Sea Change - Ian Dickens

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me. The morning continued just like any other. Holly arrived pyjama-clad, bleary-eyed and hair in spikes, closely followed by Mike. I got an absent-minded kiss on the cheek and a vague hug before they settled down to eat and the radio continued to offer its time checks and M25 traffic updates.

      It was all perfectly normal and just a little unreal, until the dog was driven off to stay with friends for the weekend and we were reminded that this was my last few minutes with all that was familiar.

      A clock had started ticking and the excitement of the previous months were replaced with a nerve that grew more raw as the second hand rotated. When the taxi arrived, Anne, Holly and Michael piled in, while I went to each bedroom in turn and left my notes on the pillow. Just doing that had my eyes stinging furiously, and as I took one last, long look inside before closing the door on my home, something became firmly lodged in my eye. Well, that’s what I told the taxi driver.

      He left us at the station and a few late commuters eyed us suspiciously. ‘Children out of school, man dressed like something off a tin of John West salmon, strong-willed woman who refuses to let go of his hand. Very odd. Very odd indeed.’ But it did ensure that we got most of the carriage to ourselves. After heading into London and then out the other side, the train made its slow and steady progress towards Portsmouth. A ticket inspector stamped the four tickets, only three of which were returns, but if he thought it odd he kept it to himself.

      We had agreed that on such an emotional weekend the idea of Anne carrying my precious family around the busy motorway network as she headed for home was an extra we could all do without – hence the train. And even though it made sense, I looked at them lost in their own thoughts and tried to stave off a whole horror list of train crashes, taxi smashes and house fires that chose that moment to come and test my resolve.

      Down at the marina there was the usual buzz of activity and I got stuck into it all, happy to have something to occupy my mind. The family went off to explore, and when we met in the evening at the hotel we were back on to an even keel, still steadfastly ignoring the dreaded moment that would take place just twenty-four hours later. While the kids abused room service, Anne and I went to a pre-race party attended by all the crew.

      Try as we might, the party mood failed to truly kick in and no matter what we had to drink, both of us were unable to enjoy the moment. We snuck off into the night and had a last look around London, sitting proudly at her moorings. A full moon shone across the water and the sounds of the party drifted towards us as we looked at what would be my home for the next year. We stared intently at her suddenly small and vulnerable confines, willing them to yield at least a flavour of the adventures that we would share together, but she was asleep for the night and refused to indulge our whims.

      We were back the next day, Holly and Michael spending time around my bunk before we stepped ashore. The next time they would be on board would be in the Pacific, and as we walked slowly away I turned to catch Anne placing a kiss on her hand and then transferring it to the hull at the approximate position of my bunk. The red eyes had returned and I looked quickly away, pretending not to notice such a small yet intimate act of love. The kiss was not just for me, it was also for the boat, and already Anne was demonstrating the deep-seated respect and bond that a sailor develops for his craft. I was hugely touched, and once again the tears pricked heavily in my eyes.

      Back at the hotel we were almost at zero hour. We had agreed that goodbyes were going to be said on the eve of the race and that, having said them, I would go and join my crew mates on board. It would allow race day to dawn as the first day of our adventure and, while I could focus on what lay ahead, my family could tick the first day off the diary, which would mean the year until my homecoming was already a day shorter. The last thing any of us wanted was a protracted departure at the pontoon, where the time would linger and the act of letting go mooring lines, making the gap between quay and hull slowly widen, would be too cruel to endure. We would be surrounded by curious onlookers and embarrassed crew and it was far too public a place to conduct such an intense parting. The privacy of a hotel room would be so much better.

      The hotel was one in a series of identical faceless buildings that dot the outskirts of most major towns in the UK. Dreadful muzak played through the luridly carpeted reception and floated around the green-waistcoated and name-badged staff. Debbie controlled reception, her sing-song voice greeting the weary traveller. Darren stood by with his luggage trolley, and in the bar Kevin and the rather racy Chantelle poured pints and dispensed packs of peanuts.

      It was horribly impersonal for such a personal moment and our final supper took place in an overlit carvery, where a line of red lights squeezed the final juices out of the tired and overcooked meat. Mandy struggled with the corkscrew and poured the wine to taste with a shaking hand. Bread rolls were dispensed with an equally nervous double-spoon manoeuvre by John and, while I wanted the meal to last for ever, there was an equal desire to rush away from this dreadful attempt at being ‘posh’ as quickly as possible.

      Then suddenly the plates had gone, the bill had been signed and we were back up in the overheated bedroom, with its trouser press and kettle. The dreaded moment could wait no longer.

      Hugging Anne was fine. She was being strong and uttered nothing but positives. Michael was fine too, holding on to his emotions with a firm grip, as he became my man of the house for the year. And then the father had to say goodbye to the daughter. She rushed into the tightest embrace and as her head pushed hard against mine, sobs racked every part of her body.

      And at that point I was undone. All the bravado and the excitement and the single-minded focus simply evaporated away. As she sobbed I attempted to control my own sobs and not let out howls of anguished pain. She shook and I shook back and our tears mingled into a soggy mass on the swirly-patterned carpet.

      Eventually we had to break apart and with my family framed in the doorway I walked away down the long corridor, a steady stream of salty droplets pouring down my cheeks. I was oblivious to the guests who emerged from their rooms and oblivious to the people in the lift.

      Across reception, Debbie and Darren smirked at each other and just as I headed out through the revolving doors into the welcoming darkness of the night, Anne’s family appeared, ready to join in the start-line celebrations. I could only offer the crassest of welcomes and they clearly understood the private turmoil I was going through. I stumbled into the back of a taxi, consoled that family would soon be enveloping family, under the watchful gaze of Kevin and Chantelle.

      Back at the boat my crew mates were returning in similar states of raw emotion, and as I stepped on board Ellie took one look and enfolded me in a huge hug. I headed for my bunk and discovered that the emotion was not yet done. Balloons were festooned from my tiny locker and three cards sat on my sleeping bag. Anne had written words of unconditional love and support. Michael had added a joke and a crude drawing of the boat – a token of his method of dealing with the situation. Once again Holly knew exactly how to hit the spot, and as I opened the card a pack of tiny gold metallic stars fell out.

      She asked me to sprinkle a few of them on to the ocean every time we arrived in a port. Furthermore, I was asked to look deep into the vivid skies every night and say goodnight to the heavens, as she would be doing from her bedroom, snuggled high up under the thatch, back in Bedfordshire.

      The emotion continued. I defy anyone not to lose it completely when they read a note that starts, ‘To my dearest Daddy’ and goes on to say, ‘This is one of the hardest things to do ever! Saying goodbye to a Daddy like you.’

      For the second time in half an hour I lost it totally and wept unashamedly. Others on the boat must have heard but, in the most caring show of respect, they left me alone and ensured that new arrivals were aware, via a series of gently whispered words of warning. I spent a long time at my bunk, unable to talk to anyone, opting instead to sort and re-sort kit that had already been sorted.

      With red-rimmed eyes I eventually went up on deck just as Patrick appeared on the pontoon, and in the darkness I watched as his wife and daughters went through a ritual identical to my own. Eventually the girls in his life headed off into the night, like a group of mourners stumbling away from a fresh grave, and Patrick stepped blindly through the crew in the same emotion-laden state as

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