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The harbour in Las Palmas was crowded with boats waiting to make the crossing to the Caribbean. That gave us ample opportunity to watch arriving boats drop their anchors and set their hooks, and of course to provide our own critique. A gentle backward tug so that the anchor would dig in would have us nodding in approval. Throwing the boat into reverse and backing up rapidly, pulling the anchor over the seabed and leaving furrows in the sand - that would have us shaking our heads and hoping that that boat would not end up upwind of us. Because if conditions changed and the anchor dragged instead of holding it would be moving down on us in a hurry...

So we should have had an inkling when we watched him moving briskly backward, using his anchor to plough the seabed not once, but three times. And been warned when after ploughing the third row he decided that the third time must be lucky - though we could see no difference in his backward progress - and his anchor must be holding now. And of course he was just that little bit too close for comfort, which meant a night of trying to make sense of every outside sound, trying to decipher which rustle or chink might tell us there was danger, one ear open while we tried to sleep in our snug bed close to the bow. A last glance before we went to bed confirmed that he was in still front of us. It was not likely to be a restful night.

Then, of course, the wind picked up. Lying there we could hear it and feel it. Why did it have to happen now? Then there was a little sound, something not quite right. Something rubbing gently somewhere, a little chink from the anchor chain. Just a small noise, and the night was cool... Reluctantly we decided that we should check - naturally I was happy to let may husband do the checking. Not that it helped me stay warm and cosy for long...

And there we both were, jackets over our pyjamas, up on the bow, surveying the situation. Our anchoring companion had left his dinghy trailing behind his boat and it was now rubbing gently against our anchor chain. From our boat we could look directly into his cockpit; if there had been lights on inside we could have seen in there too. Obviously it was time to wake our sleeping friend up. I went and got the horn.

Twenty minutes later I was still blowing our horn and yelling and the boat was so close that Richard was now trying to tap on his stern. In another five minutes I had added our most powerful light into the mix. Not a sign of life. I resorted to screaming

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