Launching the boat from Hullbridge, which is only a short distance from my home in Hockley, meant that travelling time on the road was less than 10 minutes. Hullbridge is situated on the upper reaches of the River Crouch, Essex, England. About 9 miles to the east, the River Roach branches off the Crouch toward the south and meanders to the south west.

During a two day period we were to sail about 18 miles over the ground (measured in a straight line), but in practice, the distance was more, because the outward stretch was to windward.

For some unaccountable reason I was feeling very nervous before setting off. I had thoroughly checked the list of items needed for the cruise and 'Micro' had been put through her paces during cruise number one. There was no rational reason for my anxiety.

High water was at 1400 hours and I knew from the tide table that sufficient water would be available at the top of the Hullbridge public slip at the end of Ferry Road. I drove into the car park, so that I could reverse back down the fairly steep gradient. Parking the car and trailer to one side, which allowed room for other people to use the slip, and while I set up the rigging, I mentally rehearsed the plan of action for launching.

Because the concrete slipway had a short drop near the end of it, I had to be careful not to let the wheels of the trailer go beyond that point. Neither did I want the wheel bearings to get wet. Having visited the slip prior to launching, I had noticed some large stones below it and therefore decided not to try out the experiment of shipping the rudder before putting the boat in the water. This decision later caused me some hassle.

As the boat was poised to be launched there were quite a few spectators who had various suggestions and comments about the procedure.

"Give her a shove!" one remarked, and from another, "Do you want any help?"

I had got into the water up to my knees and one of my plastic slip-on shoes came off and started to float away with the current. Without appearing to be flustered, I nonchalantly waded further out to retrieve it and I was fortunate not to bang my foot on one of the big stones I knew were hidden in the chocolate coloured water.

A few moments later, 'Micro' floated with dignity, looking at me as if to say, "When can we get going?"

I secretly spoke to her saying, "We'll be away shortly, but meanwhile I'll tether you to this branch, while I park the car and trailer."

In the car park I reversed the trailer so that it was wedged between the car and a hedge for security. I also padlocked the trailer's safety wire to the ball hitch.

By then, the ebb had started it's run into a cold easterly force two wind, which made for an uncomfortable short wave pattern. It seemed wise not to try to hoist sail with so many yachts in the proximity. They were like restless animals wanting to escape from their pens, as current and wind did battle with them. While rowing with certain purpose down river, the ebb helped our progress against the wind.

After about a quarter of mile the moorings were less frequent and I judged it would be a good opportunity to use a free one so that I could ship the rudder and make sail, but before doing so, I fortified myself with a Mars Bar and a glass of orange juice. The tall poplar trees by the Hullbridge Caravan Park rustled and waved in the wind with white and grey cumulus clouds towering above them.

My anxiety had gone. I was at peace, but a few moments later I was perplexed and frustrated! Why couldn't I fix the rudder in place? Leaning over the stern, one hand on the tiller and the other on the blade, I jostled against the moving water and jigging hull to place the upper pintle into its gudgeon. Time and again I failed to achieve success, but after a rest I made a determined effort by feeling the lower fixtures and when the pintle was engaged with the gudgeon I gave it a push. Success - the rudder was driven home.

Next I hoisted a reefed mainsail and purely by accident found that when the boat was attached to the mooring from about just in front of halfway along the hull - actually the chainplate - and with the mainsheet running free, there was no tendency for 'Micro' to want to sail forward. It was as if she was hove-to. This is a useful tip for when hoisting sail in a tide against wind situation.

As soon as the jib halyard was browsed down and made fast I cast off the mooring. When I hauled in the sheet the cracking and whiplash of the jib could no longer be heard. Next, I gently pulled in the mainsheet and we were sailing free.

Would I be able to control the boat as she tacked between the narrow section by Brandy Hole Yacht Club? Under the effect of wind and tide in opposition, would 'Micro' behave herself between those tightly packed moorings? All turned out well. Shortly, we were on a fine reach past the more open water, near the water-ski area , beyond the Club. A stray skier took great delight in coming as close as he dare to send spray in my direction. The exuberance of youth! I was young once - that's not to say I'm not young at heart now - but my body reminds me of the reality. I forgave him for his foolishness and was pleased my boat was in tact.

That did make me think about insurance, because at that time she had not been protected by it. Marinas insist, quite rightly, that boats using them should be insured, not just to look after their own interests, but those of their users. I made a mental note to consider the matter.

After an enjoyable beat to Fambridge, I tied up to a vacant mooring. It was time for replenishment and to put the galley box to it's first real test. It worked a treat. The saucepan stayed on the gimballed Gaz cooker and within a short while I enjoyed a piping hot cup of Brookbond tea. Cheese, tomato, spring onion and Branston pickle, along with butter, spread on fresh wholemeal bread, made a succulent sandwich. This was followed by a ripe banana and a tasty chocolate Kitkat.

So that we could reach our intended destination that day, the protection of the River Roach, it was necessary to make the best of the remaining ebb tide. Using the same technique as before, I made sail, but this time the reef was shaken out, so that we could have better progress against the short, but steep waves.

