Circumnavigators are a select bunch, and rarer still are those who’ve notched up three, so it’s with particular excitement I await confirmation of my investiture into the Circumnavigators Club.

It should be any day now, post allowing, once my appeal has been upheld.

Like pretty much everyone else I have completed a circumnavigation as part of a crew.

That circumnavigation I regard as barely worth mentioning.

Of course, you will have come across plenty of people less humble than I who, upon their return from such jaunts, will really make a meal of it as they go on endlessly about the challenges of freeze-dried astronaut food – and then sign up an agent so they can blather to bankers about privations and hardships, of which we had none.

True, opening sachets, if you’re careless with the scissors, can cause a nasty nick, leading to sepsis, amputation and death.

The first two scenarios can be worked into passable anecdotes for the after-dinner motivational speaker circuit, though I’ve yet to hear a first-hand account of the third.

The six of us, however, had no such character-building episodes, as instead of sachets we had a superb sandwich selection platter of white, brown, wholemeal and even a gluten-free option.

In truth, neither did we have anything in the way of the mountainous seas normally associated with the Roaring Forties-type weather the corporates love to hear about; just temperate, balmy sun all the way and nothing more than the top of a Force 2, which meant we had to row quite a lot.

As for dismastings and breakages, they were equally disappointing – we didn’t have any.

A further let-down was that we’d chosen the right boat, a Drascombe Lugger with a sliding gunter rig that lowered the air draught so we could slide under the bridges round the back of Canvey Island on the Thames.

In all, it took six hours, which I’m pretty certain is a record for a circumnavigation.

Continues below…

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For me though, solo circumnavigation, often described as the Everest of sailing, represents the very peak of human endeavour, and as by then word had got around I had to undertake my other two efforts by myself, and battle not merely with the elements but with the desolation and loneliness that has tipped many a solo sailor over the brink.

Both of those solo escapades took me to new heights – literally – which is one of the advantages of a lifting keeler like my Sailfish 18.

Northey Island on the River Blackwater has a causeway that joins it with the mainland.

At each end are large poles from which I thought telegraph wires were suspended, but as I tacked nearer I saw they were there merely to mark underground power cables.

Winding up marooned

On a whim, as it was around the top of a spring tide, I sailed over the causeway, and half an hour later came to a gentle stop.

I wound some keel up, carried on and stopped several times more, each time winding more keel up – until the winder stopped completely and I found myself spectacularly aground deep in the saltings on what I later learned was the highest tide for 20 years.

Having done courses I figured out that if I’d gone aground on the highest point of the highest tide for 20 years I would be there for 20 years – a particular concern as I only had enough date-expired Cup a Soup to last 12½ years.

Fortunately, I floated off after 10 hours to complete my first solo circumnavigation.

The stakes, though, are a great deal higher when sailing over a road in a long-keeled yacht like my Blackwater Sloop, Snipe of Maldon, which draws 3ft 9in.

Osea Island, again on the Blackwater, has a road to it and this time, with the help of Google Maps, I pinpointed the lowest point in the middle of the road and approached it with trepidation bang on high water.

A faint line in the water marked the road and Snipe slithered over with a few feet to spare and a great deal of relief to mark my third circumnavigation, artfully avoiding the three great capes, and at the same time demonstrating that smaller boats make the world a larger place.

I haven’t yet heard back from the Circumnavigators Club but I think I know why.

The post box on Osea Island has a notice on it about collection times which simply says ‘According to Tide’.

I reckon a new postie has got stuck on the island – it wouldn’t be the first time.