Читать книгу Sea Change - Ian Dickens - Страница 15

I had a couple more days of work in London before I was formally due to leave, but I took advantage of the last holiday allowance and headed off for a final break with the family. We rented a simple little cottage beside the sea in Norfolk. The four of us pottered over picnics on Holkham beach, strolled through the narrow streets of Holt, sat on a steam train to Sheringham and had long barbecues on the pebbles at Salthouse. Some gentle sailing through the muddy creeks out into Blakeney Pit was a fun prelude to the challenges ahead and as we headed out into the North Sea chop off Blakeney Point, I was urged to pay attention to the skills of the skipper at the helm.

There was a lot of ribald banter from my cousin and her husband as I trimmed the small tan sails of their tiny open boat, and they were laughingly adamant that the shingle spit just off the starboard beam was a test equal to that of the Cape of Good Hope. Marion and Jonathan may well have been right, although I imagined that off the African coast there would probably be fewer boats crammed with day-tripping, ice-cream-licking seal-spotters watching us slip purposefully by.

Behind the happy-family-on-holiday image lay a growing momentum of departure. We all knew that the moment was fast approaching where serious goodbyes would have to be said and no one wanted to face up to the prospect. We pretended it would never come and put on brave faces, laughed overeager laughs, and the hands that gripped mine on either side held on with extra strength as Holly and Michael refused to let go. The goodnight hugs were extra firm as the days were counting down but, while they struggled, my focus remained firmly on the adventure ahead.

We were able to test the emotions again in a trial separation, when I went off to complete the last part of my training, competing in four races around the British Isles. The entire fleet came together for the first time and we headed for the start line of the first twenty-four-hour event.

The eight entries in the Clipper Ventures race – each a sixty-foot, cutter-rigged ocean-going yacht – looked the part, badged up with sponsors’ names, along with the colours of the eight UK cities who were supporting the boats. On board London Clipper, with our blue and red stripes, the crew who would share so much together over the next year set sail as a team for the first time.

Unfortunately, our skipper was not with us. Stuart Gibson was the name the website listed as the man in charge and the fact that he was currently paddling a sea kayak around the frozen wastes of Alaska suggested he was not shy for a bit of adventure.

As it turned out, circumstances worked in our favour. A missing leader forced us to work harder to forge a team and a really strong spirit of togetherness began to take hold on board. The drafted-in training skippers commented on it as we bashed around the English Channel, rounded Land’s End and fought our way up the Bristol Channel, before returning to Southampton via Plymouth. By the time we returned from the final race to Jersey with Stuart now with us, we were well on the way to establishing a solid bedrock of stability among the eight individuals signed up to go the whole way around the planet.

Just like the earlier training, I was amazed and moved at the sacrifices people had made in order to get on board. We were a real mixed bag of individuals from a broad range of backgrounds, jobs and disciplines, with ages spanning forty years.

There was Ellie Matthewman, an A&E nurse turned marketing consultant who had sold her flat to raise the funds. With a buyer found in July, she had to move out and now listed her UK address simply as ‘London Clipper, Shamrock Quay, Southampton’. All her possessions were in her mum’s attic, the boot of her car or on board the boat. Already this was her home.

There was Jane Gibson, a young PA who wanted to get away from a desk in London, see more of the planet and hone her small-boat racing skills. She too would sell her flat to pay for it all and, while the vital buyer was sought, her parents agreed to underwrite the participation fee.

There was Alistair Baxter, already known to one and all as Ali Baba. A larger-than-life, shaven-headed, fanatical Arsenal supporter, he was the sort of chap you would cross the road to avoid if you saw him heading out of the tube station on his way to his beloved team’s Highbury ground. But crossing the road would have led you to miss out on meeting the most gentle, perceptive, deep-thinking, funny, caring, gregarious and huge-hearted football supporter in London. Flogging advertising space for a series of struggling medical journals, wall calendars and the occasional tray of dodgy perfume had earned him enough commission to find a place on board.

