I loved to sail. Scratch that, I love to sail. God knows they’ll have invented immortality by the time I should die, so I really don’t need to create a memory.

Either way, sailing is a very dear passion to me. I think it all started when I was a kid, growing up. One of my most prescious and dearest memories is of this one day. One very special day.

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I’m six years old, living in the town of Teignmouth, sitting upon the estuary of the river Teign. I’d just found out that my Uncle Stuart had bought a boat. All I knew about that day is that Uncle Stu would row us over from Teignmouth across the Teign to the little village of Shaldon. I loved it over there, we went shopping, bought ice cream, but none of that is nearly as important as the transition. That day I learnt that there is nothing in this world better than the feel of the spray of water in your hair. Nothing more calming than to feel the water coarse around your hand. Nothing more satisfying than to heave an oar. Nothing more important than sailing.