Life is full of opportunities, but do we regret not taking them? In retrospect, we may not forgive ourselves for chances lost. Such moments through indecision, procrastination, malaise, etc., may be regretted as long as we live.

Being an opportunist, and realising 'Micro' may not belong to me by the end of the year, because she had been advertised for sale, I wanted to snatch a few days sailing to fully explore her potential.

Obligingly, a high pressure system centred itself over south eastern England.

It was a chance I could not afford to miss.

Day One

Having thoroughly prepared the boat for a three day cruise, I set off at 09.00 on Monday 24th June. My destination was Mistley, a quaint little village near Manningtree situated at the head of the Stour estuary. In years gone by Thames barges would have frequented the quay. John Constable, the English landscape painter, loved to capture such rural scenes.

In the glove pocket of my car I keep a useful little book, 'Where to Launch Around the Coast', by Diana van der Klugt. From it I discovered that the public slipway at Mistley was classified as being suitable for small boats. Did that mean dinghies being launched by hand, or small craft launched on their road trailers?

One glance at the actual slipway persuaded me I could not use the car, but nearby was a much more serviceable concrete ramp belonging to the Mistley Sailing Club. Members of the Club suggested I should use it. Unfortunately, the slope at the top was so steep that it snagged the car's exhaust pipe. I overcame the problem by using a rope to lower the boat and trailer. I controlled the descent by taking a turn of the rope around the ball-hitch.

'Micro' was duly launched about mid-day, then I found a free parking space on the Promenade. It was only a short distance from the ramp, but somehow, I had lost the lock for the trailer. I hoped no one would take a liking to it. As I returned to the boat, I purposely focussed my thoughts on a plan of action for the afternoon.

Once 'Micro' was afloat I pushed her into thigh-deep water to ship the rudder. Then I clambered aboard and rowed to a nearby visitors' mooring. There I ate a sandwich lunch while surveying the picturesque scenery.

Conditions were perfect for sailing. There were a few clouds to take away the glare of the sun and a zephyr from the west to help cool things down. I plastered sun cream on my face, particularly my nose, because no matter how careful I am to protect it from the sun's rays, after a few hours exposure it manages to look like a beetroot.

My tide book predicted the range at Mistley as 3.7 metres, giving a minimum of 1 metre in most places at high water. With that assurance, I made sail and steered straight down the river.

It was really relaxing to sit on a cushion while leaning on the coaming. I needed only my index finger to control the tiller. With clear visibility I could see the bluff of Wrabness about three miles away.

Before mid-afternoon we were sailing a cable to the north of several moored yachts by that unique chalet village. Below a small sandstone cliff on a narrow pebble beach, there were several holiday homes. They were built upon stakes or pillars. No one seemed to be around and the whole place had a ghostly feel to it. For some intuitive reason I could not prevent a shudder going down my spine. Somehow I sensed something tragic had happened there and I didn't want anything to do with it. I was pleased to leave the location. These thoughts were totally irrational and I was surprised I gave them credence.

To 'Micro's' port-hand there was a splendid and imposing stone building, the Royal Hospital School. The architect had positioned it to take advantage of a gently shelving slope so that a wonderful view of the entire estuary could be seen from its windows.

Beyond Wrabness, along the shore of Copperas Bay, there is a bird sanctuary. It is the feeding ground for numerous wading birds. Boats are banned from entering or anchoring within the reserve. Marking its northern boundary there are some floating barrages for use in an emergency to safeguard the estuary from being polluted by an accidental oil spillage. As we continued our course, these barrages were being inspected by a couple of workmen from a small diesel tug.

The wind filled in from the north-west at about force 2. Gradually the clouds dissolved, revealing a wonderful cobalt blue that one sometimes experiences when looking heavenwards. Being on a broad reach, the fastest point of sailing, we soon arrived in the vicinity of Parkstone Quay. There, large North Sea ferries offload or take-on their cargo of vehicles and passengers.

'Micro's' course ran parallel to the northern shore, while being approximately a cable from it. This precaution meant we would not impede the passage of commercial shipping using the fairway. A white-painted cruise ship with numerous upper decks and a multitude of portholes was berthed at the Quay. By the amount of smoke coming from her funnel I believed she would be leaving port soon. Perhaps she would be bound for Narvik on the Norwegian coast and the Lofoten Isles?

Low water at Harwich was due at 18.00. That meant we arrived too early off Shotley Point to benefit from the first of the flood into the River Orwell. But this timing enabled the skipper to test his skill at sailing to windward against the remaining ebb. The tactic was not to go too far beyond the shallows on the eastern side of Shotley Marina, otherwise we would have to sail against a stronger current.