Fast becoming his chief partner in crime was Andy Howe, fresh out of Westminster School and university. Backed by his parents, Andy energised the boat with the enthusiasm of an on-heat spaniel and his flashing smile and ready friendship proved deeply infectious. His parents were no doubt expecting that the trip would enrich his education, but they had not bargained for the fact that Mr Baba would be sharing the bunk opposite their son for eleven months. A tragedy, especially when one considers the cost of a private education.

Anna Kellagher kept the girl-power momentum rolling and, like Andy, she seemed to enjoy a ceaseless supply of energy and enthusiasm for any and every task, no matter what time of day or night. A research scientist, she brought a constantly analytical mind to every problem on board and was quick to offer a solution to any problem that presented itself. The job could go on hold for a year and she was happy to rent out her London flat while she was away. As a result, she was homeless too. All across the fleet of clippers, parents who had long celebrated the day when their house was their own again, suddenly found that the kids were back in town.

The Fire Service had said goodbye to Alan Wells with the usual gold watch affair. But after years with his beloved brigade, Alan was adamant that an immediate departure to the bowls club was not for him. So while the other early retirees went for their flannel fittings, Alan was at the chandler’s getting kitted out for a final adventure way more alarming than those found on Blue Watch.

I added my cashed-in career to the single-minded list of personal sacrifices on board and was joined by the final member of the team.

Watching this curious collection of individuals with an incredulous eye was Akira Sato, a talented sailor from Yokohama in Japan. Aki had read about the race in a Japanese yachting magazine, applied for a place and flown to the UK for an interview. His sailing credentials were impeccable, his agility on a boat second to none, his fitness and age perfect, but his English was, unfortunately, dreadful.

This was a race crewed primarily by English speakers and clear communication was of obvious importance. In a crisis it was essential and lives might even depend on it when the shit found the fan – an inevitability at some point over the next eleven months.

Sadly, Aki was turned away, and as he left the Buckinghamshire office, eight thousand miles away from home, he tried to recall how to arrange a taxi and a train ticket back to the airport. But, like everyone else on board, Aki had the same determination and was not going to be beaten. He managed to order a taxi and negotiate the rail system back to Heathrow.

But, instead of returning crestfallen to continue his white-coated role researching cosmetics in Japan’s industrial heartland, he took a flight to Canada, begged a bed from some friends, resigned from the job that had made his parents so proud and set about learning the language.

Two months later he was back in England and in front of the MD of Clipper Ventures once more. ‘Now will you take me?’ he asked in impeccable English, and was warmly welcomed on board. And now that Aki was with us, Ali Baba set about quickly expanding his vocabulary by teaching a medley of songs dear to the Arsenal faithful.

We had yet to sail an ocean in serious anger, but already here were a bunch of people who inspired intense levels of respect in each other, and wherever you looked there was a bigger sacrifice and a larger effort from someone else.

As you would expect from a skipper in such a race, Stuart Gibson’s sailing credentials were impeccable. Not only was he a sound sailor, he was also a good teacher and a well-balanced manager. This last quality was essential when the team needing management was the mixed bag of strong-willed personalities already described. For each of us, the environments where we were the experts, the people in control, the people making decisions, had been replaced by a totally new way of living and working.

Ellie had been the boss when an ambulance, its blue light flashing, arrived at her A&E department, and she had taken control of injured patients and weeping nervous relatives. Anna had run her team of scientists with a rod of iron as they peered into microscopes and deepened their understanding. Alan had been at his happiest when the alarm sounded and the Blue Watch team swung into action down the pole, each knowing the job he would have to do when his much-missed appliance arrived at the shout. Ali was the one who made the decision about how much he would charge for a page of advertising and who he would target next.

None of us knew anything about living together, crammed within the confines of a sixty-foot length of fibreglass. Our lives had never centred around the narrow bunks, with no separate cabins or snore-proof doors, that were now the core of our home. And as the boat went to sea on practice sails to try to turn a group of individuals into one cohesive, finely tuned team of round-the-world sailors, we all struggled to acknowledge each other’s skills and new-found abilities. We were all experts, we all had an opinion, and, as we watched someone else attempting to complete a task, we all had better ways of doing it. As a result, a steady stream of helpful advice was offered on anything and everything taking place on board.

