There was still a little of the ebb running and a light south-easterly breeze as I slipped the mooring and motored down the narrowing Mersey Fleet. Outside I set the sails and headed south over towards the Bradwell side, tacked and let the boat nose her way east to round Bachelor’s Spit. I was quite excited: this was, after all, Bubbles’ maiden voyage.

Where was I going? I had only a general idea. It had been a miserable week so far with everything going wrong since I launched her on Monday. Already it was Thursday, best part of my week’s holiday over without any sailing. I had to be back at latest on Sunday, so perhaps a few lazy days on the Crouch to get acquainted, I thought. So much for natural optimism.

Last night the met men had promised a front passing over, with strongish winds and then a return to pleasant light nor’easters by this morning. But there had been no front, no stronger winds and the barometer had stayed high and steady so I gave it little thought. I had missed the morning’s forecast, but didn’t feel the least uneasy.

The breeze had been backing as I sailed and progress was slow. The ebb gave way to the lee-going flood and it took concentration to inch Bubbles along and round Bachelor’s Spit, but by noon I was able to pay off and headed her south down the Rays’n. The wind, such as it was, seemed now to have settled in the north-east.

My thoughts soon turned to lunch and I twisted a shockcord line round the tiller to hold it steady whilst I put the kettle on and set about making a sandwich. Bubbles steered herself on a broad reach, I was delighted to find.

I glanced astern admiring her straight wake and noticed a large black rain cloud gathering from out of nowhere. How long had it been there I wondered? In the light airs, I had been concentrating on the jib luff and it must have been a while since I glanced in that direction. Now it looked as if we’d get wet. I hastily put the breadbox below, slapped the two pieces of bread together and took a bite. Before I could swallow, it all happened in what seemed less than a heartbeat.

The wind rose and kept on rising in what seemed a sort of geometric progression. I went toward the tiller, sandwich in one hand and released the shockcord with the other, to take control. But I was not quick enough. With a bang a backing gust hit us, Bubbles gybed, out of control of the helm and lay over on her port beam. The wind shrieked like a discordant choir of banshees. I jerked the sheets from their cleats letting the sails flog and hauled myself up against the cockpit guard rails and took a hold on the weather shroud. With my weight to windward and the pressure on the sails eased, she came up a little. The water hadn’t quite come into her cockpit when she went over but it hadn’t been that far off either. Skipper 17s are supposed to be self righting, but I didn’t dare transfer my weight to leeward where the jib furling gear and main halyard were belayed, so I let the sails take the merciless punishment and hoped that nothing would part.

“Short notice, soon past,” says the old weather saw, and I thought that surely it must soon come to an end, but it didn’t. I watched the seas build in the next few minutes. It was going to be here for a while.

There were all too brief lulls, during which I eased myself inboard and rolled the jib, little by little, jumping out to the weather side as the wind freshened again. I noticed there was now a small tear in the clew. Then I turned my attention to the main which at first, refused to budge. The slides were wedged against the lee side of the luff groove by the pull on the sail and it took all my strength to move them a small amount. But gradually I hauled it down, found the ties and secured three of them during the lulls.

When it was finally done and there was no more flogging, I was able to hear the noise of the wind and waves. And what a noise! I sat there for perhaps ten minutes, more than a little shocked, bewildered and frightened by it all. I have been around this coast off and on, for about twenty years, mostly in dinghies but latterly, as I grew older, in small lightly ballasted cabin boats. I’ve always sailed alone and fortunately had never experienced such a sudden and violent change in the weather. Now Bubbles lay in the troughs rolling heavily as the seas hit her. Each time I thought she’d never come up, but each time she did. The wave tops were whipped off and flung at us in drops that seemed as hard as birdshot. It stung my eyes to look to windward. I wondered vaguely what wind strength this was. I’d managed my previous Skipper in a 6 reasonably enough. But this was more, much more than that. The sky had darkened and the rain began.

Eventually it dawned on me that I couldn’t stay here waiting for things to moderate. Somehow I had to reach shelter. I pulled the helm up to see if she’d run before the wind, and for what seemed an age Bubbles stayed wallowing, but finally she answered and began to pay off. To the south-west lay the Crouch, its entrance between the low lying Shore Ends and the Foulness sands, obscured in the rain. I hoped I could find it. Bubbles picked up her skirt and ran like a damsel in distress, moving at more than twice the speed she’d managed earlier only this time there wasn’t a rag of sail set! On the tops of the waves she planed forward only to come to what seemed a juddering halt as she dropped and dug her nose into the back of the next. I sweated at the helm to keep her from broaching.

