Talking with a young dinghy racing enthusiast the conversation turned to "capsizing" and I remarked that in several happy seasons of coastal cruising I'd never capsized and had a strong ambition against ever doing so. "Oh", said he, "I've gone over at least a dozen times. Nothing to it really - soon get back up and carry on." I thought of trying to explain, but didn't bother, the difference between a capsize with a crew in a racing fleet with rescue boat near by and watchers on shore, and when single-handed off a lonely shore in a boat laden with cruising gear and not another craft in sight. But afterwards, thinking of the conversation, I realised that my little Mirror had, on a few occasions, been turned over, though never in the conventional way.

I think the first time was after leaving her moored in a light offshore wind, with all sails set. On returning I found she'd slipped her mooring and gone. But not far, as it was only our local quarry. She was inverted about 100 yards out and as I stood wondering what to do, down a slope, rushing and shouting, came several people from nearby houses carrying a dinghy. In their excitement they almost threw the boat into the water so it seemed to me that a rescue of sorts was intended. I made enquiries and found that someone had noticed my boat sailing, then saw it blow over and since no head appeared in the water it was thought that I was still underneath. Half an hour later, the local police force who had been called out and arrived promptly had also to be reassured that I was alive and well. Good hearted folk in North Wales, but inclined to panic.

The next time was still in my early sailing days and in my innocence I'd run nearly the length of the Menai Straits with a SW force 5-6 right behind me. I'd read somewhere that gybing in a strong wind was dangerous but never thought to drop my mainsail and just use the jib. But finally, coming into the open N.E. end of the Straits near Bangor, I decided it would be safer to put the mainsail over to the port side. Trying to tack round through the wind I got in irons and being too close to the Anglesey shore I ran aground. Jumping out to push off, I promptly sank into deep black mud and lost my sailing sandals.

Now I don't know what kind of footwear you use when sailing but I swear by those white plastic French made sandals - about £2 a pair now - don't hold water, don't rot or stay wet. The soles have excellent grip on wet rocks, grass etc. I've walked, climbed and scrambled over rough coastline for miles and they're like new still. But if they have a fault it's that they will slip off too easily. I’ve lost them twice at the beach while messing about in the water, but found them again at low tide. But I digress.

While cursing and searching around for my sandals a gust capsized the boat over on the mud. Lord, we were a muddy pair, "Little Mischief" and I, before we finally got off. But the incident, at the very least saved me from a serious capsize, because while I was in the mud the idea finally came to me to drop the mainsail. A mile or so later I was very glad I'd done so. The wind was gusting up to 7, I swear, and against the tide the seas were rather difficult. Even if I hadn't accidentally gybed, with full mainsail up I could have been out of control. But I'd learnt a lesson or two.

The third time was in the same area. The tide rushes through the narrow rocky Swellies at from 3 - 8 knots and it's practically impossible to sail through against the current, though I reckon a dinghy can go through the main channel safely, at any state of the tide, in the direction of the current. You won't find that opinion in pilot Books and it could be wrong but it is based on over 40 random observations during a period of 12 months each one noted down, on the water flow direction, speed and surface state. Plus a 24 hour period camping on the shore in the Swellies and about six passages.

Anyway, one week-end I got my times wrong and found the flow had just turned against me, so after trying backwards sailing for a while, I decided to land, stow the sails and then row back with the tide and against the wind to a nearby camping spot. But I hadn't been rowing long when I looked over my shoulder and was shocked to find myself only about 10 - 15 yards away from a temporary pier made of scaffolding poles with a floor of planks on top. I was heading straight for it at a high rate of knots. One wild frantic pull on an oar only succeeded in turning me sideways in the current. Then the poles, which allowed the water to flow freely past, stopped me abruptly with a horrible crunch as one end of a cross pole punched through the ply.

The opposite gunwale dipped under the water and the fast river-like flow poured in. I stepped out and on to the poles and could only watch as in a few seconds she was filled and pushed down by the weight and strength of the flow until she received her second puncture from another scaffolding pole end. It was about three hours later before I could start salvage operations when the water level had fallen enough to leave her high and dry, still impaled on the pier.

My latest capsize happened while on holiday with my family by a sandy beach, famous for its surf, in North Devon. I'd rigged the boat and attempted to sail off the beach. But after being swamped four times I gave up. Then along comes Jeff, a non-sailing friend of mine who hadn't seen my efforts and with tone of voice more than words, implied that I wasn't much of a sailor if I couldn't get my boat out through the surf. "Right", says I, "we'll strip her, no mast, rudder etc., just two oars and then you and I will try once more". So this we did. Well, we got over or through a few waves but hadn't made much progress and the boat was already half full of water, when along came a 'big one'. Bow over stern we went; I came up spluttering to find myself only waist deep in the water. Looked around and saw the boat upside down between me and the shore, but no Jeff in sight. I was just coming to the conclusion that it was going to be a difficult explanation to his widow, but I'd better go and look for the oars first, when a spectator came forward to the boat and lifted up a gunwale.

He said afterwards that he could hear Jeff knocking, but he foolishly lifted the gunwale on the side nearest the beach and just as Jeff was staggering out from under, another wave came crashing in, hit the bottom of the boat and then they both disappeared. Poor Jeff got a bloody nose out of that and a firm conviction that boats were not for him. Me? I thought I might take up dinghy racing. Seemed safer somehow.