The furling of a sail, the process of putting a reef in the mainsail, the packing of a spinnaker, the coiling of a rope, even how much water to put in the kettle when it came to a tea break, were all tasks enthusiastically debated. And while we were all quick to offer lots and lots of advice on everything, we were distinctly uncomfortable about receiving it. Tell a strong-willed person that there is a better way of achieving a goal and more often than not their views will become more firmly entrenched and more and more obtuse.

I saw a whole series of glorious parallels with the boardroom I had left behind, as our early behaviour mirrored the attitudes that exist in work places the length and breadth of the country.

Stuart was the man who faced the daunting task of managing this powder keg of personality, and in addition to ensuring that his charges made it around the world faster than anyone else, uninjured and still speaking, he had other highly charged emotions that dominated his every waking moment.

Clipper had approached him with the offer of skipper, but the chance to complete the trip that all sailors dream of was at odds with a rather more pressing responsibility. Back home in north Wales, in a small stone cottage overlooking the sea from a gentle hillside, lay a tiny bundle of kicking, gurgling blue-eyed baby who had been born into the world at the same time as I had been celebrating my departure from work. Overseeing baby Ben Gibson’s every move was his proud mother, and as she watched her first-born suckle contentedly at the breast, her mind was filled with the thought of losing her husband for the best part of a year – the first and most important year of their fine young son.

Stuart’s decision had been a desperately hard one to make. Liz Gibson came out of the same mould as Anne and was adamant that if the opportunity was presenting itself, then he should grab it with both hands. Liz is a local GP and an immensely practical and honest thinker. Baby Ben would not be aware that his father was not around and as long as he was fed, warm and dry, then the child would be blissfully unaware and blissfully happy. And while Stuart could accept that fact, he still desperately wanted to be a part of that first year. To see his son grow, smile his first smile, utter his first ‘Da-Da’ and take his first step. And while Ben did not have a clue of his dad’s impending departure, Stuart most certainly did. Like any first-time father, he was racked with guilt and, despite Liz’s eager support, still had his doubts.

We secretly wondered if he might even pull out before the start and did as much as we could to persuade him to stay. We showered gifts on him for the impending christening; we worked harder than any other boat to prove our eagerness; we offered him breakfasts and dinners, drinks in the bar after training and an ever-present eagerness at the sights, sounds and experiences that he would lead us through as we discovered the planet. In the end it was probably a close-run thing, but Stuart stayed, and in between the pangs of guilt he began to demonstrate the skills and qualities that would inspire such devotion and loyalty.

I returned to work to fulfil my last two days behind a desk in London, and felt comfortable as the office floor gently rolled from long days at sea. After I had completed the King’s Cross route for the last time and sunk slowly into my huge leather executive chair, a steady queue of people came to my door for an audience.

They issued long diatribes about individuals who had created political mayhem over the past couple of weeks and complained and whined and demanded that action be taken. It was true that certain people seemed to be behaving in a less than helpful manner, but even as the earnest beseeching went on across the desk, I had an urgent desire to giggle uncontrollably. This was all suddenly very silly and spectacularly unimportant.

I still had to make one last visit to the ad agency over in Knightsbridge and, with a couple of hours to spare before the warm white wine moment of departing speeches in a boardroom packed with awkwardly shuffling staff, I strolled away from the slowly crawling traffic and meandered through Hyde Park. Drawn towards the placid peace of the Serpentine, I sat on a park bench at the water’s edge and reflected on the year that had just past.

It was a year ago that I had decided on a major change and now the moment had come when the salary stopped, the Club Class travel and grand hotels were over, the company car was no more and the expense account a thing of the past. I had no more need of a suit, a briefcase, a diary or a secretary to manage it. I had no politics to fight, no battles to win, no meetings to attend, no e-mails to collect or mailbox messages to respond to.