Once we were in the Orwell, it was a matter of tacking to and fro - first sailing towards the west bank as far as we dared, then into deeper water, but not too far, otherwise the current would sweep us back. A couple of times I misjudged the depth when going towards the bank; then I felt the twin keels kiss the mud. Each time we were able to escape by reversing our track.

Most yachtsmen bound up the River used their engines, but there were some purists like me who tried their best to overcome the ebb by sailing. A few yards gained gave great satisfaction. It was like a physical game of chess. At each wind-shift I changed tack to make best use of them. Occasionally the sails were caught aback, then a good many yards were lost to leeward.

About a quarter of a mile below Levington Marina we were overtaken by a huge, grey customs launch. Travelling at speed she kicked up quite a wash causing waves to rebound between the river's banks. It took a while for the water to settle - until the generated kinetic energy was exhausted.

When we reached a point nearly a quarter of a mile beyond Levington Marina the wind failed and the ebb just-about stopped running, but I successfully grabbed a mooring buoy and attached 'Micro' to it. Thereupon, I prepared the evening meal. As I was about to eat it I was astonished at the size of a vessel proceeding upstream on the first of the flood tide. I had not expected such a large freighter to make her way en route for Ipswich - especially at low water. Her wash was even greater than that of the customs launch. As the first wave struck 'Micro' I juggled my dinner plate to keep it level, thereby preventing hot curry and rice from being spilled into my lap.

After this onslaught it dawned on me that 'Micro' was tied to a hard, metal buoy. Furthermore, around a loop at the top, there was a lethal shackle just waiting for an opportunity to damage my precious boat. Past experience of bumping and scraping buoys at the turn of tide persuaded me to abandon it. So I rowed fairly close to the river bank for protection, then lowered the Bruce anchor.

Reception for the mobile phone was more than adequate. Therefore a prearranged call from my wife was successful. She confirmed all was well and that Wimbledon had started. She was looking forward to watching the highlights on television. When our chat ended I turned off the phone to conserve the battery.

It was my practice to keep the mobile phone in a hard plastic container tied to the tabernacle. The VHF radio was protected in a similar way. In the event of an irretrievable capsize I reasoned I would be able to extract each container by slipping them out of their lashings. Then I would use the VHF to call the coastguard, but if I failed to make contact I would use the mobile phone.

Around 09.00 I prepared the boat for the night. I could faintly hear a band playing somewhere to the north, probably at Pin Mill. Orange and purple hues from a beautiful sunset were reflected from slightly undulating, almost motionless, muddy water. Terns barracked one another as they vied for territory and tasty takings from the mud near the rising water's edge. A diesel train made its characteristic two-toned note while rumbling along the line between Trimley St. Mary and Ipswich. A handful of seals slithered down the mud into the rising water. They grudgingly accepted their need to hunt fish for their supper.

Just before dark I cleaned my teeth and I was about to spit the unwanted contents of my mouth overboard, when I noticed a shoal of large jellyfish drifting by. Their presence made me a little reluctant to eject the unwanted fluid, but there seemed to be no option. I observed that the jellyfish were coated with a muddy film and reasoned they were almost dead. Then I persuaded myself the addition of a minute quantity of toothpaste, diluted with saliva, would not injure them. Without ado I spat into the water.

Day Two

Tuesday, 25th June.

After a restless night, partly because of river traffic and partly because of noise from the container docks at Felixstowe, I awoke with a slightly heavy head - not a headache - just a feeling that I would need to make an effort to get going. The question was, "What should I do?" Should I endeavour to return to Mistley, or should I explore the River Orwell? I would make the decision over a cup of tea.

Everything was so compact on 'Micro' I was able to make the brew with little effort. The effect of sipping it and listening to the Shipping Forecast provided the answer - I would return to the River Stour to spend the day and night there.

The forecast for Thames and Portland was for a south-west wind of 3 to 4. That would mean I could find a little protection from the south bank of the river and, no doubt, a peaceful anchorage for the night. As events unfolded, this plan was completely thwarted. To start with, 'Micro' was well-and-truly stuck in the mud at low water. I had miscalculated the depth when I anchored the previous night. We wouldn't be able to get away until 07.45, by which time the flood tide would be making and since there was hardly any wind, I would find it almost impossible to reach the River Stour, even if I rowed.

It was a really stunning, cloudless morning. There was so much to observe and savour. What with the almost complete lack of wind I took my time at preparing sail. Yachts were coming and going, most of them under power, but one graceful gaff cutter caught my attention. She quietly made some progress down river. She looked remarkably like a Morcambe Bay Prawner because of her characteristic rounded counter. I couldn't resist preserving this 'vision' on film as a memento. By using my binoculars I discovered her name was 'Betty'.