She roared past Shore Ends and I gingerly unrolled a scrap of jib to give me more control and to help me to keep close to the northern shore where I planned to anchor, but the Crouch seemed to be boiling. I’d never seen it in such a state. There was no shelter here. We carried on until I saw the Branklet Spit buoy. Bubbles gybed over, the jib coming across with a crack like a pistol shot. The clew still held. We ran south to Horseshoe Corner and jibed again, westwards towards Paglesham, hugging the northern shore in the narrower and calmer Roach. I luffed her towards the mud and ran forward, dropped the hook before she had time to blow off again and then shot back to the cockpit to roll up the flogging jib — then I got out the bottle of brandy that I keep — purely for medicinal purposes you understand!

That evening’s forecast told a completely different story. The same slow moving 1030 mbs high pressure system over central England that was supposed to give us the fine weather and light winds was now producing northerly gales in Humber, Thames and Dover. My glass stood at 1028. I could only scratch my head and wonder.

I changed the torn jib for a smaller spare and set the only reef the mainsail had before turning in for the night, hoping for a change in the morning. But there was none except that the rain had stopped.

By Friday lunchtime I was feeling restless and a plan hatched in my mind to try to get back. With a scrap of jib and the reefed main, Bubbles retraced her course of the previous afternoon. She held up well in the relatively smooth Crouch, but as soon as we poked our nose outside and seas with curly foaming tops hammered her weather bow, she lay over enough to make me lose my nerve. I hauled down the main and scuttled back, anchoring this time above Holliwell Point and letting her take the ground that night.

“Fraidycat,” said one half of me — “Discretion is the better part of valour,” said my other self, attempting to justify its actions. I resolved the conflict by promising myself to try again next morning at high water — 4am — when there is often a lull — at least to begin with. I didn’t sleep too well that night.

At 3am she floated and swung into deeper water on the anchor. I dressed, consumed an overly hot mug of coffee, pocketed a couple of Muesli bars in case I got a chance to eat and set the reefed main. Then I lowered the boards and got in the hook.

Once we got our nose outside we again took the full weight of the seas, but this time I found myself a little less frightened. It was still dark and I could only deal with what I could see. There was no apprehension caused by looking further to windward trying to anticipate. This time I took each sea as it came. Bubbles shouldered her way through them, like a hurrying shopper in a crowded supermarket. With each one behind us I gained in confidence. I was still more than a little scared though, I had to admit.

Eventually I summoned up enough courage to set a scrap of jib. She still held up well. I feathered her through the gusts and let her have her head in the lulls. Tacking was a problem. Twice near the Buxey Beacon we tried, twice she fell back hovering vulnerably with no way on, before picking up again. I eased the mainsheet, ran her off and tried again. She came up into the wind, stood on her tail like a dolphin after a beach ball, then I saw the jib back and knew we’d made it.

The darkness gave way to gloom and the gloom to daylight. It wasn’t a pretty sight but my nerve held and she plunged on, throwing spray everywhere. Big’uns came over the weather bow but now I had confidence. We’d come this far, we could go the rest I figured. I blessed that tough buoyant little hull and silently said a prayer of thanks to Peter Milne her designer.

Tack for tack we moved north, playing the mainsheet like a dinghy; past the Bachelor Spit and then over to the Mersey shore. Here the wind seemed to rise further and the main flogged almost continually, but finally the Nass came into sight and I felt my chest loosen. I breathed deeply again.

Coming into moorings I put the outboard down, dropped the sail and motored over the last of the ebb, through a cacophony of halyards slatting against alloy masts and the shriek of the wind in rigging. Bubbles had been giving a solo performance during the trip but here was a full Wagnerian orchestra playing fortissimo! I realised something about fear in that moment: if my journey had started from a crowded mooring — with this noise around me — I’d never have summoned up the courage to leave it!

It was nearly 10am when I picked up my mooring. The trip had taken 6 hours, almost twice as long as I would normally have expected in reasonable conditions. My stomach said it was breakfast time. I went below, taking off my cap as I did so and rubbed the back of my hand across my face. It was so salt encrusted it felt like sandpaper. A wash first, I decided and perhaps then a little of the brandy that I keep — purely for celebration purposes, you understand!

I dozed for a while and woke to hear the 1335 forecast and weather reports. Dover still had an 8 but Smith’s Knoll could boast only a 6. Sounded like things were moderating. Maybe I should have waited till tomorrow to make the trip? Then a smug smile came over me and I gave Bubbles a friendly pat, knowing the answer.