Mayfly dinghy 12' 9" x 5' 6", hard chine, bermudan rigged

When sailing to the Solent for a rally from Cobnor in Chichester Harbour, there is often difficulty working the tides with high tide midday. I reasoned that it would be more sensible to launch from Cobnor on Friday night and use the ebb to sweep me down to Sandy Point before erecting my tent; thus I would be strategically placed to nip quickly out of the harbour before the tide became too strong in the morning. Also the forecast was for SE 3-4 becoming SW 5-6 later. By starting early I would also have a fair wind. Beating against a Force 6 would not be fun at all.

Arriving at Cobnor at 6.30 pm I rushed about rigging the boat and doing as much as possible while still light. It was September and dark by 7.30 pm. Once the light had gone I ceased to rush; there was no need to set off before 11 pm. In fact it never did get really dark. The evening was crystal clear and as the sun set, a full moon rose, throwing eerie shadows across the dinghy park.

"Where are you off to this weekend?" Someone had recognised me. I seem well known at Cobnor for my ‘intrepid’ dinghy expeditions down the Solent. She kept me chatting for about an hour, but it didn't matter; there was still time to pick up a mooring, erect my fishing umbrella/instant cuddy and brew a hot drink before casting off at 11 pm. With no wind at all I had intended to row, but now a breeze started to ruffle the water so I raised the sails.

We quickly gathered speed. The wind was NE, a broad reach - this looked like being an easy trip. I kept a torch handy in case any boats came too close, but stayed just the wrong side of the channel markers and thus well out of the way of most of the traffic. In fact the harbour was very quiet that night - a fishing vessel motored past, and a couple of yachts under sail, but that was all.

Sailing at night I am always acutely aware of the sounds that a sailing boat makes when under way. The water chuckles under the bow; the spars creak gently; there is the occasional swish as we sail over a raft of seaweed and I briefly raise centreboard and rudder to let it pass unobstructed beneath the hull. Sometimes we startle a flock of birds roosting on the water and with a whoosh of wings they take off, peeping and piping as their ghostly forms, like creatures from another planet disappeared into the night.

We were going really fast now, already abreast of Pilsey Island. With the tide up I could safely negotiate the channel through Stocker Lake, thus continuing to keep clear of any boats in the main channel. This looked like becoming a record passage.

In an incredibly short time we were approaching the moorings off Mengham Rythe. There was quite a swell running here and I realised that my proposed anchorage was going to be somewhat bouncy. I could go into Fishery Creek, but then I would risk being aground when I wanted to set off in the morning. I'd have to think quickly, we were nearly there. Could I find my way into the creek in the dark? Well - I'd have to try. From past experience I knew that a bouncy sleepless night in a dinghy isn't conducive to an early start; not for me anyway. I furled the jib to reduce speed and continued towards the creek. Soon I spotted the first channel marker, then the entrance to the marina.

"Ah yes, I remember now - it's quite easy really."

Just past the marina the channel bent round to the left, then I recognised a couple of bargelike vessels I'd anchored near once before.

"If I anchor just beyond that second barge, I shouldn't dry out for too long. I just hope I can get out against this wind in the morning." Then I was dropping the anchor into the mud. The wind still blew, but the water was calm. I looked at my watch - midnight - one hour from Cobnor - that was good going. A hot drink from the thermos flask and half an hour later the tent was up and I was warm and snug in my sleeping bag. The moon shone brightly through the polythene window in my tent.

I'd sleep well tonight.