Before we even thought about a narrow boat we'd both done a bit of sailing. Sue had sailed with me on our Wayfarer, Mirror and Fireball dinghies, and done some offshore sailing as well. 

I'd sailed since I was very young and grew up sailing on the Thames.  I later progressed onto offshore yachts. I took my practical Offshore Yachtmaster exam back in 1995.

YACHT MASTER  EXAM   MAY 1995

 Instructor .  Ashley Woods .

Yacht .           Blue Star of Broadway .

Crew .             Bob Sadler .

                        John Tonks .

                        Sid Piggott .

                       Simon  

TRAINEE YACHT MASTER’S LOG  

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Sunday 14th May 1995 .

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I left home just after lunch. Sue had gone off to work and as I had the drive down to Southampton ahead of me, there seemed little point in delaying my departure. My Splash Down bag was packed at the last minute , as usual, and with ‘oilies’ slung over the top, I set off hoping everything needed was remembered . It's always difficult to estimate exactly what to take, and to get what you do take into one bag. I had put the usual items in, including the necessary documents - log book and V.H.F. licence .  

I arrived at Mercury Marina  on the Hamble at just after five in the afternoon. The boatyard is typical of its type, with pontoons lined up in front of the marina office, and as seems the norm, full of yachts despite the time of year .  The Sailing Club yachts are kept on the outside pontoon, farthest upriver. After meeting the harbour master - one of the grumpiest I have ever met - and some heavy lugging, I was on board blue Star of Broadway, a Starlight 35, and my home for the next seven days. Looking around the cockpit the gear seemed a little lighter than I was used to with all the halyards and sheets running back to the coachroof adjacent to the companionway - a real luxury in anyones book .

After venturing down below I met my fellow students and shipmates for the week. Sitting in the corner, on the port bunk, was Sid, a part-time sailor from the East Coast . Next to him was John, who was from 'south of the river' and another boat owner. The last of my contemporaries  was Bob, who welcomed me aboard with a cup of hot coffee. Ashley, our skipper and instructor for the week, soon appeared from the after cabin. Introductions and a briefing followed, then we set about familiarising ourselves with  the rigging of storm sails while Ashley was doing some last minute repairs in the cabin.  

After a few hours of toiling and in fading light, we headed up to the clubhouse for a meal and a couple of pints. The conversation was polite and reserved as it always is in these situations, all of us a little apprehensive, no doubt. Sid, it turns out, is along to gain some technical experience and will not be taking any examination at the end of the course. John was intending to go for the Coastal ticket, so it was down to Bob and myself to have a go for the Yacht master exam on the following weekend .        

Monday 15th May  1995

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 It was an early start, a theme that seemed to be in for the week. John was cooking breakfast when I emerged from my pit. The others were all in a similar state, all bleary eyed and yawns. Over eggs and bacon we discussed the day ahead, and wondered how we would fare. The first half of the day was taken up with ship handling, on and off the pontoon, time and time again. It soon became obvious that Sid and John’s boat ownership, and experience gained through them, would pay off in this department. I became a little despondent faced with what seemed to be superior seamanship. We continued on after lunch until, just after five o'clock,  we slipped our mooring one last time and headed off down the river towards Southampton water .

Ashley had told me that I would be taking us to Bembridge, a small port on the eastern edge of the Isle of Wight. We motored out of the Hamble, L.S.P. fashion, and set a full main and Genoa as we passed the spit buoy. In light airs we turned towards Calshot, keeping as close inshore as possible and away from the main shipping channel, which is always busy with a variety of craft both large and small. It was a lovely evening and we soon settled into an enjoyable sail .

After heading a little too close inshore - I was reading boat speed as depth - we altered course to an almost straight track through the forts. As we closed them my confidence was lifted slightly as John and Sid became unsettled, and then undecided, about the large cross channel ferries entering the Solent from the eastern end. It showed a hint of inexperience I felt , so I asked Bob, who was at the helm, to hold our course - at least for the time being . Ashley all the while was down below, and although working on some urgent maintenance,  had  no doubt  heard every word spoken and felt every move of the boat .

