LITMIR.BIZ

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already booked. Anne’s first task after I had gone, was to go and sample the delights of negotiating a fair price for it. She had already put one over-cocky salesman in his place and, with the help of a friend in the trade, I knew that she would get a decent amount of cash.

      We worked through all the practical details that needed sorting and, as we did, I continued to be fuelled by a surging energy that willed the adventure to start. I knew that the emotions of departure were bubbling beneath the surface, especially for Anne, but selfishly I shooed them away. Partly out of excitement and partly out of fear over what would be unleashed if I truly addressed them.

      If I had been more in tune with the rest of the family’s emotions, we would have spent the evening at home in front of the fire. Instead we were at the local pub, where another jolly farewell party was in full swing. The bar was full of Tiger Moth pilots from Charlie’s Diamond Nine display team, who were due to perform their last-ever public display the following day. They had also generously agreed to overfly the start as a special farewell for me and my boat the following weekend.

      And while I enjoyed the ribald toasts, the warm wishes of good luck, the backslapping and the offer of another pint of Greene King, Anne was really struggling.

      She was being asked the same questions by well-meaning friends and as she tried to cope with yet another explanation as to how she would cope on her own, the armour was finally pierced. This tough, brave, sassy woman, who had offered nothing other than unconditional support and love over the last twelve months, had to flee the bar. Eventually she emerged from the Ladies, eyes red raw, attempting to play it all down with a watery grin and a heavily chewed lip. It was clearly a real struggle to be there and watch another round of goodbyes. In such a fragile state, each farewell was like a nail through her heart and, true to form, I was horribly oblivious of how difficult it all was for her to endure.

      So focused was I on what lay ahead for me, I had been blindly ignorant and unthinking about what it might be like for other members of the family. I just wanted to get on with it, put the waiting and the training behind me and put into practice all that I had learnt. Surely everyone must be thinking the same way?

      It was a child’s simple observation that finally opened my eyes and brought me back to earth with a bump. I was sitting on the floor at home, half watching crappy TV, enjoying a glass of red and a slice of pizza cooked by Mike, in the way that our regular Sunday-evening routine dictated, when he turned to me and said, ‘Dad, do you realise this is the last Sunday night we will spend together for almost a year?’

      In typical twelve-year-old-boy fashion, he’d made a simple observation, not one designed to open a wound or to crave attention – just an honest and practical passing comment.

      Now, just when I needed to be in reassuring hero-father mode, I almost let it all go and was perilously close to sobbing like a baby in front of them all.

      I headed back to the boat on Monday morning and used the time on the train to draft letters to Anne and the children, which I would leave as a surprise on their pillows. Once again the jangled and exposed nerve of emotion kicked in. Writing letters, particularly to your son and daughter, as you go away for nearly a year, placing yourself at the mercy of the oceans and trying to reassure and not patronise, proved unexpectedly hard. It was supposed to be a positive missive reassuring them of the adventure to come, but as the words came out, the sheer breadth of separation really took hold and as I bashed at the keys during the familiar journey down to the capital, tears streamed down my cheeks. At least it gave the commuters something to think about, especially as the regulatory uniform of suit, tie and briefcase had been replaced by a bright-yellow foul-weather jacket, T-shirt and kitbag.

      I clearly no longer conformed and was delighted that the seat next to me was carefully ignored for several stops, before someone was brave enough to take it. Stepping out of myself and seeing the picture of my usual day as if for the first time highlighted what the year ahead was all about. Some things would be truly easier to miss than others and I thrilled once more at my decision.

      The scene that greeted me when I stepped back into the marina car park looked like a Tesco truck had exploded. Everywhere there were great piles of cans, pack after pack of tea bags, vast catering drums of coffee, stacks of loo rolls, jars of Marmite, tubes of tomato puree, bag after bag of pasta in every conceivable shape, plastic packages of rice, box after box of Weetabix, Corn Flakes and Frosties, and a great pile of cartons of the long-life milk that would wash the cereal down over the next three months.

      This was the result of my shopping list, and now supplies to keep fourteen people fed and watered for three meals a day for seventy days had to be squeezed on board. Everything in cardboard had to be de-packed and repacked. Every label on every tin had to be removed and the contents marked with an indelible pen. With no fridge or freezer on board, the location of milk, butter and cheese had to be selected carefully and the whereabouts of every single piece of food had to be logged so that we knew in which corner of the boat it could be found.

      The entire crew formed a long chain and over the course of a day the piles of stores slowly dwindled. By eight in the evening we were done, by which time not an ounce of extra space could be found under the floorboards, under bunks, in lockers and in the galley itself. The newly painted last coat of anti-fouling had now vanished under the waterline and London sat lower in the water than we had ever seen.

      We had wanted to spend at least a day back out at sea, working up the first-leg crew so that we were truly prepared for the start. But with the daily work list showing no sign of diminishing, time was running out. There were numerous small tasks of boat maintenance still to be done, route planning for the first seven-day leg down to Portugal still to be prepared and all the spare parts that had been ordered had still to be delivered and stowed.

      The sea would have to wait. Stuart was less than happy and, with a full complement of crew on board for the first time, we were all equally anxious to work ourselves up into a well-oiled racing machine. Thirty thousand spectators were expected at the start and, on top of that, our every move would be watched by the all-seeing TV and still cameras of the assembled press. We were all eager to do it right.

      Danny Farmer had already hung up the ignition keys to his London taxi and joined Gary Bower on board. They would both leave the boat in Hong Kong, having taken her halfway around the world. James Landale would be with us through to Hawaii, before a General Election would force him back to his role as political correspondent for The Times. Patrick Seagar had left his florist business for the seven weeks that it would take to get to Cuba and photographer Roy Riley would be leaving us in Portugal, having used his Nikon to capture the drama of the first leg for the news pages.

      The last week flew by and while the rest of the crew took London round to the start base at Port Solent, I jumped on a train and headed for home for the very last time.

      Everything I needed to pack was already on the boat and my locker was stuffed full of the tiny wardrobe of clothes that would see me through the year. I had nothing left to take, other than my toothbrush and the family, who would travel back with me in readiness for the race start. It was a Thursday evening and we lit some candles and had supper as a family, the dog sitting close to Michael, waiting for the inevitable spillage from his plate. We talked as we normally did, joked as we normally did, ate and drank as we normally did and went to our beds as we normally did. It was a Thursday, just like any other. Everything was normal, routine, unexceptional, except that it would be my last night in the house for eleven long months.

      In the morning I had my usual cup of tea, shared a biscuit with the dog, took a shower and listened to 5 Live on the radio. As they went through the regular time checks, I knew that the same commuting faces would be lining up along the platform waiting for my old train. I knew that in London the office shutters would be rolling up about now, the mainframe was being switched on for the day, and I knew that the traffic on the M25 was building up badly around junction 19.

      I ate the breakfast I normally ate and waited for the children to appear from their bed, as was the norm for a weekday morning. A watery sun shone, picking up the glossy sheen of freshly ploughed brown soil in the fields beyond the garden. The season was turning and for the first time in my life

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