The Beginning

Before the first sail, before the boat, before any of this made any sense at all — there was a Tuesday afternoon in February. A marina in Falmouth. A grey sky doing nothing dramatic. And a singlehander coming in off a three-week Atlantic crossing.

He was maybe fifty-five. Weathered in the way that only comes from actual weather. Not the gym-tan kind, not the holidays-in-Tenerife kind. The real thing. He tied up with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this ten thousand times and still cared about doing it properly.

I watched him for about ten minutes. He didn't know I was watching. He checked his lines, he stowed a few things, he made a cup of tea in the cockpit and sat there looking at nothing in particular. Completely, utterly at peace.

I drove home and booked an RYA Coastal Skipper course for the following month.

That was the beginning.