Sea Change - Ian Dickens

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      All of us had been on the same roller coaster and, despite an attempt to have an alcohol-free night, we ended up opening a bottle of wine and helped each returnee with gentle and very touching waves of support.

      Goodbyes against the backdrop of such an immense passage of time and potential danger were new to all of us. The morning goodbye on the way to the train, or the casual farewell before a day in a boardroom somewhere in Europe, had always been conducted with a vague thoughtlessness. A quick peck on a cheek, an absent-minded hug, an all-too-easy ‘Love you’ and I was off, hitting the ground running with a briefcase and a loaded appointment book. More often than not, some of the family would not even be awake for such partings and it bothered no one. I would be back later and because the journey had been so matter of fact, so routine, the welcome home would be equally lacking in intensity.

      ‘Darling. My God, how brilliant. You’ve returned. Fantastic. Wonderful. Look, children, this is your daddy. Do you remember him from this morning? God, it’s amazing. You got the 17.55 from King’s Cross? How was it? Come in, come in. Sit down, relax, have a drink.’

      Hardly surprising that this never happened. But its absence only emphasised a brand-new and intense experience that had ambushed us all. It also revealed another new facet, where work mates – ones who were still comparative strangers – went out of their way to ensure that their colleagues were cared for and treated with the greatest sensitivity. Everywhere we turned, it seemed, important lessons were being learnt about a life that had been conducted in a climate of growing cynicism and tarnished values but was now being viewed as something virginally new.

      All these lessons and we had yet to set sail.

       6

       READY, STEADY, DRIFT!

       PORTSMOUTH TO PORTUGAL 15.10.00–22.10.00

      Athin sun bathed the Port Solent Marina with a rich autumnal glow, making start day perfect for the visiting spectators. For the sailors, though, the only thing we were interested in was wind. And at that hour not a breath of it stirred the glassy surface that led down to the Solent and the start line.

      But it was only six o’clock and there was plenty of time for a breeze to arrive before the midday gun signalled the first thousand-mile race down to Portugal. Even at this early hour the shower block was packed and filled with good-natured banter between all the crews, who had endured a restless night. Steaming, towel-clad forms shook hands with others with shaving-foam-covered faces. ‘Have a good one!’ were the repeated parting words, and out of sight of the spectators and the families a true spirit of togetherness existed among these amateur gladiators.

      As the sun rose and breakfasts were cleared away, the fleet began to prepare for the momentous departure. Families who had opted for the quayside farewell lined the pontoon, and as I watched the grasping hugs I was glad that we had said our painful goodbyes in private. And while the last-minute leavers concentrated on trying to be brave in such a raw environment, the rest of us untied our lines and allowed the broad white hull to slip slowly away. In the intensity of the moment, no one had really taken in that the act was severing our final connection with the UK for the best part of a year.

      In the marina’s lock we offered ourselves up as a perfect goldfish bowl to the crowding TV cameras, brave-faced parents, press photographers and eager voyeurs. Poor Stuart had to endure this moment to finally hand over his two-month-old son, who was oblivious to the attention being focused on him. The tiny sleeping form had stayed on board for as long as possible, but now he was handed over to Liz.

      As they embraced yet again, a final warm, proud and gentle kiss was placed by the father on his baby’s forehead. The press, spotting the value of the picture, moved in for the kill. A hundred shutters rattled to the motordrive’s command and captured the moment for the benefit of the world. Stuart looked like he was ready to hit someone, as the things most precious to him were transformed into a commodity that would flog a few more papers the following day.

      The lock gates opened and we motored out of the marina with ‘Jerusalem’ playing loud from London’s speakers. We had wanted to give our boat a proud signature tune, and as the choirs built and the brass section bellowed, we felt we could not have picked a more rousing and emotional choice. Glasgow had gone one better, though, and stole the show completely. On her foredeck stood a lone kilted piper and as the green and yellow hull slipped through the water, the swirl of the pipes sent the familiar refrain of ‘Speed Bonny Boat’ back across to the waving families. The melancholy lament sent the hairs on the back of my neck alive and the ever-present emotion bubbled to the surface once more.

      We came down the river to Portsmouth surrounded by a mass of spectator boats and formed up on the towering grey hull of HMS Glasgow, who had slipped her mooring to become our guardian stake boat. In a giant armada, the Royal Navy led us out of her most famous harbour and we must have made an impressive sight as the Round Tower slipped by, crammed full of frantically waving spectators.

      My grandfather had witnessed this scene so many times in his naval career and then watched with pride as his sons had grown into the role, commanding their own ships. Now it was my turn to make such an exit and I was sure that the ghost of my grandmother joined her husband to witness it all once again. Waving a hanky and wishing God speed to her grandson would have been a routine that was comfortably familiar.

      They would have been doubly thrilled, as another grandson, my cousin Mark, stood on the flight deck of the destroyer waving enthusiastically down at the race fleet. Unlike me, he had joined the family ‘firm’ and, ignoring the decorum that was supposed to go with his commander’s uniform, he marshalled Anne, Holly and Michael into view at the guard rail, where they waved and hollered with unbridled enthusiasm. His help in getting them on board such a privileged vantage point had been the perfect foil for the emotions of the day. If I was having an adventure, so too were they, and while the sights and sounds on board the warship would no doubt appeal to Michael, the attentive care from the uniformed crew would prove equally popular with the women in my life.

      Waving is an odd thing.

      A wave is only complete if acknowledged by a wave in return, so that communication is established. Having made the connection, all you can then do is wave some more, so that is exactly what we did. I waved at Anne and Holly and Mike and they waved back. I waved at Mark and I waved at his wife, Debbie. I waved at Aunts Audrey and Mary, whose naval-officer husbands would have loved the moment. They all waved back. I waved again and they waved too. They waved at me and I waved back once more. I gave a ten-second burst of waves and they responded with a slow, fifteen-second salvo, as if they were at a Pink Floyd concert, so I responded once again with a double-handed rejoinder.

      Then a spectator boat passed by with a full commentary spouting from the tannoy about the crew of London, and sisters and nieces and nephews and in-laws and outlaws all waved enthusiastically, so the trade-offs started all over again.

      It is a mute and pagan form of connecting and after a bit you wonder what else you can do. Perhaps a back-handed wave, or a windscreen-wiper flip or a through-the-legs Ministry of Silly Waves version, to keep the communication fresh and interesting.

      And then Charlie and the team centred their Tiger Moth display right overhead and gave a beautiful send-off with the tightest and sharpest formation, waving from their cockpits on the downwind flyby (I employed a simple, strong, forearm sweep for this moment in order to return the greeting) and Charlie very sweetly ensured that the formation took in the Royal Navy on his circuit as well, so that Anne, Holly and Michael could be acknowledged too.

      On either side, the other seven sixty-foot racing yachts surged through the water, with sponsors’ flags flying proud alongside the individual colours of Glasgow, Liverpool, Bristol, Plymouth, Jersey, Portsmouth and Leeds. Behind us sailed Clipper Ventures’ corporate fleet of ten 38-foot racers and around them all buzzed a grand-prix grid of wave-bouncing ribs.

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