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Another weekend, another tale to tell. If you're sitting comfortably, preferably by a large roaring fire, then I'll begin.

This may come as something as a surprise to you, but as the weekend approached people's enthusiasm for sailing seemed curiously absent. Attracting a crew who were prepared to face almost certain death in light of the impending storm had proven difficult. People's excuses ranged from the sublime to the mildly implausible. A selection follow: Liz was off to Wales to mountain bike and walk (can't be too rude since that was my excuse last week); Richard's fear manifested itself in a spectatular pre-emptive 'bottom falling out of his world' (or vice versa); Ian was on standby to drive down first thing Sunday should racing be on; Stephen was attracted by the mention of beer and came down Saturday night - perhaps didn't know to be afraid, the best way; Russell and I failed to come up with an excuse fast enough and were down Saturday to fix all the things we'd broken over the past couple of weeks.

I'll gloss swiftly over the Saturday's fixing (full unabridged version available on request). Suffice to say the Battlestick who's knob was brutally pulled off last weekend has been replaced with Russell's birthday present, a Spinlock Powershaft (or something like that). The cupboard doors have been fixed so that they stay closed in the marina, ready to fall off again as soon as the boat is actually sailed. The kicking strap has been mended, Russell having learnt to splice single braided rope*. Russell departed Sunday morning determined to learn how to splice double braided rope - how the long winter evenings must fly by in the Beale/Newton household...

*Apparently a splice has 95% of the strenth of the unspliced rope. The book then ominously added 'when done correctly'. I have every faith. Richard we need to do that thing at midnight with a chicken again, otherwise Dyneema, the Goddess of Rope, will be displeased and our splices will fail at inopportune moments. "Splice" from my sailing dictionary: Method of joining two ropes by weaving together the individual strands of which they are composed. The resulting connection is stronger than any knot. Splicing is something of an art and takes a while to master. You can work on perfecting your technique by practicing knitting a pair of socks or stocking cap out of a pound or so of well cooked noodles".

So, the weather. Saturday was glorious. Once the first set of gales had blown through it was sunny and warm - no really! But as the afternoon wore on the telltale signs of an approaching depression started to appear. Nothing though which would warn of he severity of the storm (memo self, always get forecast and don't rely on the seaweed - unlike the gang of three 'yachtmaster' practical candidates on another boat who seemed blissfully unaware of the incoming weather. Actually they were also blissfully unaware of how to tie their boat up, so meteorology might have been a bit advanced - standards are slipping, I must write to the Times). Later that evening when Russell, Stephen and I rolled out of Boomerang it was wet and getting windy. The barometer had fallen, so we screwed it back on. Sorry, that was terrible. The _pressure_ had fallen about 8mb in 3 hours, yikes; the portents of doom were appearing at last! There then followed an interrupted night. Wild howling, clanking, whistling accompanied by violent rocking of the boat awoke me regularly during the night - Who did Russell have in the back cabin, or had he had mussells for dinner? No no it was the Great Storm, or was it the Incredible Storm, the Vast Storm?. Lets just say we were out of control, heeling over under bare poles still tied to the pontoon. Very glad not to be out sailing in it; remind me again why I want to race round Britain next Easter. Memo self: seek psychiatric counselling.

Anyway it is at this point that we return to Ian, who you'll remember is setting off at 7:15 from the Midlands to be down with us for 9:00. Hamble River SC announce whether racing is cancelled at 7:30, so Ian needed to set of a bit before we'd know for definite whether racing was cancelled, but shouldn't have got too far when we could let him know. Can you see what's coming? The clocks had changed hadn't they, who hadn't rememered to reset their alarm clock? Ian got rather further south than he had planned. (As author of this piece I could miss out the next bit, but for historical accuracy I will include that I also called HRCS several times around 6:30 and wondered why there was no one there...)

Needless to say racing was cancelled. So we commiserated with a full fat and lardy breakfast, then drove up to Hamble Point to look at the Solent - horizontal spray, ferries going quickly in one direction and very slowly in the other. Fierce.

Then it was time for home. Russell was dropping Stephen at Southampton station and I was off. The drive back was breezy, got home, fell asleep, did the washing and the hoovering, went to the gym, had dinner, writing this. No worries.

Unfortunately no one elses' journeys went quite as smoothly as mine. Apparently trains can't do wind, so they were cancelled leaving Stephen oh so slightly stuck. Fortunately a friend of his from Winchester was driving up to London for dinner so a lift was found (the gods were smiling). Russell had managed to get as far as Swindon before he got a call from Kate (who sailed last weekend) asking whether he was still in Hamble and since the trains were all off could she have a lift. (A thought occurs to me, wasn't it slightly careless to have forgotten to take her home last week?) Anyhow, Russell being a kind and generous soul went back to collect...

So that's the story of race three. Time for warm milky drink and straight to bed. Memo self: reset alarm clock, or will be very annoyed in the morning.

Dave

Addenda: On finally getting back to Worcestershire, it was still blowing old boots, so I went to the sailing centre to see what was happening there. The cruisers and rescue boats had dragged their moorings and were in the trees, the rowing boat had been blown off the slip and was on the far bank having crossed the lake, and four canoes had been lifted off their racks and deposited a little way away. The sailing course was, needless to say, cancelled. Ideal conditions for a blast, so James (one of the live-in centre staff) and I took it in turns to pelt across the lake in his Laser. It was a wild ride, ith some great wipeouts, and we took it in turns to speed around in a ball of spray, swapping to and from the rescue boat. On a fast reach, it needed the rib at full chat just to keep up. Top gust, 51 knots. Fantastic. Then home to hot chocolate and collapsed for the night.

Russell.