When I looked at the forecast and saw how good it was going to be, I started making mental wagers with myself. How many would there be? Six? No. A dozen? Probably. More? Hopefully. “Load up with beer, Jones, you’re hosting this one,” I said to myself. So after a quick run round to the supermarket, I was off.

Right enough, it was a beautiful day. Force 2-3 from the SSW and brilliant sunshine.

I took the ebb out of Mersea and sailed out to the Wallet Spitway before deciding it was time to run into the Colne on the last of the flood, and as I neared Arlsford Creek, I began to look around for the crowd.

What a disappointment! Where were you all? Peter Bick was there — not with his Roamer, but with a neat little 10’ clinker-built lugsail job — made in real wood (!) and varnished so you could see your face in it — in which he’d come from Bradwell. His tent was perched above the high water mark. But there was no one else.

My roller reefing jib refused to roll up as I landed, and whilst I sorted this out, the boat started to drift off. Good old Peter in his thigh boots nipped in and caught my kedge and pulled me ashore. Very soon after we were tucking into the beer whilst keeping an eye lifting for more DCA members. We were rewarded eventually when a Drascombe Coaster hove in sight. It turned out to have Melvyn and Carol Dickinson on board. They’d also come round from Bradwell.

Well, so there were only the four of us, but we made up for it. After a good meal we all gathered on my Skipper 17 and jawed until well past nightfall. Perhaps there is something to be said for small exclusive gatherings after all.

Next morning Peter was up and off early as he had commitments, and Carol and Melvyn didn’t want to be too late as they’d planned to haul out. I set off with them around 10am in a very light breeze. Melvyn could see his trip back to Bradwell taking far too long and with a wave, he started his outboard and left me tacking down on the ebb.

So that really ended the DCA weekend for everyone except me. I explored the Pyefleet — that lovely lonely creek to the north east of Mersea Island — only to find that there were about 50 boats anchored there! Then after a good romp in the estuary in a nice force 3, I headed for my mooring and that’s where it happened!

I’d just picked up the mooring and had started to roll up the jib. It stuck. I tried again, giving it a sharp tug. Bang! The forestay went and the mast leaned drunkenly towards the stern, supported only by the new spinnaker halyard I’d thoughtfully rigged up at the sharp end.

I don’t want you to think that I make a habit of this, but on a previous rally last year, up in the Walton Backwaters, I’d had some similar difficulty. On the way back I’d experienced another bang and watched the mast take a lurch. On that occasion, the roller gear must have weakened the fixing point of the forestay as it was that which went, and I heard three pop rivets tinkling down inside my mast. This time it was the stay itself that had parted, a year-old stainless job too.

I think I must have a guardian angel out there somewhere. When things happen to me, it always seems they happen in the right place or time. Five minutes earlier or in some cases five minutes later, I would probably have become one of those statistics you read about in the lifeboat journal.

Thank you Guardian Angel, whoever you are. And if you like beer, step aboard sometime, there’s a lot left!