How fortunate I am to have the River Crouch on my doorstep, at least, only five minutes away by car.

Monday, 20th August, 2001, found me launching 'Micro' at the Hullbridge public slipway. The time was 1430, at the stand of high water. An affable, elderly gent, wearing a smart Panama hat, leaned on the iron railings overlooking the slipway, while he took in all that I was doing. The pungent aroma of his Cuban cigar almost rendered me unconscious, and, despite his kind words regarding the beauty of 'Micro', I wanted to be off ! I had no desire to be struck with cancer because of the secondary inhalation of nicotine smoke. In fact, I felt quite queasy - you might say I almost wanted to vomit. How could he do that to himself and others in his vicinity?

An invitingly fresh, but warm force two wind gently pushed 'Micro' down river to the east. Sails were goose-winged, the jib to port and the main to starboard. This was a contrast to the previous cruise along the same stretch of water. Then, the wind was against the tide, forcing me to row some distance before finding space away from the many moorings, so that sail could be made with safety.

Although there was some grey cloud around, the sun continued to shine on us, and by evening, the sky was clear.

My plan was to sail the ten or so miles to the River Roach, where we were to spend the night under the protection of the west bank, just a couple of cables beyond Branklet Spit buoy. I had done this on many occasions, but never a cruise exactly repeats itself. The River is always different. Every time is a new experience - because weather and tide conspire for change.

On that day there was one of the higher spring tides, with a range of six metres; hence we were whisked along at about four knots - being the combined speed induced by wind and current. That proved to be right, because we arrived at our River Roach anchorage two-and-a-half hours later.

Nothing really eventful occurred during our glide to the east, but my mind was left free to ponder. Well, almost nothing. In fact, I went into automatic mode. Have you ever done that while driving a car? When you arrive at your destination, you wake up and wonder how you got there? You have hardly any recollection of seeing things or doing anything en route. I'm ashamed to confess that has happened to me.

But I do remember sitting on the floorboard of 'Micro', and having my feet on the side decks, my head propped on the aft coaming. In this position I could observe the Dinghy Cruising Association pennant gently fluttering at the masthead. Its yellow tail contrasted with the dark blue of its body, on which there was a white triangle. I suppose the triangle represents a sail; the blue, some water; and the yellow, the sun. Then I glanced at the Micro-Sailboat Club pennant which was attached to the starboard shroud - in the place of honour. Dark green in the upper sector, represents land; the lower blue sector stands for water, and the red tail is symbolic of an eco-friendly boat.

I wondered how many Micro-Sailboat pennants were now flying throughout the world? Very few, I imagine. My conviction of the need for restraint in the use of nature's materials for boat building is formulated in the Micro-Sailboat Web site. It is a dream of mine to influence at least a few to take actions towards conservation and recycling, but to persuade people to change their habits and preconditioned views is a hard thing. Usually something catastrophic has to happen before minds become focussed, but even with the world's climate under threat, because of man's abuse of nature, the majority are not concerned. They believe they are not directly affected - certainly not in their lifetime. They can still breathe relatively fresh air and in the western world, drink clean water. As far as they are concerned, a catastrophe has not taken place.

At first, how peaceful it seemed to be, when 'Micro' was tethered to her two kilograms Bruce anchor, attached to three metres of galvanised chain and thirty metres of rope - our security for the rise of tide expected during the night. We had arrived at our destination within the entrance to the River Roach and we were almost entirely protected from what little wind there was. My tiny boat lay to the ebbing tide with less than a metre under her keels. The sky had almost become entirely azure blue, except for a dozen white wispy vapour trails left by aeroplanes, polluters of the ozone.

As I tuned into what I had, at first, thought was absolute bliss, while listening to the virtually imperceptible music of ripples lapping against the hull, I became aware of the distant drone of combined harvesters. Then, if I concentrated my attention skywards, I could hear the throb of plane engines, but, after a while, these intrusions no longer invaded my consciousness. I became oblivious of them.

Dinner was easy to prepare. It was a simple matter to boil some water for the mash potato and to heat a vacuum-packed chicken curry. I combined both in a saucepan, then spooned the result into an open mouth. This was followed by a creamy cherry, Muller yoghurt, and a cup of decaffeinated, unsweetened coffee. Satisfied with the repast, and having washed up, I settled down to do a second reading from my favourite book, the Bible.

Shortly before nightfall, a Cornish Shrimper yacht dropped anchor astern of us. She was a couple of hundred yards downstream and very close to the stony weed-covered bank. I could smell that delicious earthy mild 'pong' of mud and marine vegetation. It was a real elixir. I took several hard sniffs and felt invigorated. The time was 0858, approximately at low water. As the dew had started to descend, I pulled back the tent to its full extent along the boom and made it fast, but kept the flaps open by their retaining cords. There was barely sufficient light to continue reading.

