The companionway washboard in cockpit table mode

There were three of us sitting in Samsara’s cockpit as the sun went down over Spanish Water in Curacao . That was when the conversation turned to the size of the cockpit.

Well, it would do, given the size of said cockpit and the fact that there were three of us in it with the table up (actually the companionway washboard balanced on the tiller in its alternative role as a repository for coffee cups, beer bottles, breakfast, and – as I sit under the awning writing this – the laptop and a cup of tea).

It does mean there was even less room for the three of us because, in order to stop the rudder moving as yet another giant RIB roared past with 20hp on the back and the remote throttle all the way forward, the tiller had to be immobilised by means of a wooden strut and its opposing shock cord made off on the headsail cleat.

It works rather well. I always did want a cockpit table.

But it does mean there is only room for three.

The other two were Caroline and Fred, a Dutch couple in a 42footer who had adopted me when I arrived and drove me into Willemstad for Immigration, Customs and the Harbour Authority (to tell me where to anchor). The least I could do was invite them aboard for a beer.

“Did you ever think you would like a bigger boat?” Caroline asked, by way of making conversation (she was jammed on the far side of the table. It could have been worse, she could have been on the side with strut and the shock cord.

“No, never,” I told her. “There are a lot of advantages to a small boat. I can lift the anchor in one hand to bring it on deck (and most people would still consider it over-sized).

“I can turn round in marinas without giving everyone heart attacks.

“I can climb the mast without chickening out before I get to the top.”

“Everything is cheaper – including the boat herself…”

And all of this has become a talking point in the beach bars of the Caribbean – and the Tuamotus, for all I know, and the marina terraces all the way up the Hamble…and certainly Uncle J’s hamburger joint in Spanish Water where last night I sat drinking Heineken with a Englishman, a Dutchman and a German – and no, this is not the beginning of a joke.

Instead, we discussed big boats – very big boats. In particular, the tragedy of the Bayesian, the superyacht that capsized in a totally unexpected waterspout off the coast of Italy, drowning 12 people including her owner, tech mogul Mike Lynch and his 18-year-old daughter Hannah, who was just about to start at Oxford.

Yes, it is a tragedy. But no, it would never have happened to our boats – smaller boats, sensible boats.

The facts will emerge eventually of course – in a court somewhere where reputations will weigh in the balance and a price will be put on life of young Hannah, so full of promise, whose body was the last to be brought up from the bottom.

But that’s what you get, we decided, when you want to have the second tallest mast in the world (well, obviously you don’t. You want the tallest – but the case isn’t difficult to argue).

And a mast that tall with however many sails all hoisted and ready to go would weigh as much as any one of our boats – certainly mine. I’m only about eight tonnes all up.

Then, there’s the other side – the retractable keel (which was, apparently, retracted). The keel is for stability – to make the boat pop back up if she gets knocked down. I got knocked down last autumn running into Storm Babet on the way to the Canaries.

So, the boat was full of water. So, the 10mm bolt holding the gooseneck together snapped like a twig, four metres of teak toe-rail popped off with nothing but the sheer force of water. Sails torn, fridge inverted (in contravention of the instructions) big spanner in the sink, a single kernel of sweetcorn lodged on the top of a picture frame…

But the boat popped back up. She carried on sailing – all the way to Las Palmas.

Nobody died. Nobody got sued.

Small boat, you see…

Small boats are the answer.