One fine morning I rang Dad and suggested we might go for a sail on Caravella, ‘capital idea’ he boomed ‘I’ll bring along some of my wine and your mother can make sandwiches’. ‘I’ll bring a friend’ said I and drove down to Stone.

Father was waiting for us wearing one of his more unusual outfits. Wearing suits for work all week he liked to dress casually at weekends. Now casual for Pop means fancy dress to most people. He has his pirates outfit, striped trousers and bandanna, his old man of the sea number, waders and yellow fisherman’s sou’wester liberally covered in red antifouling, he looked like an abattoir worker. His desert rat ensemble was my favourite, beret, a vaguely military shirt and khaki flared shorts just like Eric Morecambe’s! Pop would wear spots and stripes together with impunity, how we love him!

Seizing the dinghy’s oars, two poles with paddle shaped planks nailed to them and ordering us to pull the dinghy we set off for the beach. Dad’s dinghies have been a constant worry for us. Most sea accidents occur in dinghy’s getting to and from the shore and Dad figured highly in those statistics. Not that Dad is a poor seaman far from it, it’s more his choice of craft.

One year he famously bought a wooden and canvas collapsible tender designed to fold up and store in a small locker. Well it collapsed on a regular basis unfortunately whilst still some distance from the shore. Dad would swim around collecting the various components and stagger up the beach with them tucked neatly under his arm.

We noticed the sailing club car park was unusually full, ‘it’s a Snipe open meeting’ Dad informed us.

Snipes were a classic dinghy class, old men’s boats the cadets would snigger, with one unusual feature a steel dagger board. At the risk of boring non-sailors I’ll elaborate, dagger boards slotted into a casing and stopped sailboats going sideways. Modern dinghies have  sliding boards mounted on a pivot allowing the board to lift if an obstruction was hit like the beach, sharks or a slow swimmer. The Snipes dagger board arrangement if snagged would probably lead to a capsize. Striding through the club, father’s outfit raised some eyebrows from the visiting yachtsmen but they got quickly back to tweaking their steeds. My friend a newcomer to all this was thoroughly enjoying his day, ‘you know your Dads barking mad’ he commented, ‘you’ve not seen nothing yet’ I replied ‘the day is young’.

Dad rowed strongly out to Caravella sitting bobbing on her mooring which was right on the start line ideal for watching the racing. ‘Let’s crack open some of my home made wine and watch these Snipe boys start’ he suggested, an excellent idea we all agreed.

The ten minute gun went causing the yachts to start milling around, then the five which sent them into a frenzy of tacking and gybing all important pre start manoeuvres. Bang went the start gun and with a cacophony of shouting starboard, water and other such rules the fleet disappeared down the river.

Father, oblivious to all this had spotted something of much more interest. Backing dubiously down the slipway was a bright maroon Jag preceded by a huge powerboat with two monster Mercury outboards bolted to the transom. ‘Obviously some East End boys made good’ father muttered.

Now the beach shelves very slowly so you have to paddle some way before lowering the engines.Two figures on the bow were paddling ineffectually to get into deep enough water to lower the outboards.Father rather fancies himself as the coxswain of a lifeboat, he was wearing the right uniform anyway.

‘Hold on he roared, I’m coming to help’, with that he leapt into the dinghy and rowed towards them at top speed. ‘This should be good’ I told my friend. ‘Pass me a line’ Dad ordered the hapless speedboaters, all they had was their ski rope, which they dutifully passed over.

Dad rowed out to sea with the very long line paying out, eventually one hundred yards separated the two boats. The rope went taught and slowly very slowly they moved into deeper water. Unfortunately the tide had them in its grip and they began drifting towards the start line, which doubled up as the finish too. All this foolery had taken some time allowing the second phase of the catastrophe to develop. Behind us the lead Snipes appeared around the headland, locked in a fierce battle to finish first, they were blissfully unaware of Dad’s trip line strung right across the finish. Snagging the line one after another the Snipes rounded up, crews desperately trying to lift those metal boards, collided and capsized. Upside down boats littered the water with much shouting and bawling of wet frustrated crews. The last boat came into view saw the carnage and calmly sailed round the mess to get the winning gun.

Dad still rowing madly with his by now very confused tow drifted slowly out of sight. ‘You were right’ my pal agreed it did get much better.

 A while later as we enjoyed another homemade beer there came the very loud sound of twin Mercury outboards. Overthe horizon appeared the powerboat at breakneck speed towing Dad sitting calmly in the tiny dinghy spray flying everywhere clutching the ski tow rope. ‘Thanks lads’, he shouted as they stopped near to Caravella and calmly rowed back to us. Clambering aboard he commented ‘I enjoyed that, lucky I was here to help them motor boat boys’.

 ‘I expect you did Dad but I’m not sure about the Snipe boys’ I replied.