Wanderlust

By Jane Pearce

This book is the true story of my quest to live as a free spirit for a year of my life, mentally, physically and sexually. The year is 1975, I was 24 and I had abandoned a marriage and walked away from a secure job as a BBC make-up artist. Where in the modern world would I find the wide open horizons that I sought? How would I live? Would I share the adventure?

The ocean, a boat and an open relationship provided my answers.

Travelling with no fixed itinerary, no advance reservations, no return ticket and no fixed destination. We became true free spirits open to the dictionarys definition of adventure: one who lives on his wits. Risk. A remarkable happening.'

My mood was at odds with the rest of the country. After the previous years three day week, strikes and Harold Wilsons minority government, Britain was bracing itself for Denis Healeys tough new budget. I was about to sail away from all this, but what lay ahead could be much worse and certainly carried more risk. Restless, excited, optimistic and definitely naive I did it anyway. There is a phrase, "be careful what you wish for as it might come true"

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491878002

Jane Pearce

Jane is a hardworking self starter that’s debuting her second book while working towards her dream of becoming a best selling author. Jane lives in Ontario, Canada regularly using her surroundings to develop future storylines.

Book preview

WANDERLUST

BY

JANE PEARCE

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AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2013 by Jane Pearce. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Disclaimer:

Almost all of this is true and written as it happened. However I have changed the way in which Geoff and I met, in addition to the names of many of the characters. This was in order that those who might feel harmed cannot be identified.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/17/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7798-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7799-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7800-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

‘Wanderling’

Chapter Two

‘Escape’

Chapter Three

‘Beginnings’

Chapter Four

‘Plans’

Chapter Five

‘Two Steps Forward’

Chapter Six

‘Chiefy’

Chapter Seven

‘Roris"

Chapter Eight

‘Baptism Of Fire’

Chapter Nine

‘Making Ready’

Chapter Ten

‘Setting Forth.’

Chapter Eleven

‘Groundhog’

Chapter Twelve

‘Nuit Blanche’

Chapter Thirteen

‘Doldrums’

Chapter Fourteen

‘Pompey’

Chapter Fifteen

‘La Belle France’

Chapter Sixteen

‘Biscay’

Chapter Seventeen

‘Obrigado’

Chapter Eighteen

‘The Rock’

Chapter Nineteen

‘Mad Dogs’

Chapter Twenty

Dinero

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Viva España’

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘Reunion’

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘Safe Berth’

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘Change Of Plan’

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Déjà Vu’

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘Adieu Matelots’

Epilogue

To Geoff for his skill, courage and humour and to my parents, particularly my Mother, for hiding their fears and supporting me in whatever I chose to do.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Wanderling’

FREEDOM TO LIVE in the moment was part of my dream and I was doing it now. No shoes, no money, carrying no bag, wearing just my yellow dress and knickers, and sitting with my bare feet in the powdery sand. Perhaps I should have been more concerned, but instead I was relaxed and unfettered, watching the golden dawn, so full of promise. Further down the beach a group of hippies slept soundly, wrapped in their sleeping bags. The morning light was beautiful and the temperature warm. Small sand flies hopped around me, their pale colour a perfect camouflage. I studied them for a while and idly tried to catch one.

‘Roris’ sat peacefully at anchor in the stillness of the early morning. There was no sign of my partner. He must be still asleep I decided, and wondered how long I would be waiting and what sort of reception I would get once he awoke. My tranquil mood evaporated a little and I experienced a twinge of remorse. I’m not guilty of anything that we haven’t discussed as part of our agreed relationship, I told myself. When he wakes he will come and get me.

An hour passed, the hippies stirred, gathered up their things and wandered off. But there had been no movement on board. Another hour came and went with no sign of life on ‘Roris’. I was just beginning to calculate how far a swim it represented, when a head appeared from the aft hatch. A head staring resolutely out to sea. His head. The body followed, arms alternately stretching in a languorous fashion and still facing out to sea. I knew that he must have seen me through the portholes on the landward side. I was certainly not going to shout out. He bobbed back down into the cabin and returned with what became obvious, were his shaving things. Then propping up a mirror on the cabin roof, he began, at a very leisurely pace, to enjoy a ritualistic wet shave.

