It all began innocently enough with the idea of sleeping under the stars on the beach. What could be more romantic for three 17-year-old girls, celebrating the end of the summer term with a week’s holiday in a caravan on the coast without our families?

Our parents agonised over letting us go, but eventually relented. After all, we were all sensible girls – at least that’s what they thought.

For us it was heaven. The sun shone, the Boomtown Rats were at No 1 with I Don’t Like Mondays and we were free to hitch-hike around the pubs of Norfolk.

We went to the beach for our sleep-out, scantily clad and carrying only a thin blanket for protection. We didn’t even take a torch. There were no mobile phones then.

What we did not know was that thousands of miles away, a terrifying storm was brewing over the Atlantic. Fifteen people taking part in the Fastnet boat race were killed that night in August 1979 as the winds conjured up towering walls of dark water and wrought havoc with the tides all around the coast of Britain.

As foul and freezing gusts whipped up the waves around us, we realised that we were in danger of being cut off from the rest of the beach and tried to make our way, cold and terrified, to safety. We repeatedly got lost in the pitch-black dark and found safety only once dawn broke.

We never told our parents of our foolhardy adventure. To this day my mum doesn’t know. She would never have let me go away on my own again. But would I let my sons do the same?

Of course I would. I just hope they choose, like I did, to keep their mother in the dark.