We soon cleared the forts and turned onto a new course for Bembridge . The light was fading fast and it was not long before darkness was upon us . We tacked inshore after a short while, heading for the buoy marking the entrance to the harbour. There then followed one of the most difficult piloting exercises I have ever attempted. Under the guidance of Ashley, and the use of the powerful Aldis lamp we edged our way in. The entrance twists and winds along a channel for several hundred metres, marked only by a series of unlit buoys. Watching the depth gauge closely, we began to 'feel for the bottom' in order to stay in the main part of the channel. After what seemed an eternity we entered the little harbour proper and  were soon tied up alongside the visitors pontoon. It was by this time getting on for 11pm. Bob cooked a magnificent roasted ham dinner, which we washed down with a couple of well earned cans of bear . It was then all I could do to drag myself to my bunk, and to a welcome nights sleep .

 Tuesday 16th May 1995            

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  We were up not long after 6 am. I cooked breakfast, an effort in itself in the cramped conditions of Bluestar's galley. The day was outlined by Ashley. We would slip Bembridge and head over to Chichester. Bob was deputed skipper for the trip, his first task to get us out of the difficult Bembridge entrance. 

 We left wasting no time alongside. The tide was on the ebb so we would have to be extra careful not to go aground. We soon became well aware of the tactics for such manoeuvres, 'feel the bottom' Ashley would tell us, 'keep up wind, you can then use the wind to blow you off if you touch bottom', 'plan the headings in advance, you then know which direction to look for the next mark'.  It seemed to work, and it was not long before we set course for Chichester fairway buoy. The wind was a north easterly force 5, and the sea on this side of the Island had become a little lumpy. We began what turned out to be a long beat over to the mainland, the port tack making little progress over the ground. Bob used a system of back bearings to start with and then forward bearings and clearing lines towards our destination. The day continued in typical gloomy English weather, the Island and Chichester keeping station, neither seeming to change in distance, despite our efforts.

We eventually arrived, passing the outer marker late in the afternoon. The wind though, was against us. We had received a gale warning, coming from the south or south east, it would increase to a force 8 soon. With this in mind we quickly turned round and headed for Portsmouth, heaving to on the way in order to eat a late lunch. The days activity had taken its toll on us all, but Sid seemed to have faired the worst.  He looked very tired and drawn .  We finished in Campers at Pompy, along side . A hot shower and a even hotter meal followed, as did sleep, glorious sleep.

Wednesday 17th May 1995 .                                        

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The day started with the noise of the howling wind in the background. The routine was by now well established - up , talk sailing over a rushed breakfast, get sailing. After a short pontoon bash we had a magnificent sail around the harbour. Beating up a short offshoot to the main area was interesting to say the least, it showed just how skilful Ashley actually was . We all took turns helming and calling the tacks and gybes, passing close to a couple of moored submarines on a number of occasions .

These gyrations exhilarated us all and boosted  Ashley's 'cred' to a higher level than it was all ready. We returned to the main harbour and picked up a mooring for a quick cuppa. We encountered the scourge of the English home waters while sitting there, enjoying a well earned rest. Most people shudder at the thought of the Great White shark or its like, but they completely drop their guard when at home in the Channel. They fail to notice that marauding predator in their midst, those gleaming gnashers surrounded in whiskers, the Breton cap gliding towards them above the distinctive Dory, displaying  its identifying marks 'HARBOUR MASTER' . Our encounter was short and unbloody, we escaped with a few harsh words about putting our boat on a buoy that was intended for – er, boats . Oh well, as far as being savaged goes it wasn't too bad.