The dream that brought me to that beach began in my childhood. It drove me to abandon a marriage and the security of home and income, in order to set off on an adventure that would test my ideal of living a free life.

Ever since I can remember I have wanted to explore my surroundings and been curious to see beyond the horizon, often creating excitement out of nothing, as indeed do most children… . I just never grew out of the habit.

Born in rural Wales, we moved to a quiet suburb of Cardiff when I was 4. As quite a young child I would wake up at first light in the summer, quietly get dressed in the same special outfit; blue shorts, white T-shirt and plymsoles. Then climb out of the window across the conservatory roof, I knew where to place my feet after watching my father fitting the glass, and onto the top of the 6ft brick wall that formed the border between our garden and that of next door. Ideally I was looking for a cat to follow. The challenge being to go wherever the cat did and by the same route. If no cat was immediately available I walked, tightrope fashion, from wall to wall and tree to tree until I spotted one. The remaining two challenges were; not to be seen by an adult whilst treating the whole road’s back gardens as my territory, then finally to return home and get back into bed before my mother ‘woke me’ to get ready for school. I only remember being spotted by an adult once. She called my name, and I bolted in what I undoubtedly thought was a suitably catlike fashion.

My best friend was a boy, Bill Scobie, whose friendship I initiated at the age of four by shouting Stop boy! as he peddled his trike past our front garden where I was playing. There was a disused air raid shelter behind his house, which was in the same road and just a few doors away from mine. The shelter was overgrown and mysterious, providing us with challenges and dares. We broke in, climbed on top, jumped off and used it as a lookout post. On the roof we were the ‘lost boys’ from Peter Pan, it’s chimney resembling the mushroom one that Captain Hook accidentally sat on.

As a teenager I read true-life adventures by Thor Heyerdahl, Robin Knox-Johnson and Rosie Swale. Thor Heyerdahl’s ‘Kon-tiki Expedition’ led me on to his book ‘Fatu-Hiva’, describing the year he and his wife spent alone on a remote Pacific island in the Marquesas group, going ‘back to nature’ and living unsupported, an idea that I found fascinating. Now, in 2010, I have been interested to read that his granddaughter, Josion a 26 year old scientist, has formed a team who has built a catamaran out of 12,500 old plastic bottles, calling it ‘Plastiki’ after her Grandfather’s Papyrus boat ‘Kon-tiki’. They are sailing it from San Francisco to Sydney to showcase waste as a resource and to highlight the need to recycle.

I had now come to assume that such excitements were a pre-destined part of my future, waiting, to be triggered by my arrival at a particular moment in time. However as I grew up I began to understand that we make our own destiny, whether by accident or design. We shape our own lives around the chance of our birth and our reaction to circumstances. The number of people who believe in fate always amazes me. Dreaming, however, is fine in moderation. Dreams, I decided, were for giving you ideas. The ones that were impossible could be dismissed and the rest worked on. My father liked to quote George Bernard Shaw, Youth is wasted on the young. Well, I didn’t want to waste my youth. Here I was, a teenager in the late 60’s, a decade of optimism that was made for me. I began dreaming. To live on a dessert island perhaps? Explore a rain forest? Dive to find shipwrecks? All too difficult for my immediate future. A sailing adventure? Yes. That was achievable in some form. Now, I suppose we’d call it a gap year.

I am Jane Owen, a TV make-up artist. Not the most promising qualification for undertaking a nautical adventure. I was 15 when I began to give shape to my daydreams. I wanted to live on a boat over an unspecified period of time. Sailing in, or to, a warmer climate, on a slow journey of discovering places, meeting people, witnessing nature but leaving some things open to chance and ideally, all without the normal constraints and rules involved in living a conventional life… Just another hippie really! Obviously I would be unlikely to want, or indeed be able, to live like this forever. But frequently you have to start something in order to discover what the next set of choices will be. Like Alice choosing a door to go through in Wonderland. To live fully I believe you have to keep choosing new doors to open.

