Dialogue: Heaven is full of macho sailors. . .

Hoary old salts with weather eyes and Moby Dick memories will shake their heads at the abandonment of the Ruamano to the swells off Raglan but I, for one, would rather read of lives preserved than another in our long line of maritime tragedies.

That line between triumph and disaster is so hard to judge; those with enough intelligence will anticipate disasters but heaven is full of macho sailors.

That subtle moment when fun turns to fright put me in mind of my old friend Dr Cabernet, who decided to go fishing one summer's morning. He easily slid the lightweight fibreglass dinghy across the fine beach sand and into the sea, gave a quick push off and then, with a hand on each gunwale to maintain balance, climbed over the transom. He settled heavily in the centre of the boat while he primed and started the small outboard motor.

Shuffling forward while controlling the throttle with his home-made extension, he lowered himself gently into the new, unattached swivel seat at the bow and, as his heart (which had been tapping quickly from his exertions) slowed to a steady beat, took a deep breath of satisfaction. He smiled resignedly; not so young as he was ...

It was hard to believe that after 65 years of the disciplines of school, university and a lengthy career in the service of his profession and the community, he was at last free to do as he pleased when he pleased. But freedom was here at last and he hoped to enjoy it for a long time to come.

Looking around, he relished the calm sea and a cloudless sky, thinking back over all those years when any solitary fishing trip was on stolen time, to days when, as a youngster, he would slip into the cooling sea on a hot summer's day to swim strongly away and then return, refreshed, to clamber over the stern.

Eight hundred metres offshore he stopped the motor and let the dinghy drift gently in the sudden silence. He looked back towards the beach. He could almost see his house from here. From his kitbag he took the small, black cellphone and called his wife to let her know he'd arrived and would soon be fishing.

Then he cursed softly when he found that he'd left his rods behind. No matter, like every resourceful Kiwi he had a couple of hand-lines and so he baited them and sat back into his new seat, eyes closed, to delight in the sounds of lightly lapping ripples against the hull. After a while, he sat up, suspecting that the bait had been taken from one of his hooks. He reached to retrieve the line. In a flash, and without warning, the new seat swivelled, then tipped and he was thrown forward uncontrollably, his not inconsiderable weight flipping the stern of the cockleshell out of the water as he toppled over the bow into the sea.

The shock was monstrous because of its instancy. But once it had passed he took stock. Clinging to the righted hull, nothing seemed remarkable; he had often swum from the boat. But he soon found that the fitness of youth had left him and he realised that he no longer had the power in his arms to pull himself aboard. Besides, it was quite likely that any attempt would capsize it. The water wasn't too cold but his clothes were an encumbrance.

He looked into the hull. He'd not only forgotten his rods but also a life-jacket. He lost valuable strength trying to reach the cellphone and when he finally scrabbled it into his palm with his fingertips, he found that it had been soaked and wouldn't work.

Clutching the transom, salt-sore eyes just above the surface, he looked around and saw, about 200m away, another small boat. He used more strength calling and waving. No response. He sagged, horribly aware of his mortality, then, rousing himself, he bellowed and waved an arm on high. The other boat turned and moved his way and his spirits rose as its solitary occupant called to him, "Hang on, I'll help you to climb in."

But Dr Cabernet knew that any attempt by either or both of them to help him to regain his dinghy would be impossible, sapping his fast-ebbing reserves and endangering them both. So his rescuer attached the two dinghies, then set off for the shore, towing Dr Cabernet, whose agonised body trailed behind the second boat, his knuckles white and fingers failing as they clung to handles on his transom.

It was, Dr Cabernet told me later, the longest 800m he had ever travelled, and by the time his trousers had been drawn from his legs by the sucking water and his knees at last hit the sandy beach he was in no doubt that only 10 minutes might have been the difference between life and death.

Almost in extremis, his main, bizarre thought had been that having worked so hard all his life, and having determined that he would live to 84 at least, there was this irony that he might die now - in calm waters, close to home, having been retired only a few days.

This was on a day when a number of us usually meet for lunch. We wondered why he hadn't shown up. We thought that perhaps his retirement might have set him on to a new modus vivendi. It was only on another day that he told us of his brush with the Grim Reaper. The story sobered us all, I can tell you, with the realisation that it might not be easy, in retirement, to enjoy the recklessness we had looked forward to all our working lives.

As for Dr Cabernet: assure me, my dear old friend, that while you might inadvertently leave your rods at home next time you go fishing, you will never, never forget your life-jacket. And please, under no circumstances accept any invitation to circumnavigate New Zealand.