We continued after our break with some sailing practice, gibing single handed while facing astern being just one example. The afternoon progressed to picking up buoys under sail, both up wind and down wind, using the tide and wind to control the yacht. The wind, by now, had abated slightly so we decided  to head on out into the Solent again, and stick our nose into the weather in order to test it (or maybe ourselves) before deciding on the nights venue.  Leaving the entrance it soon became apparent that the wind had dropped considerably, and the sea was calm just outside. We started some man over board practice, each having several attempts using the crash turn, then the ‘reach off’ technique. It all went pretty well, so as the light began to fade we sailed over to Freshwater Bay ( I.O.W.) anchoring in the dark.

Thursday 18th May 1995. 

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The weather looked like it would be kind to us at last. Blue sky had been spotted, all be it only briefly, and spirits were lifted . The ritual was performed with the luxury of a short rest while Ashley spoke to us all individually on the foredeck, the idea being to give us his opinion on our level and ultimately our exam chances. Bob returned very disappointed: he was advised to forego the exam on this occasion, the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear. It was the right decision, but still hard to bare for Bob. John would go for the Coastal Skipper and I was advised to take the Yacht Master (Offshore) as intended . We were soon on the move and entered Cowes for some pile exercises. Lunch time came quickly and passed even quicker, the pace now rushing on towards the exam days. We left Cowes and crossed the Solent to the Beaulieu river, using the entry as a blind nav practice. Once inside we continued the relentless quest for competence with more boat handling, up and down the river, on and off the moorings .

Friday 19th May 1995

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 We had sat at anchor in the river over night,  the only disturbance, in this otherwise tranquil spot, being from the gulls and waders on the nearby sand bank . This was the big day, we had to be back in the Hamble for the examiner by 7pm  and there was still plenty to do before we would be ready . After a stop at the fuel barge on the way in, the boat was soon alongside at Mercury, positioned for an easy off when the time came. While Bob and Sid cleared up, John and I went ashore for a shower and some last minute theory. It was at this time that some doubt entered my mind about my ability to pass the exam. The biggest problem being the fact that I had no experience of such matters, having sailed almost exclusively with the Project. I had a word with Ashley who stood by his opinion that I should go ahead and take it.

And so it was, at 7pm the examiner came on board and the final stage had started. His name was Tom, a power boat instructor from Southern Sailing, and as it turned out, a nice bloke. John and I had been given a passage plan to prepare, mine was to Guernsey, John’s to Poole, and it was not long before we were going over these, Tom checking every thing we said in his Almanac.  Other questions followed about the boat and its safety gear. We demonstrated our knowledge of life jackets and flares, both of us wondering if we had got it right and watching our tormentor’s expressionless face for any clues. It became obvious after a while that Tom was nearly as nervous of us as we were of him, he later confessed to feeling like the enemy every time he stepped on a boat to examine members of her crew.

The preliminaries over we left our mooring with John as skipper and once again headed out to the Solent, Johns instructions, to find the Bramble post . All went well if not a little rapidly, under full main and genoa while still in the Hamble. The weather had gradually improved as the week ended and today was no exception, the wind a moderate to light breeze .    

We entered Southampton Water and set course for the Bramble Bank . The post was to prove to be more elusive than we first thought, and as darkness fell being unlit would add greatly to the problem. After a while, and with no sign of our quarry, John began to look a little apprehensive.  He had to make a decided effort to get the navigation right and finally locate the post. After a great effort on his behalf we came upon it and it was a much relieved John who then took us into Cowes and alongside .

I was then to take over and after a meal we were to go to Beaulieu and anchor for the night. Tom, though had other ideas. After I had presented him with my passage plan he told me there was a change, we were going to Power Station Creek instead. It was back to the chart table for me and another hurriedly prepared plan, this time to somewhere I hadn't even heard of. 

We left Cowes at just after 11pm, the place as quiet as I'd ever seen it, and were soon crossing the Bramble again on our passage back to Fowey power station. The short trip went well and we soon re entered Southampton Water. A large ship at anchor just outside the Hamble confused me for a while , but we 'stood on' which seems to do the trick until you can be sure of the lights shown. It was then a short tack across to the creek entrance, which was unlit and marked by a series of short posts. After a close encounter with a moored fishing boat we found the entrance and went slowly in watching the depth as we did so, until we found the right spot and dropped the anchor on the muddy bottom.

