'We can’t possibly go in there. I’m not putting her alongside that rusty hulk, she’ll be smashed to pieces.” He swung the tiller hard to port as I peered into the murky water. Once more we moved in a series of circles, avoiding partly submerged scrap metal and rusted fishing boats, past the blood-red stone circular fort in the centre of Kronstadt harbour in Russia. “I don’t think we’ve much choice,” I said, scanning the shore with binoculars. “There’s someone beckoning us from that tower.” Fenders out, we motored towards a rusty pontoon, alongside what looked like floating two-storey Portakabins.  It was 6am. We’d sailed more than 24 hours from the island of Haapasaari. As the Finnish border guard had warned us, the radio crackled the second we crossed the invisible sea border between Finland and Russia, reinforcing our sense of being watched at every step. Circled by Russian patrol boats and asked to identify ourselves, we had crept in the night through big ship anchorages, full of shadows that could go from stationary to full steam in seconds. More than once we had been blinded by huge spotlights trained down on our small wooden yacht. At dawn, exhausted, we had sailed into the surreal landscape of Kronstadt where we had been told to check in.  Frenzied barking from behind the buildings heralded the arrival of the guard. Wheat-blonde hair curled in a French roll, gold hoops hung from each ear and a portable radio dangled from her scarlet manicured fingers. A jungle-green uniform encased her tall, slim body, ending in a pair of tan stilettos. We stood on deck, awestruck at this vision of Russian power.  The woman beckoned. “You have passports and papers? You follow me.” She led us past the snarling dogs, which strained on their chains, saliva dribbling. “You are not from Denmark?” She smiled. “They try to bite sailors from Denmark. But not British.” She didn’t elaborate. “This way,” she ordered and we followed her up green-linoleum-covered stairs and into a sparsely furnished office. There was a telescope trained on the harbour entrance, a chart of St Petersburg approaches on the wall and a desk with an ageing typewriter, a fax machine, a black dial telephone and three pens in a cup. “You sit,” she said, motioning to two chrome and vinyl chairs. “Your papers?”  Sleep-deprived and nervous, we felt as if we had stumbled into an early James Bond film set in Cold War USSR. She made a phone call and I heard what sounded like phonetic versions of our names, before she put down the receiver. “Welcome to St Petersburg.”  Email your entry, in 500 words (with the text in the body of the email), to justback@telegraph.co.uk by midnight on Tuesday July 14. Click here for full terms and conditions  The winner will receive £200 in the currency of their choice from the Post Office.  Click here for more information and full terms and conditions  The Post Office is Britain's largest travel money provider. It offers more than 70 different currencies with 0% commission on all currency and traveller's cheques. Customers can buy selected currencies over the counter at 8,000 branches and all currencies can be ordered for next-day delivery at 11,500 branches nationwide. Orders can also be placed online at www.postoffice.co.uk
Lesley Walker wins our weekly travel writing competition - and £200 - this account of an encounter with a glamorous but intimidating Russian border guard in St Petersburg