With hindsight I could perhaps have applied to crew in a youth scheme such as the tall ships race. But before the Internet such opportunities were not widely known about, and I suspect, would not have been enough. Hence I took my own more complicated, but possibly more satisfying route.

I set myself the goal of finding this life by the age of 23, allowing time to complete my education and begin a career from which I hoped to take a sabbatical for the voyage, having saved some money to buy, or share a boat. At 15 it all seemed wonderfully straightforward. I was too young to understand that life might become more complicated as I grew up and was confident I would stay in control.

Perhaps my restlessness comes in part from my father, who once tantalisingly discussed taking me on a desert trek across part of the Sahara. I was 10 or 11 at the time, and had got really excited. Then in my early teens, he suggested I attend Atlantic College in St. Athens, an international school in South Wales specialising in outdoor pursuits. His profession as a schools inspector meant that he knew all the educational choices, and I leapt at the suggestion. But like the desert trek, he seemed to forget about it. Instead going off to Africa on a year’s placement, to pursue his own adventures. These disappointments were a good lesson for me, demonstrating the importance of taking control of your own life.

My first sailing experience, at the age of 14, was on a mixed activity camping holiday organised by the PGL group and based around Llangorse Lake, near Brecon. I owned a pony and like many girls loved riding, so the combined activities of pony trekking, canoeing, sailing… . and boys… were perfect. But I enjoyed the sailing most and came back enthused, searching out books on navigation plus every sailing story I could find. This first experience contributed to my subsequent decision to try and buy a boat.

By my early twenties, and approaching the age I had targeted, things were no longer so magically clear and simple as they had seemed at 15. Marrying at 18 probably did not contribute much to the grand plan. If I look back and examine my motives now, years later, for marrying so young, I come up with; regular sex, the chance to invest in a house and a great playmate to live with. Novel, but in my defence none of this list was available to a single girl living in Wales in the late1960’s. Also, I had no intention at that time of having any children in the immediate future. Probably subconsciously, I felt I could always escape, but I also imagined I might share the adventure.

The opportunity to buy a first boat came when I won £50 in a beauty competition, not a very feminist way to earn money but I don’t think we viewed it like that then. I used the money as a deposit on a small cabin cruiser, mooring it in an estuary in West Wales. From there we motored to Saundersfoot and Tenby for weekends. These trips were an opportunity to practice navigation learnt at night school. Sleeping in the cramped conditions on board was no hardship, quite the opposite, I enjoyed the simplicity of it all.

When and how? I still wasn’t sure. But our next boat should be ‘the one’ and would certainly cost more than a £50 deposit could secure.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Escape’

INEVITABLEY, IT WASN’T long before I felt trapped in this marriage. Still nursing my dream of a grand adventure I became consumed by an overwhelming urge to run away, exacerbated by having married so ridiculously young. If I really meant to fulfill my ambitions then running, or at least walking, away was what I had to do. Amongst my mixed emotions at the time, I can remember feeling some relief, which helped to convince me that leaving was the right decision.

One evening after an argument I grabbed my car keys, threw some clothes into a small suitcase, not difficult as I lived in jeans, and gave in to my instinct to run. Not to my parents, who still lived 15 miles away in the Cardiff suburb of Whitchurch, but instead to the Fairwater flat belonging to my best friend and workmate, Marina. She, I knew, would understand. We’d known the moment we’d met at the B.B.C. two years previously, that we were kindred spirits. She had admitted to a ten year difference in our ages but Marina was then, and remains now, ageless.

Unfortunately it was rather late when I arrived, around midnight. My lovely friend came to the door pulling a housecoat around her slender figure. There was still a trace of black mascara around the dark eyes and her long black hair tumbled over her pale blue dressing gown. The very happy mixture of her Greek sailor father and Welsh mother had resulted in a strikingly handsome face. I attempted a light tone, Mon, I’m so sorry to wake you… but I’ve left home and am looking for asylum. I need not have worried as she welcomed me unquestioningly.

Oh Flower, come on in, you must be upset, her soft Swansea accent had an immediately calming effect. Despite the late hour Marina stayed up and listened, opening a bottle of wine. She sat with me as, feeling too wound up to be sleepy, I poured out my story.