  Saturday 20th May 1995

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We were up very early because of the tide and began some exercises out in the main channel of Southampton Water. I had to do Man over Board under sail, then pick up a mooring buoy under sail. John then did the same under power. Then it was off to the hamble, entering using blind navigation from below. Inside we picked up some piles, both of us in turn, then it was all over and we went back to Mercury and Bluestars mooring .  

A hearty late breakfast was prepared by Bob and Sid while Tom quizzed John and I about weather etc. Then before we ate he gave us the results . WE BOTH PASSED . The meal was washed down with a can of beer, the best I have ever tasted .

YACHT MASTERS  LOG 

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  We stayed on board long after Tom had left us, talking about the past week and what it had meant to each of us. All of us had decided to stay on board until the following morning this would allow us to go to the marina club house that night for a meal and few drinks.

 The evening was very relaxing and we were joined by crew members from the Met boat Phoenix of Broadway. The trouble was that now the pressure was off and the week over everyone began to feel very tired, by the end of the night I found it hard to keep my eyes open, so it was a very weary crew that spent the final night on board .

 Sunday 21st May 1995

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  I left the Hamble just before lunch and drove back to Wheathampstead. As always it was nice to be home but it takes a little adjusting to, even after only a week at sea so much space and time to yourself.     

We started looking for a boat of our own in early 2007.  Our aim was to find narrow beam of 56-60ft that we could live on during extended cruising in the summer. The only real criterion were that she should have a washing machine and not be over 60ft, as this would stop us doing the whole system.  

NoTime Wasters

We’re looking for a boat.  After a couple of narrow boat holidays and many happy hours spent with some friends who live-aboard, we’ve decided that our time has come.  For too long we’ve chanted the old clichés like they’re some sort of mantra: ‘You only live once’, ‘there are no pockets in a shroud’, ‘how much money do you actually need’, ‘you never know what’s round the corner’.  Now it’s time to think seriously about the one real thing those oh-so-easily said words have in common - they are all true.

“They’re all true, you know”, I said to Sue as we sat on the sofa thumbing through a copy of Canal Boat.  Her head fell softly against my shoulder.  “I know”, she replied.  “Could we pack it all in, do you think”? I said, “Work I mean, we’re not that old.   Would you be happy without the challenges, without the social interaction, the responsibility?”  I thought I’d toss that in; it was to me an important point and something, I thought, she would want to mull over.  A millisecond passed. “Watch me”, she said.

And that’s how we came to start the long haul towards buying our first narrow boat; a journey, in fact, that’s not yet over.  We began by trawling the Internet and magazines, and by visiting our first Crick show.  “Rule number one”, I declared.  “When looking for a boat…”.  “Bring an umbrella”, Sue offered.  “You get what you pay for”, I said.  “You do”, she agreed.   We set off not long after to visit a few marinas, tempted by glossy photos of ‘1500Kw inverter, plus 3 domestic, I engine’ and ‘pump-out and s/s water tank’.  “What’s an inverter?” Sue asked.  “Oh I don’t think you need to worry your pretty little head about things like that, darling”.  I said.  “I thought so”, she replied.  “Well, you’d better find out, it sounds important”.

Rule number two when buying a canal boat:  Take advice from someone who knows what they are talking about when it comes to things like inverters.  Someone who owns a nice boat, and has done so for several years.  A boat that’s as nice today as it was when they bought it.  Someone who obviously knows how to look after a boat.  “I’ll ask Derek”, I said.  And I did.  I asked about hull steel and batteries; about washing machines and engines; about wood, wiring, toilets, swims, insulation and paint.  And above all, I asked about whose boats were best and whose boats were not so best.

