The message on the answerphone that greeted my return from holiday was stark and simple: “Ring the police.” So I did, and learned that an arsonist had broken into the club compound and, out of some 400 boats, had picked mine to burn. She was a complete write off.

I looked over the ashes a few hours later and thought back over the 7 years I’d owned her. She was in a sorry state when I first bought her and it took quite a few months to cure her of leaks, but once this was done, I painted her in black and renamed her Black Sheep, which seemed appropriate for a Vagabond dinghy of that colour. Then came the exciting bit of turning her into a camping dinghy. I added a track on the foreside of the gaff for the main halyard, a throat halyard, reefing points and tack and clew downhauls. All of which meant that she could be sailed safely in any weather I had courage to venture out in.

Next came the sleeping arrangements. I took out the side bench and replaced it with a foot-wide piece of ply. On top of this I stored another identical piece hinged to it, and at night all I had to do was to unfold by bed on the starboard side and pile all my gear to port. After the close confines of a Mirror dinghy she was quite luxurious. I used to joke that I had room to walk about in her!

Vagabonds have nice firm bilges, and she didn’t heel much with my weight over to one side — all except once, I remember, when I’d launched into the Stour at Mistley, left the car and trailer, and set off the long way round to the meeting just south of Brightlingsea. We had a fine whole sail breeze from the south-east all the way down the Stour and out past Harwich, but just before entering the Walton Backwaters it swung violently round to the north-east. We came to anchor off the Stone after a breathtaking plane. This was something the forecast hadn’t predicted, and I thought it couldn’t last. But it did! It actually got stronger whilst the temperature fell. In my optimism, I’d chosen to stay afloat at anchor, and in the night I found the windage on the port side of the tent threatened to turn her over. I didn’t sleep much as I remember, but just lay there with my hand on the zip of the sleeping bag ready to pull it open and spring out if necessary.

My plans for the next day included a look around the Backwaters before going on round the coast to Brightlingsea, but the 0555 forecast was for even stronger winds later, so I decided to leave before things got impossible. I wound the last of the reefed main round the boom until the gaff jaws were on the gooseneck, set the smallest jib I had and pushed off against the ebb. We tacked out across the Pye Sands with much sail flogging and gun’l dipping and then got before the wind. The old Vagabond fairly flew along, planing all the way to the Colne where we had to turn into wind. I carried on into Brightlingsea itself, arriving cold and tired, and decided to go home at that point instead of attending the meet. Her average speed for the trip, including the close fetch up the Colne, was 6 knots against the ebb!

Then came the day of the club’s handicap racing. I hadn’t intended to go in, but my pal who was organiser persuaded me. The club always had a race day for all the ‘non-fleet’ boats, which had always included a number of one-man boats such as Solos and OKs and Streakers. This year all the one-manners had been given their own separate day, so the notice in the race calendar had specifically said ‘No singlehanders’.

It was blowing blue blazes on the morning of the race. My wife looked at me and took in my greying, balding, mid-fifties, slack-muscled appearance and said simply, “You’ll never keep her up!” But loyalty to my pal forced me to try, and I entered Black Sheep in the first race at 11 am. Before long the rescue boat was overwhelmed with boats in trouble, and at one point I thought I’d be amongst them, when a particularly vicious gust caught Black Sheep. I released the main completely and let it flog, and got as far to windward as I could. But the jib was still fast, and she began to dip her gun’l with the weight of wind in it. A moment before I felt sure she would go over, I nipped in and released the sheet and, with both sails flogging, I just sat to windward until the gust died down. There was no time to take a photo of the chaos that surrounded us even if I’d had a camera, but the picture will remain in my mind forever. I came ashore bone weary and with stomach muscles taut from laying out, but exhilarated from the speed of the planes. Nevertheless, I felt that I couldn’t possibly enter the remaining two races — until I found I’d picked up the second place in that one! So, re-invigorated, we set off again. This time, the fellow who’d won the first race capsized just before the finish, and again I got the 2nd place! By now I was almost pooped, but being the highest scorer on the day so far I hesitatingly tried for the third. Once again the leader of the last race and my closest rival capsized, and I got yet another 2nd place. My score was the best, and I was fully expecting to be handed the cup when I learned that the race committee had decided that ‘no singlehanders’ meant no one sailing by himself against crewed boats could be considered a true contestant. So, in one day, I’d won and lost the cup! But I always felt the moral victory was Black Sheep’s, and I was proud of her. She did wonders for my sagging muscles too!