Take it easy, you can stay here for now. she soothed, How long is it you’ve been together now, I forget? I reminisced a while. Winter fishing trips off the foreshore near Cardiff Docks, and camping in my father’s old army tent on a local spit of land called Sully Island. How we had made plans together during these carefree trips, and like children, sometimes pretended we were stranded, building a fire, and catching and cooking fish. Something I had tried unsuccessfully to do at the age of 7, sitting for hours on the bank of a fetid local canal optimistically holding a red plastic fishing rod purchased with a special offer cut from a packet of cornflakes and using carefully collected earthworms for bait.

During one of those weekends on Sully Island, a couple of women also pitched their tent. Only instead of fishing, they spent the day collecting long twigs. Kindling we thought. Then when night fell, and the tide was in covering the causeway and cutting off the little island from the mainland, the usual peaceful sounds of sea breezes and waves gently lapping against the rocks were in competition with swishing and yelping noises! I assume it was all between consenting adults, but nevertheless, I spent the night in our shared sleeping bag, clutching a sheath knife and convinced that I might be next.

Then there were summer weekends spent aboard his parents boat in West Wales, on which we sometimes spent cosy nights together. Marina, whose taste for adventure was more naughty than nautical, laughed, I can see how that bit would have been fun.

We were healthy teenagers, and sex is definitely one of life’s adventures, as I know you agree. Mellow now, I leaned conspiratorially in towards her as we sat on the floor together, Now that it seems I’m to be single again, perhaps the two adventures are not incompatible. Marina, warming to the subject continued, Certainly, you have the qualifications to get you into that sort of adventure—or trouble—depending on your viewpoint. Just think, you could be the Fiona Richmond of the sailing world, sending reports back to Wales Today comparing the performance of Maori Warriors with Venetian Gondoliers?!

If I thought they’d use the stories I might just do that. I joked. We descended into more giggling and elaborated, imagining the reactions of the ‘Mrs. Joneses of Pontadawe and Llanidlloes’ to such accounts. Trouble is, I’d have to write in Welsh so that’s no good!

Marina, as usual had succeeded in lifting my spirits, and encouraged by the wine, we continued on the theme of sexual adventures. Single and away from home, hmm, I might now indulge in the odd sexual adventure. I mused. Particularly as you married the first man you slept with, Marina reminded me. Yes, and just think, I’d have the advantage of being able to sail away from any complications. Just a lovely memory, and no nasty gossip either. Its what men have always done, but even in these enlightened times, its still very difficult for a girl to behave that way… well it certainly is in Wales anyway.

Tell me about it, Marina agreed, and the restrictions aren’t just sexual. I tried to get a new carpet on hire purchase last weekend but the young man told me I needed my husband’s signature. I explained that I wasn’t married and offered to get one of my lovers to sign if that would do? When we had stopped laughing, Marina became serious for a moment. So, what are you going to do now? Well, I haven’t thought it through yet, I expect the first step will be to sell the cottage. House prices have gone up so much since we bought it, there should be a useful amount left after paying off the mortgage, a mortgage that I wouldn’t have got as a single woman. Perhaps my half might be enough to buy a boat? Then teasing, You could be my crew? Think what adventures we could have together! What a team. We were soon laughing again.

I don’t think so, Marina protested, you’ll never get me out of sight of land on anything less that the QE2. But I’ll fly out, first class of course, and meet you as soon as you reach somewhere warm and glamorous enough, if only to pick over any abandoned men that you may have left lying around.

Ha, ha… you make me sound like Catherine the Great. But I do need to find a partner, or perhaps a group, . . . . if the boat was large enough. Perhaps you should go alone?" she was trying to be encouraging now and I was grateful, but knew only too well that skippering a small sailing boat alone, and over long distances, would be a very different thing from mucking about around a familiar bit of coast for fun. Not something I could undertake, not without a lot more experience. In fact, the more I learnt about the sea, the more terrifying I knew it could be. Even if I had felt capable of sailing alone, it would be an adventure too far. So step three was to find some shipmates. I don’t know why I never considered joining someone else’s voyage; I suppose it was the control issue.