“It’ll have to be a Cruiser, don’t you think”, Sue said, as we headed up the M1 towards the Midlands in continuance of our quest.  “Yes, of course, It’s got everything we’ll need in the summer:  A deck to lounge on if the towpath is too narrow or too busy, and somewhere for the dogs to sit when we’re motoring”.   At one marina, we looked at several new boats.  We ran our hands along panels that felt as if they had been rubbed down with a cheese grater.  We opened cupboard doors, peered inside and then attempted to close them again, often with limited success.  “What colour is the canal water”? I asked Sue on one boat, from the ‘head shoved down in engine room position’.  “Oh, you know, brownish”.  “Well, at least the boat hasn’t sprung a leak”, I said.  “This lot’s rusty coloured”.  “Rule number one?” She said, with a haughty smile.  “Rule number one”, I agreed. 

“’Ere, that one looks nice”.  I had seen a second-hand boat moored alongside the pontoon, just up from where we were.  “It’s a Trad”, Sue said.  “I thought we agreed on a Cruiser”.  “Yes, but what about the extra storage space.  And it looks nicer.  Rule three”, I found myself saying.  “Always be prepared to change your mind if a new viewpoint presents itself”.  We got the keys from the sales office and went on board.  To me, the boat had all the things we were looking for:  A reliable brand of engine, which had sufficient power to cope with rivers; a washing machine and travel-pack to run it; a boatman’s cabin to give a bit of privacy if either of us wanted it; a cratch; and a cassette loo, too. Everything.  I turned to Sue, to vent some of my enthusiasm for the boat on her, only to find her bent forward with eyes about an inch from the edge of a cupboard door. “It’s MDF”, she said.  “And the style, I couldn’t live with this.”

The style, admittedly, was a bit different and exhibited a personal, and very distinct, taste.  Cost; price; value.  If they are not in harmony, then something has to give.  The price of the boat, close to twenty thousand more than the new boats we’d just looked at, reflected its quality – it was far better than anything we had seen up to then.  (It was also from a good hull builder and fitting-out company).  Part of the boat’s original cost would have been due to the special style the owners wanted.  A cost they were probably trying to recoup.  But to anyone who didn’t share their liking - and we didn’t - its value was far less than the price being asked.  To me, though, it did have potential: a new, more traditional exterior paint job, our own stuff inside and she could be the boat for us – but of course, only at the right price.  Sue wasn’t convinced, “I read it somewhere”, she said.  “MDF shouldn’t be used in boats".

We continued looking.  “What about a Polish boat”, Sue said one day, “I’ve seen some on the Internet”.  “Great”, I said.  “We’ll call it Red October”.  And off we went again in pursuit of our dream.  We looked at a number of boats at one particular marina.  “This one’s nice”, Sue called up to me from the rear galley of a reverse layout cruiser. “Very open, bright and spacious feeling”.  “It’s a cruiser”, I said.  “Rule three”, she replied.  It’s MDF, I said.  “I’ve spoken to rule two, and some MDF is OK, apparently”.  “It’s sixty-five grand”, I said.  “Rule one” she said.  “Besides, we’d go higher than that if we had to.”  “It’s not Polish”, I said.  “No, It’s British”, she replied.  “Good point”, I said. “We aught to buy British if we can.  What sort of engine has she got?”  “Isuzu”, Sue said.  “Thank God for that”. 

The more we looked the more boats we found with bits we liked better than the bits of others.  But none about which we liked everything.  Rule number four, I thought – don’t rush.  “I’m convinced it will be like when we bought our house, you know”, Sue said, as we sat at home in front of the computer one day, looking back on some recent viewings and searching for future ones.  “We’ll feel it’s right for us as soon as we walk in”.  “I hope so”, I’m starting to flag a little”, I said.  “Here’s one”, Sue pointed to a boat on the computer’s screen. “Fifty-seven foot, dinette...”.  “It says no time wasters”, I said.  “We’re not”, Sue replied.  “We’re looking for a boat”.

We 'holidayed' on board a couple times before finally deciding to buy a boat of our own.  The Four-Counties Ring was in 2004 and then the Leicester Ring in 2006.  It wasn't all smooth, er ... motoring.

