A flying visit
Families – nothing surprises you. Last Saturday I was minding my own business in the relaxed ‘newspapers & morning TV’ post-breakfast period when my smartphone rang on my computer table, causing me to utter my habitual “Oh, for ^”@*s sake! Why can’t people leave me alone?!”
It was my son Barry, calling from the Mediterranean, his first contact in over two weeks since he departed for his new job as co-captain of a super yacht – this of the sailing, not the ‘gin palace, mini ocean-cruise-ship’ variety.
He’d had a busy summer, selling his refitting business; having an operation to remove the metal from his chronically-injured wrist, broken in three places eighteen months ago by an idiot in a car coming out of a side road without ceremony and knocking him off his moped; embarking on his rehab whilst considering his options on what to do next; and suddenly getting a call from the owner of the yacht that he’s now on, headhunting him for the role on a third party recommendation.
After thinking about the offer for 72 hours and negotiating his deal Barry accepted the gig. He’ll be in the Mediterranean for the next six weeks before departing for the West Indies and the Americas.
The purpose of his call was to announce that he planned a three hour visit to Blighty in order to collect his various marine industry licences (left behind when he first flew out to join his new vessel), sort out various documents and items of paperwork in his bedroom chez mois and then fly back again.
Thus it was that I spent four hours primarily on the M25 and M23 on Saturday afternoon/evening, driving to collect him from … and then later return him to … Gatwick.
From my perspective it was a weird but rewarding day.
The two of us chatted pretty much non-stop about matters great and small – ranging not least from the current state of his injury; the whole ‘other world’ of his new charge (the yacht) including the crew, the owner, its 28 computers and 3 generators and his intense ‘taking over’ period during which he’s systematically learning how it all works; to his complicated personal tax position – an occupational hazard for all professional mariners who never stay to long in any country or jurisdiction – under which currently, if he’s not careful, he might find himself technically regarded by three different countries as liable to pay income tax upon his earnings; and the complexities of Life in general in all their many forms.
Amidst it all, just before leaving for the airport at 6.45pm, we found time to snatch a quickly-served Thai meal in a nearby restaurant before setting off to Gatwick again.
I didn’t reach the sanctuary of home until after 9.30pm, where I poured myself a stiff gin & tonic and watched half an hour of rubbish TV before retiring to bed totally exhausted – after all, it was two hours beyond by normal bedtime by then!
Being the age I am, it took me the most of yesterday to recover …
