As is the Hejira tradition, I have invited the crew (?) to make a contribution to the blog and, having now read their musings, I think I will leave the account to them…
I think it would be helpful, however, to give some background to their characters.
Richard Cracknell (Crackers) is my preferred, reliable crew member and former Halberg-Rassy owner. He has accompanied me on passages from the Mediterranean to Orkney and lots in between.
Peter (Toad) is my next-door neighbour and only that, consummate raconteur and all-round good company. He has absolutely no interest in sailing and is no help at all. He is prone to tenfold exaggeration which you will see from his contribution below. At best, he is a passenger which he uses to justify not being restrained by the ‘no alcohol on passage’ directive.
Jerry is a ‘newbie’, a friend of Toads from the pub and great fun in his own right. He has certainly talked a good sail, but this is clearly bravado as you can see by his confusion (deliberate?) between the bow and the stern. He suggested that he would like to be designated ‘crew’ but, given the alcohol restriction, flipped to passenger…
There are only two incidents on the ‘cruise’ that are not covered by the crew/guests below. One was having a seagull shit on my head and jumper, to everyone’s amusement. The other was an exchange with the neighbouring yacht, when they suggested that Peter should be more vigilant about using sunscreen, little did she know…
Incidentally, a (rather edited) account of the ‘Ship Inn’ blog will be appearing in the June 2026 edition of Yachting Monthly. The editors have asked me to mention that Yachting Monthly gives away a rather nice sailing jacket if they publish their ‘confessions’ in the magazine. No photos required… Couldn’t be easier! Up to 500-word limit. Bill Caldwell cartoon included too.
Peter (Toad) writes: Newport run.
I have known Nick for well over 10 years, sailed with him on several occasions, boated down the Thames with him in a ‘rowboat’ and he also happens to be my next-door neighbour.
I felt comfortable that a trip to the ‘Southerly Owners Association’s boondoggle in Newport on the Isle of Wight and a passage to Hythe before finishing back in Northney marina would be a fairly run of the mill weekend. How wrong I was !
Jerry had joined the crew along with ‘Crackers’ who is Nick’s ‘go to’ crewmember, so the 4 of us set sail on Friday morning to catch the tide to Newport. I expected the Southerly owners to be all like Nick; Fair Isle sweaters, beards and drinking pints of Sweaty Sporran and that was just the women.
As it turned out, some very nice people were there to meet us, and trade stories of daring do aboard their Southerlies.
Unfortunately, that’s where the good news ends. For reasons unknown to any of us, Nick had taken ‘Butt plugs’ for all the attendees and took them to their barbecue. By the time he returned to Hejira, he was incoherent, I think they may have tried to drug him !
Nick insisted we eat on board and he started to prepare dinner
Dinner consisted of a Waitrose tortilla, a tin of corned beef and, towards the end of the cooking process, he added raw onion. We were lost for words, it was raw, tasteless and crunchy in all the wrong places, so we tried adding tomato sauce just to moisten it and add some sort of flavour, but we failed, by this time Nick had passed out !
Earlier in the day, Nick had asked me to turn the engine off which I did by moving the ignition switch from ‘on’ to ‘off’ and handing him the key. But because everything about sailing is so deliberately complicated, this did not turn off the engine at all but did risk it going into some weird meltdown because I hadn’t executed 3 extra steps including pushing red buttons.
While I was receiving my 20 lashes from the skipper, our new friends pointed out that there were ‘no such things as bad actions, just bad instructions’ of which I had received none and the lashings ceased!
Now whilst Richard is a ‘rock’ crewman, we now had Jerry as a Hejira virgin. He had bought a new sleeping bag for this adventure that was described as suitable for all 4 seasons. He also had a Thomas the Tank Engine pillowcase. It turned out the Chinese sleeping bag was, essentially, a very large crisp packet, it crunched any time he moved and must have been designed for all 4 seasons at the equator, he froze, broke the zip and ended up sleeping under a blanket.
Jerry and I were sharing a ‘bathroom’ but because we were settled dry on the mud, it was made clear that we couldn’t flush the toilet. This would normally be fine if it wasn’t for Jerry’s 50 litre bladder capacity that he released just after 1.00am. I am a man of a certain age and when I visited the facilities at 5.00am, he had filled the whole bowl ! By the time Richard woke in the morning the room had become a complete Biohazard and was closed until further notice.
Clearly, Jerry knew there was a potential issue here and, again from China, had acquired a urinary device. Whilst this may look like a sex toy, it was intended for him to pass water in his cabin without the need to visit the toilet. Sadly, for me, he doesn’t seem to have tested this device, at least not in the way for which it was intended !
The following night we decided to have a curry in Hythe and I was on the receiving end of Nick’s and Jerry’s ‘love puffs’, these are instances of significant flatulence exacerbated by the spicy Indian in the marina. If anyone had lit a match, we would have gone up in a fireball !
As a result, I have now spent 8 hours trying to convince Crackers that he should buy a yacht of his own again, so I can sail with him and suffer none of these horrendous consequences in the future!
Over and out !
Richard writes:
I must admit to a slight nervousness as I arrived at Northney Marina. I was joining three close friends; a friendship forged by the close proximity of many, many hours spent in the dim gloom of the Duke of Edinburgh public house.
The ‘Three Amigos’ were already at the boat, carefully unloading their supplies for three days at sea, with a discernible ‘clink, clink’! Introductions were made. I already knew Nick, of course, and Peter is an old pal, but Jerry was a new face. Although, as it turned out, our paths must have crossed many times in the past and we had many acquaintances in common.
