Had we been alone that day, my wife, our three youngsters and I, all would have been well. It was blowing hard up the channel at Bosham and the tide was low. Strapping youngsters were tearing away from the hard, heavily reefed and throwing their boats through a complex of tacks and gybes to sail down the narrow water through a fleet of moored boats and out into the harbour. We watched, secretly glad that parental responsibilities kept us from launching the Heron and having a go ourselves. I knew, more or less, what it was all about, but my wife had never crewed before in conditions like these. Then Brian came along and insisted on minding the kids while we had our sail. So off we went and I had barely clambered on board before having to shout, “Ready about — lee oh!” all in a breath to avoid the evil mud banks on the opposite shore. Three more tacks and then one that didn’t quite come off. “Back the jib!” I shouted, but crew replied, “I don’t know what that means.” So we stuck on the mud, and since I had to stay at the controls, crew climbed gingerly into the mud up above her knees, pushed round the nose until we caught the wind and scrambled, a little bruised and strongly tainted, back into the boat. Off we went again at great speed, another tack or two and we were stuck again. Same ritual, only this time the wind caught us so fast, crew never got back on board at all. Should she stay on the mud, or hold on tight?

She held on, and I sailed magnificently across the water, towing my wife behind. Two white hands clutching the transom, and the captain making encouraging noises to a scared small face astern. We made it to the opposite shore like that, downed the sails and rowed back to the family. “Hallo Mummy, did you enjoy the sail?”