SOAR POINT

I don’t really know why we went wrong: there were enough signs telling us we had strayed from the main navigation.  But wrong we went, blissfully carrying on down the un-navigable River Soar - towards a weir.

We had set off from Rugby on our second narrow boat holiday and had been going for just over a week - long enough to get half way round the Leicester Ring (travelling clockwise).The June weather was glorious with long, hot and sunny days followed by evenings made for canal side barbeques.  There were six on board: Me, Sue, Sue’s mum and dad, and Jack and Vera, our two labs.

As we left Cossington Lock, chatting amongst ourselves on the large cruiser stern, I looked up and saw the expanse of open water directly ahead.  I steered straight for it, missing the junction of the Soar and the River Wreake, and sign number one: an enormous deviation left marker mounted on the opposite bank that tried its very best to send us the correct way, into the Wreake.  I was pontificating on how we were crewing one of the true workboats of the modern Cut: a hire boat, which provided a service, and created revenue and employment.  I’d forgotten what the original bargees had that we lacked: knowledge and experience.

And so I missed sign number two.  On the right side at the junction there was a large trad on a permanent mooring.  A small group sat round a garden table nearby looked up as we passed by.  They grinned but didn’t wave; their look said it all: ‘Oh dear, how awful – what fun’.  I should have seen it but my mind was set; this water was wide and deep, it must be right.

Sign number three couldn’t have been more obvious if it was six foot tall, clad in a yellow jacket and standing next to a big white car with a blue flashing light on top.  The river was covered in lily pads bank to bank, bar a small, weaving channel up the middle.  How many boats had passed that way recently?  Not many.  Did I recognise the significance?  I saw what I wanted to see: a big river.

No sooner had we rounded the next bend when sign four presented itself: two sunken wooden hulks straddling half the river.  “Cor, look”, I said.  “You’d have thought BW would have cleared that lot away, wouldn’t you”. 

On we went.  Sue popped below and was soon back on deck clutching a copy of Pearson’s.  “There’s an un-navigable section of the Soar here, you don’t think we’re on it do you”? 

“No, we’re alright”, I said, authoritatively.

“I hope you’re right, if not, there’s a weir at the end of this lot”

The river was now getting pretty narrow, and very winding.  We passed a short section that broadened a little, with rushes on one side and a steep, muddy bank on the other.  After two more bends, the river changed completely: it lost all pretensions of grandeur and started to look as if, eventually, it would become a stream.  I stopped the boat.

“There’s another boat coming”.  Sue had spotted a narrow boat travelling behind us, quite a way off, and sure enough the boat was following on the same stretch of river.  It was a shorter craft; one which we realised had been in the last lock with us.

“He’s a local boat”, I said, remembering the conversation I’d had with the owner as we worked the lock paddles together.  “He must know what he’s doing”.

“He probably does”, Sue said.

“Told you.  I thought we were alright, I’m a pretty good judge of these …”

“He’s turning round”.

“Ah”.

Our final sign had come.  A local boat, much shorter than us, was turning round and going back – from a much wider part of the river than I had brought us to.

“We’ll have to turn round and go back”, I said.

“What, from here, we’ll never do it”. 

“We’ll reverse back to that wider bit by the rushes.  We can’t reverse all the way out; we’ve only got a week left”.

With Sue working the pole from the bow, I gently backed the boat round the previous couple of bends and then tried to turn it around.  The first attempt failed: it was impossible to bury the bow in the reeds.  We tried again at a different spot.  Too narrow, even with the bow well and truly in the mud on the far bank.  Third time lucky.  We reversed a few more yards and tried again.  This time she went, slowly pulling herself round on the bow, with just inches to spare.

We retraced our steps passed the sunken wrecks and the sea of lily pads until we reached the junction.  The little group on the private mooring rushed to the bank side, as if to witness some unexpected spectacle.

“Nice down there, isn’t it”?  I shouted.

“Don’t know”, come the reply. “We’ve never been”.