When the nation's Small Boat Collection was moved from Greenwich to the new National Maritime Museum in Cornwall I was very sad, because I felt that "Wanderer", part of this collection, was going so far from our lives. Norfolk, our home, was a long way from Cornwall.

"We'll go to spend our summer with her," we said. A week or so before we set out, I wrote to the museum saying "May we bring our boat tent with us and sleep aboard for old times sake?" The reply came back "Your boat needs you." So, weeks later, after many busy days in the magnificent Flotilla Gallery, chatting with visitors from all over the world, we waited until the museum emptied one evening, then erected the tent over Wanderer's hull. As so many nights before, we had supper aboard, then laid out lilos and sleeping bags and prepared for bed. Looking out, before we closed tent flaps, we chuckled at our unique situation. Only a night watchman and us occupied this fabulous new maritime museum and we were sleeping in our boat surrounded by worldwide famous boats. Suspended from the roof like a floating mobile, with the undersides of boats showing the importance of design both above and below the waterline - were working coracles, an early Optimist dinghy, the elegant polished hull of a Thames skiff, and "Sunshine" a workboat, to name but a few. On the floor with "Wanderer" were other well travelled boats, like the "Rob Roy" cruised in Egypt and Palestine, the Tristan da Cunha long boat built from driftwood and covered with painted canvas that had evacuated the islanders from their home to Britain when a volcano threatened tragedy to their entire population. Closest to "Wanderer" was "Lady Helmsman" a catamaran providing the most advanced racing of the 1950's and capable of nine knots under mast alone. Outside the gallery - with the moonshine bathing her decks and the tide tugging at her mooring lines was "Suhaili". I had watched Sir Robin - her owner, taking her for a sail only days previous - with his grandchildren sitting on deck munching chocolate biscuits. That night we both fell asleep very quickly.

Either an hour, a night, or a millennium later, I had a most unique experience. I saw myself sit up in my sleeping bag, clutching at the thwart before me. I was wide eyed, dishevelled and very wet, in torn oilskins. Black water and luminous chunks of ice rushed past me in the dinghy. In the stream, husky dogs pulled sledges, Eskimos and Indians strained and struggled to keep their boats on course. I glanced sideways and felt Frank struggling with "Wanderer" who was capsized and flooded - and felt a great anger that the situation was beyond our control. Trunks of trees and bright-green leafy branches were carried through our dinghy as the luminous water poured through her. The noisy roaring of the current was hideously silent.

"Sleep well?" asked Frank as we brewed tea from our flask the following morning. I did not tell him of my nightmare or living experience for fear of being called stupid. The funny thing is that I normally never dream nor have nightmares. Yet this night's experience I cannot forget. Yet is it not to be expected, I ask myself, weeks later. All those boats in the Small Boat Collection live on in the gallery. At night when the humans leave the building, the boats must huddle together, talk of their past and confide in the experiences. Such a sea of journeys are not lost. I was privileged to catch the channels of energy that coursed through our boat one night. As the museum says in its Introductory Information Pack to its visitors "Small boats are shaped by the lives of the people who make and use them."

I feel privileged to have been in the right place at the right time. It was a night to remember.