It wasn't until 10.00 that I finally managed to hoist sail. My hope was to use the flood tide towards Pin Mill, because the faint wind from the north-west was insufficient to carry out my original decision to return to the River Stour. Had 'Micro' been equipped with an engine, no doubt I would have used it. Instead, I welcomed the challenge of using wind, current and oars to reach this alternative destination.

Retrieving the anchor was tedious, because the warp was caked with slimy mud and tenacious weed that had to be removed - an inch at a time. I patiently scrubbed both the anchor and the warp with a small brush. Once cleaned, they were placed in a bucket under the foredeck.

As we sailed along the river a large freighter was seen coming our way from the Ipswich direction. The throb of her engine, the thrashing of her propeller, and the cascade of her bow wave, combined to give an unmistakable auditory warning to keep well clear. I used the camera to create an aide-memoire recording her appearance and size.

The ensuing sail to windward with the flood tide lee-bowing us turned out to be a really enjoyable experience. When the wind picked up I was able to keep her upright by tucking my toes under the coaming, then leaning back over the water.

We arrived at Pin Mill around 11.15. Before getting tangled up among yachts at their moorings I felt it prudent to lower the sails and make them secure. Afterwards, I purposefully rowed towards the jetty where there were some dilapidated Thames barges and other rotting hulks drawn up on the beach.

The wooded river bank provided protection from the wind, so I picked up a dinghy mooring off the Butt and Oyster pub. It was really peaceful - that is, until some shirtless, macho individual, dressed in waders, decided it was a good idea to run a powerful outboard engine. His intention was to reverse his partially floating cruiser off the road trailer, but the boat and trailer had not been placed far enough down the slipway to enable the former to float off before high water. Superman, the sailor, did not have enough intelligence to comprehend however much he ran the engine his pride and joy would not budge.

Despite the broken peace, I decided to have an early lunch. While munching salad sandwiches, chewing a banana and consuming a chocolate bar, I studied the comings and goings of various people. One yachtsman rowed a diminutive canvas and wooden dinghy that could barely keep him afloat. It had a bow transom with the upper edge just an inch or so from the water. I visualized a disaster waiting to happen.

High water at Harwich was due at 12.54 and by 12.30 the current was almost slack. I hoisted sail with the intention of exploring more of the Orwell, but the wind began to fail, thus reasonable progress to the north was prevented. I therefore turned the boat around and ran before what little wind there was.

While cruising I'm often on the look-out for interesting yachts - those with unusual characteristics, or vessels having a traditional or classical appearance. Elegant yachts with fine lines, those designed by Herreshoft, Linton Hope and Albert Strange, yachts that stand apart from the humdrum, they are the ones that appeal to me. Ordinary, white plastic, mundane travesties that fill the trots today and occupy the hearts of the majority have no attraction for me. But a mile or so downstream from Pin Mill I discovered a wooden classic, a splendid large tumlaren that stole my heart - not that I coveted her, but my heart was captivated because she was a beauty. Hand-crafted with clean lines and a tall mast, she could rightly hold her head high to merit the name "Madam" painted on her boom. She was to my mind a worthy and honourable lady. Her lines were in the tradition of Knud Reimers, the Swedish designer and builder of the original tumlaren.

That afternoon I experienced a sublime drift down the river beyond Levington Marina and onwards to Stone Heaps. Two yachts were anchored near the bank. They were to the west of number one green buoy, awaiting the flood tide.

At that moment all reasoning in my cerebrum ceased. I failed to accept the stupidity of carrying on with a faint hope I could buck the ebb from the Stour. I still clung to the early morning weather forecast believing there would be more wind. When 'Micro's' keels scraped over the shallows off Shotley Point it suddenly dawned on me that unless I took drastic action, we would be swept beyond Harwich by the remaining ebb.

Very fortunately the wind sprang up enabling 'Micro' to claw her way over Shotley Sands and back into the mouth of the Orwell. At that point the wind faltered, forcing me to throw the anchor over the side. Just when I wanted it to hold, it didn't! Perhaps the chain became twisted around the anchor? Again, the wind gave me a reprieve and I was able to make further progress, but I had to rely on the anchor a second time. I lowered sail, only to realize 'Micro' was slap in the middle of the fairway! Lady Good Fortune sprang to the rescue by providing another temporary draught of wind that enabled me to raise the anchor and to sail towards the western bank. Finally I anchored in a secure position away from all river traffic.

I let out the available warp, ate a Mars Bar, and lay back on the floorboard for a welcome siesta. From 14.30 until 18.30 was a time of recuperation - but once-in-a-while I raised myself to find out if the anchor was doing its work. I had selected two transits for this purpose and while I was checking them, I observed an unusual looking vessel entering the Orwell. She was the 'Balmoral' pleasure steamer, smartly painted, and having a white superstructure and a black hull. In the most stately manner she made her way into the river. As she passed by many excited passengers lined her decks. They pointed in our direction and waved their hands. In a short while she was lost from sight beyond the river's bend.

