There have only been two times in my life when I thought my time was up. The first occasion I had cause to consider my imminent demise was during the middle of a particularly foul night in 1942, when I found myself in a lifeboat with three other men in the middle of the Atlantic. We were pretty much as far from land as one could get, covered in oil and freezing cold, silently watching the remnants of the convoy sailing away as fast as it could go in order to escape the U-boat that had sunk our little corvette.

That night was the bleakest, most terrifying and nerve-wracking experience of my life. The six hour wait until dawn broke and had felt like six years. When I was pulled on-board a cruiser that had been sent to search for survivors at first light, I vowed that once the war was over, I would never venture to sea again.

So it came as a surprise that I should once more find myself considering my last few moments in life, this time at the end of a gloriously warm sunny day, and, ironically, while afloat again for the first time in almost eight years. It is the tale of this second, somewhat shambolic and embarrassing brush with death that I wish to relate to you, dear reader, as I feel a certain amount of explanation is required in order to set the record straight. Despite what you might have read in the papers, I can honestly say that I am not the criminal mastermind that I was made out to be.

Perhaps, by the time you finish this, shall we say, 'confession' as to what really happened that night, you will be in a position to form your own conclusions, and judge me whichever way you choose. I care not - I only want to give a truthful account of the way things turned out, and perhaps garner a little sympathy to my cause, as well as retelling what is, frankly, a ripping good yarn.

*

It began on the morning of 7th July, 1953, with a letter from an old acquaintance I hadn't heard from in many years - a man called Henry Phillips.

On that particular morning, I had risen later than usual, the result of a particularly prolonged and ultimately dissatisfying jaunt at my club, where a combination of fine whisky and bad luck had contrived to my losing several hundred pounds and a not inconsiderable amount of shillings in an ill-advised game of cards. My skill at cards was never very good at the best of times, so why I had ventured into the match at all was something of a moot point, and frankly apt given the gamble I paid, almost, with my life just a few short days later.

When I made my way, somewhat groggily and with a particularly painful head, downstairs to breakfast, I found the letter waiting for me on the doormat. Taking it with me to the kitchen, I opened it while making some tea and popping a slice of bread under the grill, noting the peculiar postmark that purported to show the letter originating from Bremen. Not knowing anyone who lived in Germany, I straight away read the signature, and was at a stand for several moments before the name Henry Phillips recalled anything more than a vague feeling of familiarity to my mind. Eventually, and only after reading the first sentence or two of the letter, did I conjure up a memory of a face. The letter began;

Charles,

Forgive my sudden and unexpected intrusion after so many years old friend, but I've found myself in a bit of a pickle and could really do with your help. You may recall - I think it was VE Day (my memory is a little hazy) - we had a conversation about sailing, and how you once enjoyed it so. Well, when we were demobbed, I dabbled a little and found it suited, so took it up as a hobby.

It was at this point I remembered Henry Phillips. A tall, thin, somewhat earnest man with sandy hair combed back and held in place with lots of Brylcreem, and a sharp-featured face that always bore an ingratiating smile. He was a lieutenant in a sister ship, serving in the Atlantic much of the war, and an acquaintance that I'd made during our infrequent visits to the Mersey and the Clyde on convoy duty. Mostly we'd met in pubs, those being the first place a thirsty naval man went to as soon as one's feet touched dry land, and so any detailed recollection of him was somewhat unreliable. However, I did recall that Henry had been a furniture salesman before the war.

The particular conversation Henry was referring to in the letter was probably one that took place in the Old Nag, a small, dingy and smelly pub behind the docks at Birkenhead crammed several deep behind the bar with men already half-drunk with victory. We had been talking about what we would do now that the war was over, necessarily in an enthusiastic shout over the noise of a hundred overjoyed sailors and giggling girls packed into the place, and I'd said something about sailing. I suspect I was being ironic about my enjoyment of it. True, I had sailed a lot in my youth - that was why I joined the Navy in the first place - but having been torpedoed and surviving a night of frozen hell in an open boat I was sure I had not been wholly 'enthusiastic' about it. To be honest, I was in all probability playing some kind of joke on Henry, persuading him to spend more time on the water after years of being frozen, scared, hungry and astonishingly uncomfortable. At the time I had no wish to spend any more time at sea after the war, and hadn't really given it much thought in the intervening years.

Apparently, Henry had taken my words to heart.

I have a yacht, a lovely little thing that can take even the worst of English weather, and have taken to cruising each summer. This year, I sailed to Germany! I am in fact currently moored in a pleasant harbour in Wilhelmshaven. The view is a romantic idyll, and the waters a sailor's delight! So, you may be wondering, why am I writing to you?

Well, the thing is, my crew had bad news from home, and had to rush off on the Channel Express, schnell, so I've been left here without means of return. So, I thought, 'Who do I know who could help me in this bind?', and in a flash, I thought of you!

So, if you are free, and fancy an all-expenses paid trip to Germany and a bracing sail, now's your chance! A telegram to the above address with a yay or nay, and if it suits, I will wire the money for tickets straight away.

Yours,

HP.

PS. I need to leave within the next week old chap - I simply must be back in blighty by the 25th.

I looked at the postmark on the envelope - Bremen, Germany. The letter itself was written on paper from the Hotel Kaiser, Rheinstraße 128, Wilhelmshaven, and dated four days previously.

My first reaction was confusion. After all, Henry and I had not really been friends, and the only time we had actually sailed on a ship together - on the last cruise I ever undertook before leaving the Navy, in fact - we had not exactly been the best of shipmates. It was hardly surprising Henry needed a crew. If my memory served, he was an indifferent navigator, and a poor seaman.

So had circumstances been otherwise, I would have probably declined the invitation. But as it happened, with no less than incredible coincidence, I had only a few days before been thinking of those very waters! On looking up from the letter, my gaze shifted to my bookshelf and the novel I had just finished reading. It was 'The Riddle Of The Sands', by Erskine Childers, and I had by chance taken it out of the library that very week. It was a wonderful book; full of adventure, with fabulous descriptions of sailing among the Frisian Isles. It had re-awoken a passing desire to sail once more and I couldn't help but wonder at the similarities of my own situation with that of Carruthers, the hero that set off on an adventure in such similar circumstances as those I found myself in. Really, the coincidence was uncanny!

The opportunity to go and see those very waters, to sail around the same islands that Childers' had so eloquently described was very tempting. And that, as much as anything else, is what decided me on taking up Henry's invitation.