outboard menacing aft and the stemband and eyebolt protecting forward, whilst I fetched the car and trailer.

So ended a satisfactory week-end. I had covered nearly 75 nautical miles of which about 11 had been under power. I had been lucky enough to achieve my objective. I had enjoyed excellent company at the rally, I had had a spell of good sailing and a spell of good weather. What more could one ask?