Every week-end my dad forced the whole family to live on a boat moored in the river's estuary.

Dad particularly relished sailing in bad weather, and it was this predilection that made the rest of us, one by one, throw in the towel and commit to the life of a landlubber.

He went on sailing to the end, with a smaller and smaller crowd of confederates in smaller and smaller boats, until all that was left was one last solo voyage in his little red car.

Even when my father was on land, he'd take every chance he got to look out to sea with his binoculars. Once he spotted a barge that he felt was unseaworthy and reported it to the coastguard.