But that’s supposed to be a hundred miles south of here.” “They happen where the north and south trade winds meet.
“We’ve hit the doldrums,” said Dad when I went to stand beside him on the deck, gazing out at an ocean of thick honey. The heat built until, one day, the breeze rotated through every direction and disappeared. The shadow darkened and gained substance, becoming a craggy rock lurking under a cloud, while the ocean filled with writhing jellyfish. Heywood with her parents Mary and Gordon and brother Jon. “I think it’s Ilha de Santo Antão in the Cape Verde islands,” said Dad, “which means we’re about 400 miles off the most westerly tip of Africa and halfway to Rio.” One day, about a week after leaving Gran Canaria, and a month after leaving England, a shadow appeared above the ocean’s southern rim. Anyway, our voyage was like a massive geography field trip. When I asked about other subjects, such as history, art or science, she said she wasn’t going to bother with those – if we were good at maths and English, everything else would sort itself out. It was convenient that we were only a year apart in age, she said, since it meant she could teach us together. Once we’d settled into our ocean routines, Mum began giving Jon and me some schoolwork to do in the mornings, usually a maths or English worksheet. W hen I set sail from England with my parents, brother and three crew members in the summer of 1976, I was seven and thought the trip was going to be like an extended, exciting summer holiday. What I found, when I mustered enough courage to look back, was that many parts of my childhood were worse than I’d been willing to admit. But this oft-repeated mantra conceals a much darker story. My parents always claimed our time on Wavewalker was wonderful and told me I’d had a privileged upbringing. Did Dad really sail around the world because he wanted to honour Captain Cook? Why didn’t my parents, middle class and well educated themselves, worry about their children’s education or social isolation? Why was my relationship with my mother so difficult, particularly during my teenage years, and why didn’t my father try to help, when he must have seen how miserable I was? I started thinking again about my past when my children were old enough to ask me about it. The family waving goodbye, Plymouth, 1976. But, even if it’s not visible, my experience of spending a decade sailing 47,000 nautical miles on Wavewalker, equivalent to circumnavigating the globe twice, shaped who I am today. “B ut you’re so normal,” people often say when they find out about my childhood. This boat would walk us over the waves, carrying us around the world and back again. “Wavewalker,” I said, exploring the edges of the word. “We were lucky – I was able to buy her because the man who was building her ran out of money.” The interior was unfinished, but bunks and cupboards were already taking shape, half-formed in the gloom.Īfter a while, I went up on to the aft deck to sit next to my father in the cockpit, watching him attach a compass to the binnacle, the wooden instrument stand in front of the ship’s wheel. “You’re going to love her, I know you will,” he said, and I looked up to see an enormous boat with a long, curved bow, two masts and a raised deck at the stern. A few weeks afterwards, we went down to the Isle of Wight to inspect his find. One evening later that summer, Dad announced that he’d found a boat.
Dad had taken us sailing before, but this was different. I looked out of the window at the empty swing. From there, it’s on to Hawaii and Russia.” We’ll sail down to South America, then cross the Atlantic Ocean to South Africa and Australia. By the time we get back, you’ll have seen more places than most people will visit in a lifetime. The people who were going to recreate his first and second voyages didn’t get their act together in time, so this is the last opportunity.” “I’ve told you kids about the captain,” said Dad, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Of course they do, Gordon,” said Mum, returning his smile. “Well, someone needs to mark the 200th anniversary of Cook’s third voyage, don’t they?” he said, raising his eyebrows at my mother. “Not at all,” said my father, puffing out a cloud of smoke. Next to me, Jon watched Dad, his lips parted. “After all, we share the captain’s surname, so who better to do it?” He picked up his cigarette and leaned back in his seat. “We’re going to follow Captain Cook,” Dad said. I paused, a spoonful of cornflakes halfway to my mouth.
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