We slipped lines and sailed through unrippled waters, passed seals basking in the spring sunshine. Passing Chichester Bar beacon, the wind strengthened from the Southeast and we enjoyed a wonderful sail, passed Portsmouth and Palmerston’s Forts towards Osbourne Bay and Cowes. The Medina was, as always, busy with ferries and pleasure boats as we passed through the international home of yachting. None of this, of course, came to the notice of the intrepid crew (passengers) who were far too busy, by this time, preparing and guzzling bloody Mary’s. The level of banter was beginning to increase and the skipper, as always, getting the brunt of it!
Arriving at Newport, we moored alongside Mike and Tanya’s Southerly 135, immediately greeted by their two working labradors who leaped into the cabin, entranced by a host of new smells: some very unusual!
The Southerly Owners Rally barbeque on the quay, the whole purpose of our trip, was dismissed (after handing out a number of ‘butt plugs’ – I’m sure the skipper will explain) in favour of the ‘Bargeman’s Rest’, where we were booked for dinner. The table allocated to us was an old ships wheel, not designed for eating. This, combined with a rather lacklustre menu and poor range of beers, prompted Nick to suggest that he cook dinner on board. He further announced that he would be preparing ‘Corned Beef Hash’, his signature dish. I should explain, at this juncture, that this is a man who, when he was a bachelor, his Sunday Lunch consisted of a slice of toast slathered with Bovril, horseradish sauce and pepper! My, rather inexperienced, shipmates were forced into agreeing to the skippers, completely undemocratic (and I suspect, completely premediated), decision and so, through an alcohol induced sense of laissez faire, we sat, spellbound by the chefs’ talents. A tin or two of corned beef chucked into the frying pan. Throw in a Spanish tortilla? (potato omelette), bash it about a bit, have a glass of wine, a splash of chilli sauce, let’s have a whisky, some garlic, let’s put on some Joni Mitchell, give it a stir and, oh bollocks I forgot the onions, so chuck those on top and serve it up. Even next doors’ dogs turned up their noses at the ample leftovers, the following morning.
Eventually to bed with much snoring and grunting, perched on our various ‘shelves’!
The next morning, we were all, inexplicably, starving. Off to the ‘Spoons’, located in an old church and already quite busy at 8.30am. Three coffees, one pint and four ‘full English’ later we were all feeling a lot better. Back to the yacht, slip the lines, fond farewells to the Southerly owners we had never met, and off to Hythe.
It was a beautiful morning but with little wind, so we motored up Southampton Water to Hythe, which is a modern marina complex perched on the edge of the New Forest. Hythe village turned out to be quaint and lively, and we immediately dived into the Lord Nelson, a characterful pub overlooking the water. A couple in there then off to Ebenezers, a drinking hole full of ‘interesting people’. A curry that evening was a great success and followed, the next morning, by a very pleasant, if rather dazed, voyage home.
All in all, it was great fun. The Southerly owners were charming and very accommodating; the places we visited were interesting and the company on board was hilarious. I have not laughed so much in years!
Jerry writes: A Weekend on the Water
After a long hiatus, I was persuaded—against my better judgement—to dig out my oilies and return to sea. The mission: an excursion around the Solent aboard the yacht Hejira. The crew: Nick (Skipper), Richard (Senior Crew), Peter (Crew), and myself—clearly the talent.
I’ll admit, I had some concerns. It had been a while. Had I lost my touch? Forgotten the art of seamanship? Turns out—absolutely not. Within minutes it all came flooding back, much to the astonishment of the Skipper. I could feel the sense of relief wash over him knowing he had an experienced hand on board.
The outward leg went smoothly. Sails up, wind blowing , yacht moving as intended. I took the helm for the final approach into Cowes—purely to give the skipper a break, of course.
We pressed on up the estuary, where things became a little more “technical.” Once again, I stepped in. The skipper looked relieved. Sensibly so—because without my quick thinking, we might have had a rather awkward interaction with what to an untrained eye might think was a “moored boat,” Disaster successfully avoided.
We tied up and headed into town for refreshments. At some point, the skipper appears to have swallowed half the Solent, because he developed a thirst of truly heroic proportions. Concerned for his wellbeing, we returned to the boat.
Dinner was… inventive. With limited supplies and absolute authority, the skipper produced a meal involving what I can only assume was a post-war tin of Spam. Against all odds, it was edible. Peter contributed a selection of wine, and we embarked on a tasting session. The skipper’s thirst, however, remained completely untroubled by these efforts—if anything, it worsened.
Eventually, we turned in. This was prompted by a combination of fatigue and a mysterious, travelling smell. At first we suspected a harbour-side sewage issue. Further investigation suggested otherwise. Interestingly, once the skipper retired, the atmosphere improved considerably.
Sleeping arrangements were as follows: Richard midships, Peter and I in the stern “compact comfort units,” and the skipper in what can only be described as the bow penthouse suite.
The night passed peacefully—aside from a deep, industrial-grade snoring sound emanating from Richard’s cabin. Impressive volume. Admirable consistency. He managed to sleep through it.
Morning came, and we set off mid-morning under power, heading back toward Cowes.
We passed a group of rowers, including one lady who appeared to know the skipper. She waved frantically as we approached. We didn’t quite catch what she shouted, but it sounded something about you “anchor”.
Back at the marina, we made the yacht shipshape.
Quite quickly the skipper’s extreme thirst returned with renewed enthusiasm. Several quarts later, it seemed to take the edge of it.
Then came the debrief.
Richard received glowing praise and looked delighted—borderline insufferable. Peter and I awaited our results with quiet confidence. We were awarded a solid 9/10. A strong showing, slightly undermined by the revelation that scoring had been heavily weighted toward entertainment value.
Frankly, I think we were robbed.
The End.
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