Then, optimism returning, and bearing in mind that I’ve had some of my best, and definitely, boldest ideas after a drink, I remembered something, or rather someone. When I was 16, I spent most of the summer holidays at a sailing school in Portsmouth. It was great, teenagers away from home, some for the first time. We slept on board the sail-training ship ‘Foudroyant’, in Portsmouth Harbour, and sailed dinghies all day. I really fancied one of the instructors, his name was Rob, and I think he fancied me too. But the instructors weren’t allowed to fraternise with the pupils. Here Marina gave a hoot of laughter, How old was he? I was enjoying the memory and let her amusement pass. He was 21 or 22, I think, and single. We got on really well, and actually I did get a snog out of him on the last night. But that aside, I told him about my idea, and he was very encouraging. Perhaps I could contact him, ask his advice, or even, if he might think about joining me.

Marina poured the last of the wine, took a sip, and thought for a moment. Its certainly worth an enquiry. But it was seven years ago. He probably doesn’t even work there any more. That sort of transient employment tends to attract gypsy types, or those who just want a summer job. Even if you managed to trace him, he could be married with children now. I shouldn’t get your hopes up. She was right of course, I know, I know. But if I did find him I bet he wouldn’t mind meeting up for a chat, if only out of curiosity. Just advice would be useful and it’s somewhere to start.

Marina finished her wine and stood up, stretching, Yes, true, and what have you got to lose. I’m off to bed Flower. I’ve an early start tomorrow… . sorry today. We’re doing a film insert for Disc a bloody Dawn. 7 O’clock first make-up call, and it will probably be a long day. Honestly Jane, you do pick your nights to have a crisis… . but I still love you! Come on. With one of her warm smiles she took my hand, yanked me upright and went off to find a spare set of keys, calling out from the kitchen. I’ll try not to wake you when I leave. Help yourself to breakfast, if you can find any. Oh, and if you are going to be on the phone to Portsmouth all morning, please remember my phone bill! I joined her to help clear up. Don’t worry, I won’t abuse your hospitality. Listen, I’m working late tomorrow, ‘Late night Sport’, it’s live at 10.00pm so I’ll still be in the studio when you get back. We could meet in the Club during my supper break, have a drink, and I’ll tell you how I got on. I know I needn’t say it, but I’d be grateful if you could keep all this to yourself for the time being. I don’t want anyone asking awkward questions before I know exactly what I’m doing myself, or before I’ve told personnel that I’ve moved. Anyway, thanks a million Mon, you’re wonderful. I promise I won’t keep you up tomorrow night!

CHAPTER THREE

‘Beginnings’

I WAS WOKEN by Marina’s cat Jean-Louis, jumping onto the bed, purring loudly and obviously delighted to find someone at home to play with. Feeling a little hung-over I gently pushed him away, wishing he could make me a cup of coffee.

As the events of the previous night came flooding back, and despite my headache, there was initially a surge of elation. I had freed myself from what had sadly become a claustrophobic marriage. Then just as quickly, came feelings of doubt about what lay ahead and the untangling of my previous life. But it was exciting, and I was bursting with impatience to begin.

I leapt out of bed sending the cat scuttling for the kitchen then washed and dressed, my head buzzing with lists. I must first visit my parents to tell them what had happened and could make phone calls from there too. Thankfully I didn’t have to be at work until mid-afternoon, and courtesy of the feline wake-up call, it was still only 9.00am

By 10.00 I was jumping into my red TR4 to drive the short journey to Whitchurch. I always enjoyed the satisfying throaty gurgle as its engine sprang into life. But this morning I felt a slight pang. One sacrifice in the pursuit of my goal would be my lovely sexy car. However, cars I could have again. Also the familiar tapping of the loose front wing reminded me that they could also be a problem. I stopped off at an off-licence to replace Marina’s wine, then bought groceries to contribute, arriving at my parent’s home by 10.45.

As usual my mother came bustling to the front door as soon as she heard my key, always loving and welcoming. Hello Darling, I thought we might see you this morning. We had a call earlier. Another quarrel? Then, always anxious to resolve unpleasantness, Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it will all blow over soon. Do you want to stay for lunch?

