Sailing: April.

Sailing: the gentle slap of water against the boat's hull, the serene sight of sails aloft, and the comforting grip of hand on tiller. A gentle breeze wafts you down a peaceful river, affording you the time to watch the river banks, the wading birds, other sailing boats, perhaps giving a friendly wave to passing travellers.

Sailing in April: the howling wind, the driving rain, a barely controllable keelboat thrashing around, doing its best to behave like a bucking bronco. The not so gentle cascade of water down the back of your neck. The frozen hand on the tiller, the clammy grip of a soaking sailing glove that's more sponge than glove. The one wet boot, always a sign that the cockpit's flooded again. The sight of seagulls flying backwards.

Showoffs. Why can't they suffer along with the rest of us? I can't sail backwards that easily.

Meanwhile off in the far corner of my vision is the lesser known blind optimist, a sub-species of sailor, who has inherent faith that the weather is always suitable for a genoa, spinnaker and full main. Up goes the spinnaker, just in time for a big gust. The few brave souls out on the river suddenly fix their collective gaze on the yacht, as the shapeless spinnaker flutters into life. Up the thing pops, it fills, it stretches, it stretches some more, then boat heels violently as a big gust hits,  the Captain flapping at the tiller, then poof - it's gone, over the side. The captain shouts at  the crew, the crew pulls on various bits of string lying around, trying to look efficient, or something. Much recrimination follows. Someone decides that its a good idea to pick up a boat hook and poke the waters, in a feeble attempt to retrieve the spinnaker. Another big gust hits, and crew drops boat hook in water, then peers forlornly over the side, watching their beloved poking device sink like a rock. Collective exhaling from yachtsman all round, all mentally thanking the gods of sailing that they're not in the hole for a boathook and spinney.

On the other hand, as happened on another occasion, old spinnakers can explode, creating an awful lot of nylon confetti, without the fun of the attendant wedding, but most of the expense when you realise that you've got to buy another one.

So what pray tell makes anyone want to go out on a freezing, windy, spring day and volunteer to get wet, cold and fill your boots with seawater? I guess it's the simple hope that for every moment you suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous weather you'll be paid back in glorious summer days.

Those are the days when the cormorants don't pick on your boat, when the sun shineth on you and only you, when every tack and gybe's a good 'un and you don't tangle a vital piece of string around your foot at the very moment you desperately need it

You live for the days when everything appears to work for you, and curiously it's on those days that my boots, not even once, threaten to fill with murky seawater. Happy days indeed.