A good friend, Denys, and I, both with a considerable amount of sailing experience (albeit mainly in dinghies) had sailed on a mutual friend’s 30-or-so-foot sloop on the East Coast and, with our wives, in Greece. During the latter trip, Denys and I, the deeply oppressed and overworked — indeed occasionally-driven-to-the—edge-of-mutiny (or drink) — crew, began to think that we could do as well as ‘Skip’, and would like to own a boat ourselves.
Chichester Harbour was easily accessible to both of us — but as it turned out, perhaps mercifully, not so much so for our friend — and in due course Denys and I became the proud owners of Goldbeater, a 31′ Golden Hind plywood, triple keeler, sloop designed by the doyen of East Coast yachtsmen, Maurice Griffiths (also famous for his book The Magic of the Swatchways), built in the 1970s, on a swinging mooring off Hayling Island.
Of the quality of her design, and her condition, there were no doubts whatsoever. If the truth be told, however, as we soon discovered, although very seaworthy, she was heavy and slow — indeed, we used to say that she would do 1 knot in a Force 1, 2 knots in a Force 2, 3 knots in a Force 3, and, irrespective of the strength of the wind, after that 4 knots was her top speed.
Nevertheless, we were as proud as a pair of Punches with her, and, come Day 1, for the first sail we decided that we would go East from Hayling and spend the night in Newtown Creek, towards the western end of the Isle of Wight. Having got the feel of the boat in the morning, we were brimming with confidence and soon speeding – well, at least progressing — down a very calm Solent in a warm Force 3, wondering if there was a J Class about with which we could have a friendly race down past Gurnard to West Lepe. Sadly, however, they were obviously all occupied on higher things. We avoided the forts, passed all the buoys on the right side, kept out of the shipping lanes, all with a natural nonchalance and the aplomb and skills of Offshore Yachtmasters (even if we didn’t actually have the qualifications).
In due course, and happy as sandboys, we arrived off Newtown Creek. The wind was slowly dropping, we proved that we knew how to start the engine, did so, downed the sails and motored in a gentlemanly and stately fashion towards the entrance. Needless to say, it had never occurred to us that, despite it being a gorgeous Saturday in June, by teatime the anchorage would be completely chock-a-block. No such luck — we would probably have found it hard to squeeze a canoe in. Nothing daunted, however, we decided to drop anchor outside, applied a touch of reverse, and found a nice-looking spot. We displayed our lead-heaving skills, discovered the bottom was firm sand, with the odd rock barely projecting through it: ‘Right, that’s fine — there’s ample water — just here!’ Naturally, by the time that everything was shipshape for the night, the sun had started doing its usual thing, and out of the cabin came the white-coated steward — he who had drawn the short straw — with the drinks tray and canapés. An hour later he announced that dinner was served, and we tucked into a really useful meal, pre-prepared with total TLC by our wives (in exchange for not having to come with us), washed down with a fine Pouligny-Montrachet.
Gradually, after all that fresh air and success, sleep began to waft its whad’ye’m’call’it over us, and, as the dusk deepened, we fell into our bunks in equal states of ecstatic haze — but not, of course, before lighting the paraffin riding light, checking that there were no other boats moored within a possibly uncomfortable distance from us, testing the anchor chain, standing (as we had learned one does) in the pulpit ‘getting ready for bed’, admiring the shapes of the trees on shore, and having one last admiring glance around the deck of our treasure.
Probably some four or five hours later, I stirred in my sleep, just conscious of a curious irregular knocking or bumping sound from below the boat. Coming to, I decided that I should investigate — and made my way on deck. It was a fantastic, balmy night, with three-quarters of a moon and stars everywhere, silent as could be except for the bumping sound. At first I couldn’t make out the shore on the starboard side, and then I turned to look to port. ‘Help’ or worse! — ‘Oh, dear me!’ — ‘It can’t be true!’ — etc., etc. Not too comfortable a distance off was a huge tower, silhouetted against the Northern sky, its top covered in red lights — Fawley Power Station!
It dawned on me in a flash that our seamanship skills were not, alas, as well-honed as we thought they were, or ought to have been — and that most sailors go to sea having looked at a little booklet called a tide-table. Well, we had one too, and it was sitting, unopened, in it’s rightful place in the chart-table bookcase. We were adrift, two thirds of the way across the Solent, the tide performing its usual ritual of going up again after it had gone down in the evening — and the knocking was, of course, the anchor bumping its way across the bottom…….had somebody forgetten to apply the stop on the winch? Perhaps it is as well that I now have no memory of what Denys said when I broke him the news. We started the engine, and set off for I-now-haven’t-the-slightest-recollection-where, except that it was Eastwards, along the Hampshire shore. Perhaps we motored all the way back to Hayling — but I do remember, perhaps six hours later, our having an elegant, leisurely breakfast in the cockpit, quietly grinning to ourselves and saying ‘Mustn’t tell the girls, must we!’
