What I wouldn't give to be dry at last

Shuddering our way through the latest cold front, accompanied by dank spring drizzle, it seems fitting to talk of the glory of dryness.

- LIBBY PURVES

A lot of our sailing, down the decades, has been preoccupied with dehumidification, both intimately personal and saloon-related. I never forget one particular moment, in Falmouth, when we squelched up in the dusk from the town pontoons in full oilskins, steaming gently from underpants to thermal vest, and paused for a moment outside a branch of, if I remember, Milletts. We gazed, like starstruck Carrie Bradshaws in Sex and the City contemplating the latest line in Louboutin stilettos. 'Look!' croaked Paul, awestruck. 'DRY CLOTHES!'

The sight of unremarkable cotton jeans and acrylic hoodies from the Far East was almost too much for us. We yearned for them, at any price. The shop was, obviously, closed, but at least we could look. We had sailed from Ireland, the boat already nastily damp from a series of anchorages where we would put the pathetic little heater on and dangle our sodden socks and underpants from the grab-rails to catch the heat as it rose. There had been no sun on the way over, at least not in calm enough weather to stretch anything on the cabin top, and now it was raining again.