Lying against the inner harbour wall
in Ilfracombe one balmy day in May,
we’d scrubbed “Matilda’s” bottom, hull and all,
unaware of what was coming our way.
Our jovial skipper came back up top
and announced (with a broad grin on his face)
news that made our weekend sailors’ jaws drop
He’d gone in for the Lundy Island Race.

John and three of us were registered crew:
Andy and Alex and Dangerous Dave.
When volunteered thus, what else can one do
but put on a face – intend to be brave –
“Let’s do the Lundy Hop!” we all enthused
Each one’s bottle would be put to the test.
Fine glasses of wine had made us bemused
when fortified by old Hobgoblin’s Best.

The due day came and omens abounded
Dangerous Dave couldn’t make the trip down,
and old salts at the Club were confounded,
when we sailed in the Channel churned to brown.
The passage from Burnham-on-Sea was rough
Winds of forty odd knots shrieked through the shrouds
But Somerset lads are made of stern stuff
and laugh in the face of gathering clouds.

Spray slithers and veers between church steeple waves,
spume crests excitedly dance.  “Is he insane!?”
Andy Avons leaves the cockpit and braves
wind and waves to secure the flogging main.
“Matilda of Bristol” lurches to port,
caught by a sneaky renegade roller,
throwing Andy off balance just for sport –
catching him leg before like a bowler.

(there’s lots more! If you want to read it, contact me)