After greeting her with a hug, I decided to come straight out with it. Mummy, I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious this time. Let’s have some coffee, and I’ll explain. Where’s Daddy? He’s playing golf, and I answered the phone. Though of course, your father has realised that you two have had some sort of tiff". I went into the kitchen as we were talking and made the coffee. My mother, bless her, rarely listened properly if she was doing something else, and I really needed her to listen. So if she listened, the coffee wouldn’t get made, and I really needed the coffee too.

Familiar with my being unpredictable, and perhaps a little audacious on occasions, my mother took this latest outpouring of events in her stride. I played down the sailing part. No point in worrying her unduly at this early stage. Once she had satisfied herself that I wasn’t too distressed she, typically, attempted to peace make.

I suppose its no use asking you to re-consider? Or even just to talk things through. It’s so awful to part in anger. I knew she would try to change my mind, so made it clear that I wasn’t to be deflected. No, I am really sure, relieved even. Don’t worry I will deal with it all calmly now.

Understandably, she expressed her concerns over my sacrificing home ownership to live on a boat. Though we both agreed that my father, on the other hand, was quite likely to be encouraging. He never did want me to marry so young. Anxiety about my personal safety came later. For now she unselfishly suppressed her concerns, partly on the grounds of being unconvinced of it’s actually happening, but also out of a genuine desire not to put a damper on my obvious enthusiasm… Years later I discovered just how worried she had really been.

After lunch I began my attempt to trace Rob, and got through to the sailing school easily enough as it was early spring and the season was just beginning. Unsurprisingly, Rob no longer worked there. However, it seemed that finding him wouldn’t be a problem. He had become something of a local celebrity the previous summer, having rowed, single-handed around the Isle of Wight, non-stop and against the tide for charity. So the school was able to give me the district and even road name in Southampton, where he now lived, this having been printed in the covering news story, which they had kept. With this information I was able to get his number from directory enquiries. My call was answered after a few rings.

He’s at work, this is his wife. Can I take a message? So Marina was right on that one… . I’m an old friend, and I was hoping to ask his advice about a project. She asked for my name and number, and said he might ring me when he got home, probably around seven. Then I remembered that I was working and was anyway, now of ‘no fixed abode’, so I offered to call back around 7.30. This, of course, was long before the convenience of mobile phones. In fact there were still many people who didn’t even have a landline.

A start had been made and after borrowing stationery, I left for work confirming with my mother that I would live at Marina’s for the immediate future. I hoped to get a quiet moment to compose a letter setting out how we should proceed. ‘Late Night Sport’ usually meant lots of quiet moments… . read ‘boring’, for the make-up artist. In this country of macho rugby, before the days of footballers with perms and the complicated coiffure of Dickie Davies, we hadn’t a lot to do.

Full of energy and plans, it was difficult to concentrate on the programme. But, as I have hinted, powdering down the sports presenter and his guests didn’t represent the most challenging aspect of my work. I easily made the usual polite small talk aimed at limiting any possible damage to the machismo of male guests undergoing the ordeal of having to wear make-up. Having got everyone ready, I went up to the lighting gallery to check the make-up under studio lights. With everyone looking fine I was able to return to the make-up room and, whilst keeping one eye on the monitor, began working on the difficult letter. By the time the first half of the programme was about to go on air, I had listed the things that I needed to say, and begun a draft. I stopped writing to go into the studio for final checks, and to standby. 7.30 had come and gone. I returned to the make-up room when the programme came off air and found Marina waiting for me, still in her filming clothes.

Sport may be boring, but at least it is in the warm studio. I’ve been on Barry seafront all day with a clown and a dancer dressed as a clockwork doll. Poor girl, there was no room for thermals under that costume. No sympathy from frocks either. You know what Molly’s like… You wanna be a star? Get it on. I spent most of the day painting out the doll’s red nose, and trying to keep one on the clown. That and re-gluing false eyelashes which kept coming unstuck because her eyes were watering so much in the cold wind. Very glamorous, and it’s taken over an hour to clean them both off, not to mention my kit which was full of sand. How was your day?

