Down Channel 10

Bold, in both plumage and demeanor, a Bar Tailed Godwit patrols the tideline. In search of edible morsels amongst the sea wrack.

I am out at the sandy lagoon off East Head. Most famous of Chichester's anchorages.

Scene, many years ago, of my 'walk the plank' experience, whilst under tuition at Crab Searle's Sailing School. The sight of this dried out Dracombe Longboat, sister-ship to the school's boat, triggers my reminiscence.

"Just jump off, with the anchor, when I say lad. Carry it up the beach a bit. Its all very shallow here"

But it was deep, in the gully over which we lay. I sank like a stone. Only thinking to release the anchor as oxygen began to run low.  Rising to the surface, to be recovered by an apologetic instructor. My fellow crew apoplectic with merriment.

Today's exploration is of the Itchenor shore. I have left Stargazer in the well bred company of Itchenor's racing keelboat fleets. X One Designs, Swallows and Sunbeams. Lean thoroughbreds, evoking the gentlemen's yachts of the thirties. Low freeboards, long overhangs, sweeping sheerlines and towering rigs.

Settled by the Saxon King Icca, to benefit from the ferry toll, this tiny hamlet, a cluster of neatly groomed houses, no more, has been a centre for matters maritime ever since.

It boasts two boat building yards: Haines, which specialises in the upkeep of the keelboats; And Northshore, the original builders of the shoal draft Southerly range. (Who are, I understand, once again owners of the building rights, following the latest of the marque's serial insolvencies). Many Southerlies return here for their winter refit. Now they await their summer adventures, on the jetty.

I follow the shore path, which leads out from the yard. Through lush oak wood, with views across the saltings.

Winding my way out to the shimmering sands and topaz seas of East Head.

Back aboard Stargazer, I am treated to a grand finale. For this is to be our last night at Itchenor. The X One Designs are racing.

Barreling back up the channel. Spinnakers aglow in the evening sun. Threading through the moored boats, in search of the slackest tide. For it is running against them. Although you would not know it, from their silent rush of speed.

The fleet sweep by majestically. Tight to the shingle shore, dueling hard to the last, as they cross the finish line.