I was allocated a crew berth on Ronhilda for the boat handling rally, skippered by Brian; a man of boundless knowledge and infinite patience for neophyte sailors...  even gonks like me.

Along with Brian and I were Tony, Jill and Charlie. The expedition started on Friday evening with dinner at the Chichester marina. It was only after several libations that we got down to the task of attacking the homework set by Peter Newbury.  

Charlie suggested, quite reasonably, that we should use all available methods to double check our depth predictions south of No Man's Land fort. We started with the tide tables in the almanac, the rule of twelfths, and Fowkes guide, but then moved on to the iPhone, satnav and, finally tarot cards. Similar complication was injected into the passage planning from the RVYC to Browndown.

The day started well, leaving the berth at 7.30 sharp with the sun on our backs and a song in our hearts... although not, thankfully, on our lips. We made good progress down to the Solent but, on passing the bar outside Chichester harbour, it became clear that we were going to have to tack a little towards the fort.This worked rather well in the end though, because it got us there very close to our time prediction and, therefore, our depth prediction (we had settled upon using the reading of tea leaves in the end; a method that worked well for us but which is apparently frowned upon by the RYA). 

By now, the wind had shifted, again, complicating our passage towards Wooton, so we decided to practise a little ferry dodging on our way to a late lunch anchored in Osborne Bay. Then we motored off through an excitingly busy Cowes harbour and on up to the Folly. The planned pontoon party was great fun and a chance to meet a few of my fellow little shippers.We eventually moved on to the Folly, with me firm in my resolve to avoid any of this table dancing that I read so much about in the press.

However, in my refreshed state, I was easily encouraged onto a table to throw a few shapes with my head jammed against the ceiling by Jill and Charlie, who had thrown off all English reserve and turned into a pair of whirling dervishes. Tony, meanwhile, was gyrating in a way that would have made Salome blush whilst complaining bitterly at having to share his table with an entire hen party of young girls.

Sunday was a more sombre affair at the start, brightening after one of Brian special goulash breakfasts. A nice easy sail on a dead run put an end to a most enjoyable weekend.