Overall quite constructive. I traced Rob, and spoke to his wife. Yes, he is married. So I don’t suppose he can be lured far from hearth and home. However, he apparently rowed round the Isle of Wight last year, on his own. It’s still worth a chat, if only to get some advice. Perhaps his wife would like to come too, who knows.

Sounds like your type, shame he’s not free, as he’d obviously be away longer than it takes to row around the Isle of Wight. Plus your not being a chap might be a problem for his wife, if she wasn’t included that is. Are you going to arrange a meeting? I explained that I hadn’t had the chance to phone back, and we agreed that it was a bit late now. However tomorrow was Saturday, so I might catch him in the morning. Come on, let’s go to the Club, I’ll buy you a warming brandy, I promised Marina. Actually after last night I think I’d rather have a hot coffee. OK, a coffee and a brandy, just one, and then you can get that early night.

Neither of us was working the next day. It was relaxing to pad around the flat chatting and picking at a leisurely breakfast. I wanted to ring Rob early on, in case he worked Saturdays. But Marina pointed out that if it was his day off he might be having a lie in and wouldn’t thank me for waking him. However if he was working, then he would hardly want to spend time chatting to me just as he was due to leave. She had a point, and I decided to try mid-morning instead. In the meantime I could complete the letter.

Writing it all down was a sad thing to do. Adrenaline had carried me through the first 36 hours since driving away and planning had allowed me to avoid having to think about dealing with the unpleasant, and inevitably, upsetting practicalities of breaking up a home and relationship. I decided to abandon the draft letter of the previous day, settling instead for a short note with new address and phone number, confirming that I still wanted to separate, and suggesting we meet to discuss putting the cottage on the market.

My call to Southampton later that morning was actually answered by Rob himself. I even recognised his voice, or at least the accent, and found myself wondering if he looked the same. I was surprised to be a little nervous. Rob, I’m sorry to bother you. You may not remember me; I was a pupil on one of the Foudroyant youth sailing courses. Jane Owen. It was a while ago, 7 years in fact. There was no immediate reply, clearly he did not remember me, no surprise, and was probably trying to think of a polite response. I quickly leapt in with, It’s just that I’m thinking of buying a boat, I’m in need of some advice and as I don’t have any nautical friends these days, I thought of you… If you wouldn’t mind?"

It felt a bit foolish leaping in like this, but he became quite enthusiastic, boats still clearly being a favorite subject. It emerged that he now worked in the dockyard and still sailed. I explained the reason for my wanting a boat, and he asked how much I had to spend. I shan’t know until I’ve sold the house. I just wanted to get a rough idea of cost, and of what’s available. Then I suggest you come down here to have a look round. You’ll see every kind of boat along this part of the coast, certainly more than in South Wales. I meet up with mates most Sunday mornings for a drink, you could join us one Sunday if you like, and I’d be happy to have a chat. Excellent, I gratefully accepted and a meeting was arranged for the following Sunday at ‘The Jolly Roger’ pub in Gosport.

In the week that followed I returned to the cottage to talk, though I did worry that this might be a mistake. Perhaps a more neutral venue would be better? However, It turned out to be a very emotional evening so I was grateful that we weren’t in a public place. We agreed that I would organise the house sale and he would show people around. He would keep all the furniture, as I certainly wasn’t going to need any. Finally I made a date to collect the rest of my things. As I drove away there was no elation, in fact I felt sick with self-doubt and guilt, even questioning what I was doing.

Thankfully by the time I arrived back at Marina’s, a more positive mood was returning. To feel some doubt was natural; I just needed to keep focused on my goal.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Plans’

‘THE JOLLY ROGER’ in Gosport enjoys a scenic harbourside location and I had driven down from Cardiff in brilliant sunshine. It was one of those ambrosial early spring days that take you by surprise, lift the spirits of even the cynical, and encourage a sense of limitless possibility, particularly in the young.

After pulling over a couple of times to consult a map I had found my way fairly easily aided by the position of the pub, on the water and close to an historic site called Priddys Hard. By the time I parked I was full of expectation but also, temporarily, a little deaf! Despite wearing