When all things had been prepared for the night's slumber: the pneumatic mattress in place; the sleeping bag with its zip open; a small torch strategically ready for my right hand to pluck from the darkness, I heard the sound of a yacht's engine. She came closer and closer. Had her skipper seen me, since I was not using an anchor light, because I did not carry one? In any case, I tried to justify myself by reasoning 'Micro' was only a stone's throw from the bank and who else would want to anchor in that spot? Slightly anxious, I asked the question, "How shall I escape if 'Micro' is run down?"

No, the approaching yacht was in mid river and going beyond our position. All sorts of commands and questions were given by the dominant male skipper as to what to do for anchoring.

"Let it go now!" he bawled over the throbbing of the engine. As the yacht continued in her path, "How much has gone?"

"Blowed if I know." was the puzzled reply.

"Better stop it there."

"How do I do that?" a crew member enquired.

"Wrap it around the cleat!"

I was waiting for a cry of pain, signifying fingers had been crushed between chain and cleat, but it never happened.

Soon, there was quiet. Navigation lights were extinguished, and a riding light shown. I was not impressed by their manoeuvres. The yacht had been driven beyond the anchor, so that her chain was in danger of damaging the hull, and did they put out sufficient for the six metre tidal range?

Next morning the tent was moist, both inside and out; inside because of condensation from heating a cup of tea over the Gaz cooker, and outside, because of a heavy dew.

Retrieving the anchor was fun. A huge quantity of that dark, green floating weed, with small balloon-like chambers, had accumulated around the rope. The easiest method was to bring the rode to the port quarter. From there, I could feed it into the bucket, while removing the offending weed. Thus any mess was prevented from entering the boat. Sail had not been hoisted, and 'Micro' lay quietly during this procedure. She remained stationary between the opposing forces of wind and tide. I used one of those small washing-up brushes to clean mud from the anchor before depositing it in the bucket, then put the lot in the fore locker.

Next, sail was hoisted; first the jib, which was left slightly drawing; second, the main, making sure it had a good set by tensioning the throat and peak halyards in that order.

As I sheeted in the sails to set off for the return passage, my nostrils caught the smell of burnt stubble - an unmistakable odour - once having experienced it, never forgotten! Laws have been passed in the UK to prevent this deliberate firing of what remains after crops have been harvested. It makes an unpleasant choking smell. Billows of smoke pollute the atmosphere and inevitability result in ash fallout, some, even a great distance away from the source.

The yacht which had arrived in the early hours of the night appeared to have broken out her anchor without the crew being aware of it, because she could be seen way up river, where the anchor had taken hold again. I looked for the Cornish Shrimper, but she must have made an early exit, perhaps during the night, to take full advantage of the ebb for a course to North Foreland? Her skipper would need to skilfully navigate his craft to avoid the dangers of the Thames Estuary's extensive mud, gravel and stone banks.

We were soon on a fetch westward toward Burnham-on-Crouch. Behind us, was a piercingly bright sun, causing the waves to have a golden sparkle. The River was ours, and ours together. Not another person was there to share nature's wonder. We creamed along with a white bow wave and trails of golden bubbles for a wake. A light blue sky contrasted with the dark, weed-covered river bank, which rushed by at an extraordinary rate, despite the fact that we were lee-bowing the ebb.

Oh, what joy! There was enough wind to allow me to sit comfortably on the port deck, thus maintaining balance. We were caught up in the mechanics of all those molecules of water, air and solid mass. We were in moving equilibrium, if that can be possible. What a delightful sensation it is ............... the feel and balance of the whole, being guided by minute movements of the tiller. Better than kite flying, by far.

Around 1150, we arrived at Fambridge, and picked up a mooring to have coffee, relax , and watch the world go by; or at least, other yachts, as their owners sought the pleasures of sailing, just as we had done.

Taking opportunity of perfect conditions, I spent a moment replacing the retaining cord, which had come loose from the port rowlock. Then I played around with the halyards, because the peak halyard had taken to jamming; thus, preventing the sail from coming down easily. This malfunction was unresolved, and will have to be looked at later, but it did cause me a little difficulty when the sail had to be taken down before entering the concentrated moorings between Brandy Hole and Hullbridge. The wind had increased to a force three and made the task tricky.

High water at Hullbridge was soon after 1500. Therefore we left Fambridge about 1300, to give us time for rowing the mile or so before 'Micro's retrieval at our destination. It also gave time for removing the rig before putting the boat on the trailer.

'Would you believe it?' The same gentleman wearing the Panama and smoking a Havana cigar was there in exactly the same position we had left him in! This time he did not utter a single word. 

To my mind, our cruise had been about as perfect as they come. I could have done nothing to prevent the pollution witnessed and felt satisfied there was little detrimental impact on nature because of 'Micro's activity.

Bill.

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