As twenty-one years of sitting in an office came to an end, I sat in the warm September sunlight and felt more content than I had felt in years. For an hour I sat there, oblivious to everything else in the world as the traffic hissed through the trees, the inbound jets to Heathrow lowered themselves out of the sky and a group of young children from a playgroup excitedly fed bread to the ducks. Serious workers were at work, leaving the park for American tourists, pensioners leaning on their sticks, lovers walking hand in hand, a well-heeled rider and her horse cantering through the sand and the odd rower out on the lake showing off to an adoring partner. We were each content in our own world and happy to be able to have the time to simply watch the afternoon unfold.

That was it. Being a ‘grown-up’ was finally over. Now I could seriously go to work and start playing.

The task of preparing the boat began in earnest and more crew came to join Ellie as London became our new home. I lived on the boat during the week, going home at weekends to be with my family. On board we lived like gypsies, grabbing whatever bunk might be available and falling asleep to the gentle slap of the passing tide in the River Itchen. Shamrock Quay, at the back end of Southampton, is not a glamorous marina and, nestling under the building work of the city’s new football stadium, we went about our daily tasks, fitting in with the other jobbing workers who made their living from boats at this functional, practical yard.

The daylight brought with it a heavy damp dew, which made a perfect alarm call. By 06.30 most of the crew had stumbled over the rough yard in a half-dressed, half-awake, yawning stumble and queued to get the hot water. Lines of steaming naked bodies emerged unselfconsciously from the cubicles and, as we towelled ourselves dry, the tasks for the day were discussed.

While one person was planning to go deep into the bilge, another would be hoisted high up the mast. Another would be off on a sail-repairing course while another couple, in a different classroom, would consider the complex issue of global routing.

Spanners and pliers were not the work tools for most of us and we set about learning the workings of our boat with a splendid cack-handedness. Fingers were sliced open, hammers dropped from the top of the mast, vital bolts plopped into the oil-laden foul bilge water and the bravest soul took a first nervous screwdriver to the flushing mechanism of the two heads, or on-board lavatories.

In between bouts of manual labour I went off to meetings that discussed provisions and drew up a shopping list for fourteen people’s breakfast, lunch and dinner over seventy days, with no fridges to store it all in. I learnt how to service and repair the on-board diesel generator and main engine after a day of lectures in a lathe-turning, oil-smelling fabrication shed, and returned to the boat clutching a certificate of competence that meant as much to me as any advertising award.

More lessons on fixing followed at a two-day first-aid course. I could hardly believe that it was me snapping the stethoscope shut and deflating the blood-pressure collar, injecting apples with a series of practice syringes and learning how to stitch a wound using sutures on a mortally wounded ripe pear. In between the laughter prompted by a series of dreadful bodge jobs, the Army medic giving the lectures offered some sobering advice.

‘If anyone receives a serious blow on the head and damages their skull,’ he said, aware that the class had pencils poised and were ready to frantically scribble down the solution ‘you might as well not bother.’

The nervous new sailors looked at each other and the colour drained from the upturned faces as he continued. ‘Unless a helicopter is within thirty minutes’ flying time and the patient can be stabilised, then basically they are dead meat. That’s it, lecture on head injuries over.’

And just to make sure we were completely up to speed, he reminded us that for about ninety per cent of our journey a helicopter would be way out of range. Suddenly I wanted my crew mates to take the greatest possible care. On the training races we had already seen two crew airlifted from the deck of Liverpool and flown off to hospital in a coastguard Sikorsky. One of our own crew had got her fingers caught in a shackle when a line released suddenly and her screams could be heard on boats a quarter of a mile away.

A fully powered-up sixty-foot sailing yacht carries awesome loads, and I shared the dangers with the rest of the crew as we ate supper that night. Anne had already asked the crucial question and, in seeking the answer, I had established that there were two body bags on board. But out in the tropics, where the heat is intense, burial at sea for the soul that got it wrong was the probable answer.

Thank heavens Ellie was on board with her A&E nursing skills and I hoped and prayed that she remained undamaged throughout. If she got hurt, my two days of learning would be brought to bear and, quite frankly, the idea terrified me. I vowed to keep a special eye on her and pad her bunk with cotton wool if necessary.