About halfway between Fambridge and Burnham there is an island on the north side of the river Crouch named Bridgemarsh. It has a marina to the north, situated a short way up Althorne Creek. The Island is nothing more than an area of salt marsh where many birds nest during the spring and summer seasons. As we tacked to and fro along its southern shore there were very few other craft. A couple of yachts overhauled us while using their engines and one under sail. 'Micro' was no match for the large yacht with her numerous crew members working winches and trimming sails. She soon disappeared beyond Black Point, where the river turned to the south east before opening out on the Burnham stretch.

I took the opportunity of the more open water to heave-to and change into my waterproof gear - trousers and jacket, with hood and scarf. The wind had increased to a force three and spray was beginning to dampen my jeans. Its effect was causing me to feel quite cold.

Rounding the bend before Burnham, I saw a large rusty Russian ship unloading her cargo of wood by spider-like cranes to Wallasea Wharf. Rod fishermen cast their lines from the end of the jetty, hopeful of catching whiting or even plaice. They were completely oblivious of our needs to tack close inshore near 'their' patch.

On the next tack, ahead, on the north shore, was a delightful scene of some ancient country cottages, their red brick walls contrasting with surrounding variegated green foliage. All was so sharp and clear, as passing cloud shadows added movement to the whole scene.

The next stretch through the Burnham moorings until the open water beyond proved to be quite testing because the wind increased to about a four, with gusts reaching five or more. It was not possible to reduce sail easily, except to down it altogther. The manoeuvre would have been impossible, since there was not sufficient room between the moored yachts. I played both sails in the stronger gusts, which was literally a handful. The jib sheet was in one hand, while the tiller and mainsheet was in the other. Tacking meant some quick work because the tiller extension had to be folded into its retaining slot before it cold be passed to the other hand, meanwhile the sheets needed attention and a new seating position on the windward deck had to be found. These operations had to be judged so that the next course would be open between moored yachts.

Once clear of the restrictive moorings, I quickly hove-to and reefed the mainsail with its only set of reef points. The jib was still needed to provide drive through the waves and to help push the bow around when tacking making sure she always responded to the tiller.

With the wind's increase in strength it had veered to the south east and so sailing this more open stretch of water was easier. A short tack across to the north bank of the river, was followed by a longer one which gave time for recuperation. My heart began to beat more regularly while I planned where to anchor in the River Roach for the night's rest.

Rounding Branklet Spit buoy at the entrance to the Roach, we were able to make a long port hand tack. Ahead lay several anchored yachts by the west shore in the traditional spot, but they were not protected from the the south easterly wind. I therefore decided to make for the steep river bank on the east side, about a cable further on. There I let go the anchor in soft mud, with about two metres under the keel. 'Micro' was entirely protected from the wind, her sails hardly shaking, as the flood tide started to make.

Grateful for the refuge, I dropped the sails and did a neat job of furling them in preparation for when the new tent would be tried for the first time. It would be supported by the boom and its base kept in place with a few simple lashings tensioned by a shock cord. The Dinghy Cruising Association pennant at the masthead gently fluttered in the wind. I assembled the cooker and made a welcome cup of tea. This was followed by the evening meal of tinned potatoes, peas and cold corned beef, along with a strawberry yoghurt - not a gourmet meal, but sufficient for my needs and easy to prepare.

Another couple of yachts anchored nearby and made their preparations for the night. Meanwhile, I rigged the tent; laid out my sleeping bag on the pneumatic mattress; tucked my pyjamas inside; found the little torch in readiness for darkness and read from the Bible - as is my custom at least once in a day. Apart from the noise of some swans flying by, the evening quiet was perfect for meditation - thoughts about God's graciousness, His love and the wonder of His creation. The sunset was absolutely gorgeous - a melting pot of fiery colours turning to cooler hues of purple, greens, blues and eventually greys and a black nothing, except a halo of orange light to the north west reflected from Burnham town.

Warm as toast, I lay back in my comfortable bunk, being gently rocked by the passing tide, it's trickle heard as a faint whisper, gliding past the rudder. This surely was reward for all my effort of building 'Micro' - assembling her parts and shaping her finest details - caressing her, smoothing her, making her shine and glisten like gold. Yes, she would get old and battered in time, but now was the moment of her blossom. She was at her very best with me to share in her beauty.

Next morning at five thirty I was up and about, making breakfast - muesli, marmalade on bread and tea. With the tent down, I had a refreshing shave in the coolness of the air. The wind began to stir, so it was time to up anchor and make sail before the flood would impede my exit from the Roach and make its way up the Crouch. There was no sign of life on any of the other boats as the sails found sufficient energy from the wind to take us on a reach toward Branklet Spit buoy.

Our journey back to Hullbridge was uneventful and easier than the outward trip, because the wind was with us. That day was almost unbearably hot and sticky. We waited at the Fambridge moorings until an hour before high water to time our arrival at the Hullbridge slip with about ten minutes to spare, until the stand of the tide. Unknown to me the Brandy Hole regatta was taking place and we had to choose our courses between the racing fleets to cause the least inconvenience to them.

My car and trailer were just as they had been left and within a short time the mast and rigging had been taken down and 'Micro' was hitched up to be hauled to a space beside the road where she was made ready for home.

I was thoroughly pleased with our second adventure and I looked forward to the next escapade.

Bill.

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