This is a true story from my Wayfarer sailing during 2003. The names have been omitted to protect the innocent.

Bideford, during the height of the August heatwave, was right on the line between the wall-to-wall stifling heat inland and the unstable thundery weather in the South-West.

The day before the apparition we had had to run the Wayfarer onto a windward beach as the outpourings from a thunderstorm 500 metres ahead forcefully played skittles with the remnants of the racing fleet. White water and upturned dinghies everywhere under the blackest of day-time skies.

Today, however was different.

We had crept out past Appledore towards the bar in a light breeze and more than misty conditions, admiring, as we went, the many different kinds of sailing-boats found in estuaries compared to our usual racing-classes-dominated inland lake sailing club. Approaching high water, we bore away and sailed with the tide up the Barnstaple river (River Taw) and into brilliant clear weather. Wall-to-wall sunshine. Even the sea was like crystal. We could clearly see the sandy bottom in 3 metres of water as we cruised quietly along soaking up the sunshine. A late lunch on a sandy beach was idyllic, but for the nagging worry that we could no longer see the adjacent mainland (Instow) shore; and the fog there seemed to be getting ever thicker. We had a compass. There was no risk of missing the hidden shore. But it was still a shock just how quickly a bright sunny day changed to a clammy thick cold greyness as we entered the fogbank.

We found the shoreline and turned right. "Just follow the coastline" was agreed. Agreed that is until the coastline and the compass disagreed. "It's a creek - sail straight across" said the compass watcher. "Nah - follow the shoreline - we cannot then go wrong" quoth the local knowledge. "That row of houses on the prom looks quite clear" said the helmsman. Soon we agreed that the 'houses' were a row of equally spaced seagulls on a rock about 15 metres away. We drifted on, devoid of all visual clues.

Then, out of the murk, a long way to seaward, we saw this strange eerie sailing ship. She was four-masted, with all her sails set high, i.e. no lower mainsails set. "What is she?" we all wondered, as we coasted along, eyes straining into the greyness.

Then, from the ghost ship the spookiest of sound signals, "This shallow water goes out a long way" it said! Our ghost ship was a couple of holidaymakers hand in hand wading out for water deep enough in which to swim.

Wayfarers are wonderful. North Sea crossings in double figures; Channel crossings aplenty, but also able to sail happily in ankle-deep water.

Needless to say, we got home safely.