Black Sheep gave me my first night sail, which I’ll never forget. I’d set out from Brightlingsea to the Backwaters, determined to see something of them this time, but the wind changed to head us and we ran out of tide around dusk. I anchored off Frinton, had a meal and turned in only to wake a few hours later. There was a perfect full moon out and it was almost as bright as day. The gear got stowed in double quick time and we sailed. Night sailing is quite an eerie experience. Close by the shore there seems plenty of light, but further away you feel as if you’re about to fall off the edge of the world. I was tacking along the coast, so I waited until I could no longer hear the breakers against the shore and then went about, standing out once more as they got too loud.

The tide ebbed in our favour, and just before dawn we reached the Pye Sands, only to find there was insufficient water for us to get through. So I slept at anchor until about 9am, when I thought I’d get into the Backwaters. I didn’t expect fog, however, which came up as thick as a bag and didn’t clear until almost midday. By that time I’d resigned myself to simply sailing back.

Just as I approached Clacton Pier, about 3 in the afternoon, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the fog come rolling back. There was just time to set a course to seaward of the pier before it blotted everything out. A short while later, I heard a cry for help. At first I thought it was a swimmer who’d lost his sense of direction, but when I headed towards the crisis I found instead a small motor dinghy with a father and two children aboard, completely disorientated. “Which way’s Clacton Pier?” he called to me. So Black Sheep and her compass guided them inshore until we could see the groins.

With a wave, I left them and resumed my course, but with hindsight I know I should have checked my exact whereabouts. I was too confident for my own good, however, and instead I sailed on until I just felt I was past Colne Point and turned north. Presently, the centreboard indicated shallow water and in a moment I went firmly aground. There was nothing to do except put the anchor over and have a meal whilst waiting for the tide to make, after which I peered through the swirling fog hoping to pick up a landmark or two. I was quite convinced that I’d grounded on the edge of Mersea Island on the west side of the Colne. The wind was easterly, and all I had to do, I reasoned, was to sail close hauled on the starboard tack and I’d be back at Brightlingsea. It was quite dark by the time I had enough water and was able to hoist a small jib and a reefed main and get the anchor up. Black Sheep sailed well until, once again, I found myself aground. However, this time I caught a glimpse of a large building and some lights in a momentary lift in the fog, which convinced me I was just outside Brightlingsea. I put the anchor out and slept the sleep of the smug.

Next morning the fog had cleared and I found myself ashore on the Mersea mudflats! Where had I been? It took a while for my confused brain to work out that I’d sailed too far before the easterly breeze the night before and had actually crossed to the other side of the Blackwater. Probably I’d grounded on St. Peter’s Flats. And then my close hauled sail to the north east had brought me back across the Blackwater instead of up the Colne as I expected. Never mind, I reflected; no harm was done, and Black Sheep had looked after me.

There were so many other sails, of course, memorable only for their success and the joy of handling a well-found little boat. And they all rushed through my mind as I looked over the ashes. “Has anyone got a Sainsbury’s plastic carrier bag?” I called to a couple of my club colleagues. “I could sweep her up and take her home in it!” I joked, but I didn’t really feel like it. My heart was too full.

“Bye Bye Black Sheep,” I said quietly, to myself, “and thank you. Sadly, you’ll never give anyone else so much fun, but nor will you ever be left to rot.”