The first cruise I undertook was a complete fiasco. I will not enlarge on the many mistakes but merely say I had been sailing a few months in Avocet (a 14ft. gunter-rigged, clinker-built dinghy) with Maureen. She encouraged me to take Avocet for a week with Jean, but to keep within the Blackwater Estuary.

We arrived at Bradwell quay on an August Saturday. Where was Avocet? I looked wildly about. She had been left anchored in deep water. Then I saw her, sitting on the saltings far from water. I bounded over, but she was undamaged. Her drag through the mud was clearly marked. She had neatly missed a post, a row of stakes and a chunk of iron. It took the rest of the day to organise help and get her back to anchor in deep water. On Sunday a gale blew.

Monday and Tuesday it continued to blow hard and I could not consider starting. We went for walks along the sea wall.

Wednesday was fair and we set sail for Rowhedge in the Colne, having been told of a suitable camp site. From Brightlingsea creek all was new to us and the evening sail past Wivenhoe’s attractive waterfront and the remains of the ‘Cap Pillar’ was most pleasant. We reached the appointed spot and leaving the boat, went to decide on the best site for the tent. There was a thudding sound and suddenly round the bend in this small river came an enormous cargo boat. Terrified, I raced for Avocet anchored in the saltings. The vessel swept by, sucking the water after her. Avocet was torn from her nook, tugged at her anchor and rocked wildly in the wake. I was overcome by a vision of her fate had the anchor not been well trodden in. Over supper we decided we had found the wrong place as, with unexpected frequency, trains shuttled back and forth along the nearby track.

After a night of fitful sleep punctuated by trains, we were up early to find the river emptying fast; I had miscalculated the tide. No time for breakfast, we packed, stowed and were off. As we reached open water there was an increase in wind. I felt empty and tired. I decided on Brightlingsea. The run up the creek was very fast and when I turned to tack back between the many boats, I was unable to control the overcanvassed boat. Once caught round an anchor chain was enough. I made for the muddy bank, anchored and reefed hurriedly.

Off again, boat much easier to handle, but horrors! — the bottom batten threatened to tear the sail any minute. To the nearest bank, the lee, I could not get off, we jumped out, knee deep in mud and water and desperately tried to walk Avocet into deep water. We ended in a mud-locked pool off the Cindery a grassy island almost within shouting distance of Brightlingsea.

Back in Avocet black mud was everywhere. We cleaned up the boat, then ourselves. We changed our wet garments, got the primus out and cooked a big breakfast. Revived at last, we faced our vigil on the mud. During these operations a man in navy and yachting cap was seen rowing a smart dinghy sedately towards us. “Are you all right? Anything I can do?” “No thank you. We are quite all right.” I had been firmly briefed on salvage claims and anyway, I couldn’t bear to think of him getting muddy.

It started to rain. We unpacked the tent, slung it over the boom, fastening it down as best we could. Getting into our sleeping bags we made ourselves really comfortable. In a surprisingly short time the water was creeping up the mud towards us. We hastily packed up and finished our journey to Brightlingsea. Leaving Avocet to spend the night on the beach, we found lodgings in the dingy town and solaced with liqueur we had a good night.

Friday was bright and windy. With boat well reefed beside me I dithered on the hard. The multitude of longshoremen were cursing me. “Make up yer mind. Go if yer going, but get that boat out of our way.” Goaded by them, I got in, gritted my teeth, missed the post at the end of the hard and tacked out with the ebbing tide. Negotiating the fishing smacks and yachts, I breathed again when we reached Mersea Stone. Here in the lee we lunched. The tide was starting to flood as we reached down the Colne. At its confluence with the Blackwater the sea was mountainous, disturbed and confused. Out of the lee of the island the wind strength startled me. I felt a bit fearful of the sailing conditions and the responsibility for my crew. We waited for a plateau among the hills before turning to tack up the Blackwater. Then began three and a half hours of battle against spray and a tugging mainsheet. Baling was a necessity, but only possible on one tack. While hanging grimly on to the mainsheet, I was surprised to see the baler fly past. I looked at Jean, but without pause in the rhythm, she took off a shoe and carried on. At first, progress was hardly perceptible, but as time passed it was obvious we were going to reach Bradwell and we became quite gay in spite of our sodden state.

Making promises not to expose ourselves to the unnecessary ridicule of our friends, we agreed to say no more than the bare facts and forget about our day on the mud until a much later date. That settled, we walked back to Bradwell hostel.