I read once that the average early Victorian lived, worked and spent all his leisure time within four miles of home. But after the bicycle had become popular, the circle, by the turn of the century, had widened to something like five or ten times this. I can't be sure of the exact figures, but you get the drift. The early Victorians were confined by only being able to walk at 4 miles per hour. The bicycle made speeds of two or three times this possible and the distances they covered were increased in consequence.

I was reflecting on this one day, reading through my old log books, realising that my average speed around the coasts was little more than walking pace. Then the thought winged its way into my brain - "What if I had two hulls? Surely, I'd be able to cover twice the distance?" The comparison between a bicycle and a catamaran didn't seem too odd at the time!

I reached for my old copies of the Bulletin, but I knew I was hooked even before I read Geoffrey Whitehead's contribution in Autumn '87. Next followed an article by David Weinstock and one from Adrian Lewis-Evans which topped up my enthusiasm. Then John Lunt advertised his Shearwater, complete with boom tent. Only a sudden worsening of the weather, heavy snow and an AA warning to stay at home prevented me getting up there to see it. Another member, living somewhat nearer, snapped it up during the week that followed. Get in touch whoever you are - we could have a yarn or two to swop!

Fate took me down to Poole near Adrian's home earlier this year and enabled us to meet for a short while. Adrian must be the youngest old man I've met in many a long sea mile, with a merry twinkle in his eye, an infectious enthusiasm and a positive zest for life. He too had an ancient Shearwater which he wanted to part with. My mind was almost made up. When he heard I had never sailed a Cat, he simply said “They're so thrilling”. But the twinkle in his eye, defined "thrilling" as the delights of Scheherazade, the riches of Aladdin's cave and the awesome majesty of Fingal's Cave - all rolled into one. Did I want her - you bet!

She wasn't seaworthy and I had a lot of work over the winter getting her right. She owes much to fibre glass, Plastic Padding's Marine filler, Epoxy, and Wood Cure. But finally she was ready for the water. St Margarets insured her for a fairly modest sum, "What is the vessel's name?" being one of the first questions on the proposal form. My aching back from first crawling underneath her, then bending low over her decks for many hours decided me. She'd almost become an instrument of torture. So "Nine Tails" she became.

Day sailing "Nine Tails" has proved Adrian was right. She is thrilling, but I've yet to fully decide if this near retirement body I'm stuck with is up to her. Recently, broad reaching in a gusty force four to five, she took off, leaving a wake like two widow's peaks and me breathless with amazement. I felt as if I had been shot from a cannon. For a moment, I was gripped by fear, feeling as if someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of my neck. But the panic quickly subsided as I saw "Nine Tails" run straight and true, as light on the helm as ever and without any tendency to broach. Coming back to my analogy of a bicycle, I realised that most of us who possess one probably trundle round at about ten miles an hour, fifteen at most. But racing cyclists in the Tours, regularly snake their way down the mountain descents, effortlessly in control, at speeds approaching fifty - it was all a matter of experience I decided. On a previous day, in only a force two or three, I had timed myself between two measured beacons and found I was doing eight and a half knots. And here was I, on this occasion, within inches of the water, skimming along at a speed which must have been approaching twenty - under a reefed main and small jib! Had I been fixed to a heart rate monitor I'm sure the hand would have hit the stop button at the end of the dial.

Windward sailing in such conditions presents its problems; David Weinstock in number 131 describing it well. "It feels as if you are sitting in front of a fire hose" he says. One day, out with a friend, we'd battled our way eastwards from West Mersea against wind and tide towards the Colne. "Nine Tails" was dipping her nose(s) into the seas and shovelling them back aboard. We were only halfway and making better progress than any monohull could have done, but it was simply uncomfortable despite our shortened sails. So we turned tail and planed across the estuary to Bradwell Creek, sailed through, crossed the muddy spit round the back of Pewit Island and close reached out, heading towards Mersea again and the smooth water of its creeks.

At the time, I had the helm whilst my crew tucked into his sandwiches. The seas had become somewhat flatter in the lee of the Bradwell shore and "Nine Tails" close reached across. The weather hull was skimming the surface and we shot like an arrow across the estuary. I made no allowance for leeway or tide and she didn't seem to need it, so fast was she going. I held onto the helm throughout, not wanting to share that moment with anyone, even my best friend of a crew. It was - as Adrian had described it - a thrilling sail. And I remembered Rupert Brook's poem "Heaven", describing that place from a fish's point of view. The concluding lines were "And in that Heaven of all they wish, there'll be no more land - say fish". It was Heaven alright, but sadly, the land came, and our sail was over - all too soon, it seemed.