Chapter 1

I'm one of those people you don't see. Folks look in my direction and their eyes sort of slide off me. Perhaps I should have been a spy; I gather it would have been an asset in such an occupation. Or perhaps a private detective?

I've never understood it; I don't think I'm bad looking; but except at registration, the teachers never noticed me at school. Despite being reasonably intelligent, getting good exam results and a two-one degree, I might as well not have existed. I tried; I joined things, I volunteered with the result I ended up with all the scut work that no-one else would do. At least from time to time I got an acknowledgement... 'Jim Smith? I don't know what we'd do without him'. Yes, even my name is nondescript.

I volunteered for homeless centres and soup kitchens; did night courses in everything from embroidery to t'ai chi. I tried joining a bridge club, but didn't have the right mind-set for the game, though I got competent enough at it. Tennis club? Ditto. The gym? Same as always.

The breakthrough in the end, though I didn't realise it, was learning to sail. I didn't find friends immediately, just acquaintances, same as always, as I worked my way through the courses. Moving up to keel-boats competent crew, to day skipper to coastal skipper to offshore ... gradually it became necessary to be close to people as we gained experience. Even so, it was very much on a professional level and didn't extend past time at sea.

I bought a small, cheap amateur-built plywood yacht with very basic facilities and spent as much time as I could with her. She sailed very sweetly in fact and I had a lot of fun. Lonely fun, 'tis true, but pleasure none-the-less. Sailing is one of the few activities where it is possible to really get away from civilisation.

Then there was internet dating. I actually had a few dates ... never more than one with anyone, though. The moment they met me, it was same old, same old. But I did work up correspondence with women all over the world, knowing the likelihood was I'd never meet any of them.

I read a lot. From early years, I was fascinated by romantic stories and it was a pleasant fantasy to imagine myself in the place of the male protagonist. I suppose the name Richard Mason is not well known today. He wrote in the forties and fifties about relationships that were frowned upon at the time, between English middle-class men and oriental women. You might recognise 'The World of Suzy Wong' and 'The Wind Cannot Read'. Nevil Shute was another. The idea of going against a cultural taboo for love was immensely attractive and so was the idea of a Chinese or Japanese girlfriend. Of course, I never thought it would come to anything, but I corresponded with young women from all over, especially the Far East. I was pretty sure most of them were on the make; asking me to send them money was something of a give-away, especially when they cut off contact when I wouldn't send anything. Of course, there was no guarantee that the emails were even from women, let alone the women in the pictures on the web-site!

How does the quote go? 'There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.' I said I read a lot! It's amazing what snippets you can pick up by accident. Anyway, I won the Lottery. A bit over a million quid. I knew that if word got out I had that much money, the women who had never looked at me in the past would suddenly behave differently, but I wasn't interested in anyone for whom money made a difference to the acceptability of a man.

What I did was continue to live and work just in the same way, whilst looking around, discreetly, for an ocean-going yacht that could be managed single handed. I thought I might sail round the world; it would be an adventure. I obtained a passport and looked into the various permissions and visas I would need for the places I wanted to visit.

I fell in love with 'Farsight' at first view. Up on blocks in the boat-yard I could see the fair lines of her hull, the long keel; she was built in stainless steel (very unusual) with mahogany trim, she was Bermudan cutter rigged. That is, she had a large triangular main sail and two smaller sails in front; staysail and jib. The mainsail had slab reefing; the sail had lines of short cords which could be used to reduce the effective area of the sail. It was a tedious method and demanding in difficult conditions, but simple and reliable. At thirty-six feet, she was comfortable, too. Well equipped, with auto-helm, radar, echo-sounder, GPS, even a satellite set up so you could access the web for weather information ... or entertainment.

The danger for long-distance solo sailors is loneliness. I know, I'd been alone all my life; I should be used to it, right? Wrong. There's a big difference between being alone in a crowd, with people around, changing scenery and so on, and being alone in a small boat in the middle of an ocean, nothing in sight but water. Seriously, I knew from my reading that many solo sailors have mental problems, up to and including acute psychosis. Suicide, and irrational, dangerous decisions may be taken as a result of hallucinations and/or delusions. With the equipment aboard Farsight, I needed to be only as alone as I wanted to be. Furthermore, I could send articles or a weekly diary to yachting magazines. I didn't think of that at the time, that came later, but at least I was aware of some of the potential.

She was a hundred and fifty grand. Not a lot, by quality yacht standards, but she wasn't the sort of vessel in demand for recreation, weekend sailing. She wasn't luxurious enough for the wealthy and was too expensive for the impoverished, and she'd been on the brokerage list for over a year, the price reduced several times. I could probably have beaten the price down some more, but I've never been good at that. I agreed to buy at the asking price, subject only to a satisfactory survey and a test drive, not that I had any doubts about her, and handed over a cheque for fifteen grand as a deposit.

The survey – not that there was any danger of serious defects – made only minor comments, all of which were satisfied without question before she was lowered into the water. We left Shotley Marina mid morning on the ebb and sailed out past Harwich and Felixstowe container port into the North Sea, where I put my dream boat through her paces. She was perfect; everything I wanted and more. She was stable directionally, but responded positively to the helm. There wasn't a hint of hesitation in tacking, no suggestion she might miss stays. Okay, she was a little slow answering, but I didn't want a fin-keeled boat that would turn on a sixpence to manoeuvre in tight spaces in East Coast rivers. I wanted a solid, seaworthy, comfortable vessel to cross the wide oceans.

I couldn't complain about her speed, either; in the force five westerly wind, she was reeling off almost seven knots on a reach, six and a half close hauled and six on a run. Pretty good. A week later, I was handing over a Banker's Draught for the balance, and she was mine. I was in love and very, very happy.

I had the summer to cement my relationship with Farsight. In early August, I had a call from the brokerage firm, asking if I'd be willing to accept a call from the previous owner. I didn't have a problem with that and in due course spoke to a lady with what I can only describe as a 'genteel' voice. She and her husband had commissioned and equipped Farsight in order to spend their retirement cruising the world; however, before they had a chance to even sail her, he was diagnosed with one of the obscure cancers that even modern medical science can't do a lot about; he had only months, perhaps weeks, to live. Could I possibly take them for a day sail?

My heart went out to them and I agreed, suggesting that, if he could cope with it, that they come down Friday evening, stay in the double cabin I grandly thought of as the 'stateroom', come out with me for the day and either go home that evening or have another night on board. I think she found it difficult to believe I was willing to do that.

Mrs Dunston (Emily, please) was tall and obviously fit with close-cropped grey hair and a weathered complexion. Charles Dunston (Charles) ... was skeletally thin, stooped, and yellow with jaundice. His eyes, though, were still bright with intelligence and interest. I'd had a meal ordered from the Marina restaurant and we sat in the saloon to eat it as we shared something of our enthusiasm for the sea.