When the weather took a turn for the worse, Pete had to get up and go!

TAP! Tap! "What's wrong with the barome¬ter?" Sitting at the chart table, I swear I could see the needle actually falling. On an unfamiliar yacht, in high winds, on a dodgy mooring, a hundred yards from an increasingly ugly lee shore, it was hardly surprising that the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise...
Funnily enough, my first day as the new principal of the 'Westcountry Sailing School' at Brixham had started welL This would be the first practical cruising course I was to run as a brand new Yachtmaster Instructor. The stu¬dents had arrived on time. Everything seemed OK. The yacht was a Pioneer 9 on a long loan from a local examiner, and fitted with a Fare Gota two stroke petrol engine which was small, light and quiet. Although old, the boat was sound and seaworthy and well fitted out, with a good inventory. As for the students, Fred and Arnold were farmers; John was a surveyor, and Ernest a garage mechanic. Only John had sailed before. The plan was to take it gently...

"Winds North-easterly gusting Force 11, " said the radio. The previ¬ous forecast had promised Force 4 ¬5. One thing was certain. We could¬n't stay where we were. By now the yacht was snatching at the mooring chain which made the mast shudder right down to her heaving keel. It was pitch black outside, and we had a small pram dinghy attached to the stern.
"OK gents; new plan. We can't stay here. We'll start the engine, run it for ten minutes or so, bend on the storm jib, just in case, and motor into the inner harbour until it all blows over."
They all listened eagerly as I briefed them with their individual tasks. So the anchor was prepared, the storm jib made ready, and the engine started. Finally, we switched on our lifejacket lights. I wanted to get rid of the dinghy, but, sadly, we were stuck with it. Anyhow, by now it was impossible to stand on deck. In the ferocious north-easterly, huge waves were crashing onto slipways. The tide was falling too.
"Let go!" I gestured and screamed above the howling wind. The mooring dropped away, and I pushed the throttle open.Gradually the boat forged gamely ahead for about three hundred yards.
Suddenly from below, there was a loud explosion, a cloud of smoke and the engine stopped. Since there was no time to investigate, I sprint¬ed forward to the mast and yanked up the storm jib, then ran aft to the cockpit, throwing three turns on the winch. I handed the sheet to Fred and Arnold who gave it all they'd got. The bow paid off, until we were sailing parallel to the foaming shore. I glanced at the log - 8 knots.
':John!" He looked up. "Get down below and put that fire out" He hesitated. In no time he was pushed uncere¬moniuosly down the hatch, gently aided by Fred's boot. We were tearing around amongst the moor¬ings at 8 knots, with smoke pouring out of the hatch, and towing a dinghy. Suddenly as we tacked by the breakwater the sheet came free. No engine; no sail.
Time to apply the brakes. Again, I sprinted forward. Grabbing the anchor, I looked up to see the stern of the lifeboat almost within touch¬ing distance, and lobbed it across, lassoing the stern rail. Lazily the anchor sWung round the top rail taking four turns, while I snubbed the chain before dropping the wildly flapping jib. John's head reappeared from the cabin. "Fire's out!" he grunted. I resecured the sheets on the jib, then wormed my way along the deck to the cockpit.
"Let's relax for a minute," said Fred. We surveyed the scene. Waves were still crashing ceaselessly on the big slipway only a few hundred yards downwind. Silhouetted on the wall at the end I noticed the lifeboat crew who were silently watching us I quickly outlined the plan, and the risks. Lifejackets were checked again. Everyone took their places. With some difficulty the anchor was recovered and off we went again. The bow paid off, and we were sailing along the slipway, heeled right over - which at least prevented us from going aground. At that moment, I almost gave up. Suddenly I remembered a big hole at the end of the slip. But was it big enough? The answer was yes. We went about and carried on. The stern had passed so close to the steps as we went through I could have stepped off...
Three hours later we were along¬side a deserted fishing boat in the inner harbour. After a cup of tea, I collapsed into my bunk. It had taken nearly four hours to travel some three quarters of a mile to safety. At breakfast next morning in the smoke-stained cabin Ernest had only one question, "Is it always like this ?"