At Felixstowe Quay a huge bulk-carrier, named the 'Hajan', was being off-loaded by a gargantuan moving hoist. Periodically, as its grabs engaged containers, booming noises like exploding bombs attacked my eardrums. There were loud rumblings from containers being moved horizontally along a gantry to transporters for storage or dispatch.

By 18.30 the ebb was all but finished, so I hoisted sail to find a secure anchorage for the night. I chose one slightly to the north of the anchor symbol marked on the chart. It was well to the west of number one starboard-hand buoy. There I had a peaceful evening. That's because the 'Hajan' had been assisted out to sea by a tug and thankfully no other container ship took her place.

Day Three.

Wednesday, 26th June.

Although there had been cloud-cover overnight, the morning was fairly clear. As the day progressed so the sky became bluer with only a few fluffy white clouds.

This time I had got it right. I had chosen a spot where 'Micro' would not be aground at low water. Therefore we were able to set off under oar at 06.30. Low water at Harwich was predicted for 07.00. Making use of the last of the ebb, we scampered over Shotley Sands. I was delighted to find I could steadily row at about two-and-a-half knots. Thus, we were able to make progress against the weakening ebb from the River Stour.

I was glad to be near the northern side of the river because a huge passenger-carrying catamaran made her way to Parkstone Quay. She was awesome and intimidating. A small boat in her path would not stand a chance. Silently, and without assistance, she manoeuvred beside the quay and quickly docked most efficiently.

Gradually the wind filled-in a little from the south-west. I set sail. There ensued one of the most exquisite sailing experiences since the season began. Every now and then the wind momentarily increased, not suddenly as with a squall, but with a steady acceleration and an equally steady deceleration. This periodic, rhythmic fluctuation, made the exercise of sailing to windward a real joy. The flood tide gripped 'Micro's' bilge keels, aiding her on her way to Manningtree.

When going to windward I discovered how important trim is for 'Micro'. By moving forward, weather-helm is increased, because the centre of lateral resistance is moved forward. Sitting nearer the stern virtually eliminates weather-helm. This applied knowledge vastly improves her pointing ability. Other vessels I have owned have displayed the opposite characteristic.

There was a certain excitement as we rushed over tumbling waves caused by shallow water travelling at speed. I looked for trailing weed from sporadically spaced stones on the sandy floor. They were an indication of the water being too shallow for safe passage. At the first sign of such weed I tacked the boat into deeper water. This was one of the methods I used to navigate the broad estuary, but I principally relied upon the lateral red and green buoys that marked the main channel.

Soon, Wrabness was close to our port hand, but I kept clear of the moored yachts to avoid any chance of a collision with them. It was a wise precaution, because the bluff of land was causing the wind to be fluky. This time Wrabness seemed a little more hospitable. There was a man doing some repairs to one of the supports of his waterside chalet. That human touch made all the difference to the 'feel' of the place by comparison with my experience on the outward track.

As we continued towards the west, small squalls now and again struck the boat. With each one it was necessary to ease the mainsheet to prevent being overpowered. That livened up the experience and added zest to our sail. Because we were not very far from the ramp at Mistly Sailing Club, I decided it was unnecessary to reef. My priority was to concentrate on where the channel lay. By following a course between the moored yachts I felt fairly sure we would keep in deeper water.

Between the ramp and 'Micro' there were an elderly couple in a Wayfarer who released their boat from a mooring buoy. They had not been vigilant, or if they had, they did not anticipate they would drift into our path. This caused an adrenalin rush, because I feared a collision. Immediate action was required to prevent such an undignified end to our cruise. I quickly downed the sails and was able to tie the painter to a moored yacht. Not in the least concerned, the Wayfarer sailors set off to enjoy their afternoon's sail.

High water for Mistley was predicted at 14.00. That gave me plenty of time to beach the boat and to prepare her for retrieval up the steep ramp, but three cars blocked the exit at the top! There was no need to panic - I was simply to think things through, and work at them one at time. Needless to say, it all went well, and I used the mobile phone to give my wife a reassuring call. I explained I was safe and well; she would not need to claim her widow's pension, neither was it time to call the undertaker.

My three-day cruise had been one of those wonderful opportunities taken for the good. I had learnt how to sail my little boat better to windward; I had been mentally and spiritually refreshed and I had benefited from the fresh air and exercise.

I had gained a 'Chance Made Good'.

Bill.

Get-a-map service.

The first map is reproduced with kind permission of Ordnance Survey and Ordnance Survey of Northern Ireland.