Yokesfleet Creek is the first one on the left, branching off the River Roach in the bottom righthand corner of the map.

"Will you launch her with champaign?" I had been asked via an E-mail.

"More likely Branston Pickle!" was my reply.

The time came to try her out - in secret. Visions of her being too low on her marks, or being down by the head had played on my mind, but none of these things came about.

She was easy to tow behind my ageing Ford Sierra. It didn't seem a boat was behind the car at 50 mph, or even when traversing a bumpy section of the B1012 near South Woodham Ferres. It was only about 15 miles from my home in Hockley to Burnham Yacht Harbour Marina, where the little boat was to be baptised.

The Marina Harbour Master could not be found, so I got going on rigging her. As I put together the various bits of string, I surveyed the waters of the River Crouch, estimating the north east wind at force two - ideal for a trial sail.

Entry into the water was not as well regulated as I would have liked. The slipway was occupied by a 26 ft trailer sailer, but the owner was pleased to move her to one side so that I could get under way. Reversing through the narrow gap left between the edge of the slipway and the cruiser proved difficult. Hoping to keep the wheel bearings dry I did not submerge the trailer enough to float Micro off. Therefore I had to push her until she gently slid into the water, but to my surprise she tipped to one side because the pointed stern did not have lateral support. This was lesson number one: 'Immerse the trailer far enough to give support to prevent heeling.'

Somehow, I had forgotten the Branston Pickle, but I was pleased that only the owner of the cruiser and his wife were witnesses to the launch. This was a time to be shared between me and my 'creation'. She was going to test me and I was going to test her.

Test number one. How would she row? After parking the car and trailer I waded the boat out sufficiently to climb aboard, then gave her a gentle nudge to get her moving. Oars in the rowlocks and she glided almost effortlessly over the smooth water toward a nearby pontoon, where I tied up to prepare the sails and ship the rudder.

The real test was to come. How would she sail and how would I manage her? Not sure if she would have weather helm, lee helm or neutral helm , I was diffident to sail her down the narrow passage between the moored boats, so I carefully rowed her to an open stretch of the river. Here the wind had increased to almost a three. The first sail to be hoisted was the main. Away she went and I felt quite happy with the response. Next I set the jib which is free-standing, not being hanked to the forestay. At first I thought I might capsize as I went forward to browse down on the halyard. Micro was nothing like Roamer in terms of stability, but there was sufficient to allow me to sit on the cockpit coaming while I gave a hard tug before cleating home the halyard.

These next moments were of wonder and amazement. To windward she seemed to go well. Tacking, she always came round, sometimes without the aid of the jib, and running she slipped along leaving three streaks of bubbles for a wake. Feeling more confident, we set out to beat two miles to the head of the River Roach. I sat on the side deck with the coaming and oar under a pneumatic cushion - which was not as comfortable as I had hoped it would be, but over time I've learned where and how to place it so my bottom remains in good shape.

Bearing away around the Branklet Spit buoy into the Roach, Micro almost got up on to the plane. No other boats were about except an anchored Sea Wych, close in to the north bank. The tide was on the ebb and the wind gradually faded, but there was sufficient to enable us to run up the next stretch towards Paglesham. Wanting a quiet night I decided to enter Yokesfleet Creek, the first offshoot of the river on the port hand.

Protected from what little wind there was by the high muddy banks, the little boat almost came to a standstill. Having stowed the sails, I rowed beyond the electric cable marked by yellow and black lozenge signs either side of the creek. Our progress was being observed by five seals ensconced on the western bank. Two were larger than the others and I guessed they were males. The sun marked its downward progress towards the top of the bank with orange, pink and purple splodges. I needed to get the improvised tent up quickly before the evening dew. To prevent any draught coming in from the front I tied an old raincoat under the boom and attached its corners at the base with bits of string to the chainplates.

Hunger was making itself felt. Water was soon in the saucepan suspended over the Gaz cooker and the precooked meal made ready by pouring boiling water into the heater bag. Although not as hot as I would have liked, the chicken curry tasted just fine. A yoghurt and a cup of Ovaltine completed the repast.

Test number three: Would I be able to sleep aboard while the boat was anchored?

I never sleep well on the first night of a cruise and this was to be no exception. One reason that night was the rude noises made by the seals! Were they really farting? Or was this their chatter or belching after successful fishing jaunts? Of course, I needed to relieve myself in the middle of the night, but that was a chance to try test number four: Could I use the bucket in the confined space of the tent? 'Yes - success - hurrah!' What a wonderful starry night my eyes beheld as I emptied the bucket and placed it on the stern deck ready for the next occasion.

To keep my head warm during the night I had worn an old, but cherished peaked cap, not unlike a baseball hat. It had squidged my hair into scarecrow shapes. The morning saw me looking like a zombie with black circles around my eyes and a beard like a wire brush. This was due in part to being awakened at dawn by the antics of the male seals. They chased each other up and down the muddy bank before plunging into the dark water, only to appear again, climb the bank and repeat the performance. Meanwhile the three females remained poised with their noses in the air, as if to say, "What are those silly fools up to?"

Breakfast was the next item on the agenda, then shaving and ablutions before setting off in time to beat the flood tide before it advanced into the Roach.

Without any wind, I thought it would be hard slog rowing all that way. The two large seals were curious as to my intentions. Did they think I had designs on their trio? Whatever the reason, they followed me down Yokesfleet Creek, one on each quarter, keeping a distance of about twenty feet, until I was well clear of their domain and into the Roach. Here the wind from the north east was sufficient for us to make a speed of about a knot until Horshoe Corner, where we had to tack to the north. The last of the ebb kindly obliged to help us as far as Branklet Spit, where it was a case of beam reaching and the new flood pushing us up the River Crouch past sleepy Burnham.

The air was crystal clear and silence was profound - just the gentle chatter of tiny waves from the curving bow. How comfortable it was to be sat on the floorboard leaning against the aft end of the cockpit with my arm raised so that I could thumb the tiller in response a little here and a little there. Really sublime. This was my dream in reality. The early morning sun picked out a sprightly young lass walking her dog along the river path as the boatman of the Royal Burnham Yacht Club waited for the first arrivals to be ushered aboard their expensive yachts. He ignored my contented wave to him, but I magnanimously concluded he was partially blind or was just too interested in the cigarette which he inhaled to pollute that wonderfully fresh air.

Next I was suddenly in excruciating pain as cramp caught both my legs under the thighs. Trying to stand was a dangerous operation. Each effort resulted in more pain. Vigorous massage began to restore the blood supply and gradually the pain diminished. Another lesson: Had I sat too long in the coolness of the morning without moving - hence the restriction of blood to my leg muscles? Thereafter, I made a point of moving my limbs periodically, as if I were on a long-distance flight not wanting a case of deep vein thrombosis.

Hardly on the run to Fambridge did I see another vessel, but by the time of the return passage, back to Burnham, several large yachts made their presence felt, most using their engines, although the wind was a perfect force two from the north west.

As is usually the case in good summer weather, the wind increases during the day and cumulus clouds pattern the azure sky. Memories of screeching birds at their nest sites; a couple with their chicks swimming all in line; trails from planes high in the sky and the sheer joy of being at the helm of my own little boat will stay with me to remind me of that first cruise.

Packing the boat ready for the return home on the trailer proved time consuming, not because of the procedures, but because of the many interruptions from curious spectators who were intrigued with such an unusual sight as a small traditional looking wooden boat - one so different from the usual plastic tubs or giant gin palaces which frequent marinas.

Bill.

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All maps are reproduced with kind permission of Ordnance Survey and Ordnance Survey of Northern Ireland.