The Last Breakfast
Sometimes passages turn out exactly as you imagine them to. Other times not so much. But for me there’s one thing that’s always the same.
On our last passage from Thailand to Sri Lanka, we had to divert some 200 miles to seek emergency medical assistance when I started to lose vision in my left eye. We had an unscheduled stop at Sabang, Indonesia, where I received fantastic support from some cruisers we know who were there already, and then excellent medical attention, and 5 days later we resumed our journey.
As I write this, we’re 40 miles out from Uligan in The Maldives, at the end of what was expected to be a completely uneventful 750 mile passage from Trincomalee in Sri Lanka. The weather forecast was a mixture of light wind and no wind, and there were no significant navigational hazards to negotiate.
But we hadn’t accounted for getting caught in a fishing net being dragged by a trawler, responding to a mayday call (although ultimately a merchant ship actually provided the assistance), not one but two autopilot failures (yes, we’ve now realised we need a backup autopilot for our backup autopilot), and the spinnaker halyard getting stuck at the top of the mast while we were trying to bring the kite down at sunset with the wind building.
About two hours later, our beautiful spinnaker “Big Pink” turned into more of a Big Gulp as it got stuck at the top of the mast
But whatever a passage throws our way, there’s one tradition I find myself always adhering to, and that’s the Last Breakfast.
Coming on watch for sunrise on the last day of a passage is always a special feeling. Sometimes it’s sorrow that the sail is almost over, and sometimes the overwhelming feeling is one of relief. There’s often a sense of dread, or at least uncertainty, at the hours of clearance formalities that lie ahead immediately upon dropping the anchor, no matter how tired and beat up from the passage you might be.
Always though, there’s a sense of unbridled optimism at what lies ahead. A new country, new anchorages, new culture and food, new friends, an opportunity to explore, and be challenged.
And I like to bring in this special day with a breakfast of a cup of tea and two fried eggs on a buttered roll with some salt and pepper.
No fancy sauces, or bacon or anything like that. In fact, some might describe it as a somewhat plain meal, but for me, it’s wonderfully evocative, and intrinsically linked with this sailing adventure.
And it’s all because my Dad is a Very. Smart. Man.
Growing up, we went through a period of having our summer holidays abroad, often in Majorca for up to a month. At the time, I had no idea how lucky we were or how unusual this was – the period coincided with me being between the ages of 6-11, so for me it was normal. But looking back, it came at a time when Dad’s businesses were very successful, and he was working hard and needed to decompress and spend quality time with Mum and the four kids. Goodness knows, he didn’t have much time the rest of the year.
As I reached my early teens though, business was leaner, and the summer holidays abroad were replaced with local holidays, in caravan parks and the like, for only a week or two at a time. As a kid, it made no difference to me – it was still awesome, although I imagine for my older siblings they might have been more aware that things were different.
It was on one of those holidays, in Oban in the North West of Scotland, that Dad spotted a handwritten sign by the side of the road that said “Sailing Lessons Here”.
Dad asked who wanted to go sailing, and all four kids (and Mum) said “No way”, “Boring”, “Not if you paid me” and the like.
Dad said, “Well tough, I’m going and at least one of you is coming with to keep me company”. As the youngest, I drew the short straw, and so sulkily I agreed, under protest, to join him.
Dad would have been my age now (47), and I was just 13, and we were both hooked, instantly.
After a day’s initial lesson, Dad had a choice to make. The obvious choice was to continue our lessons back in Glasgow. There are plenty of marinas and sailing schools within a 30 minute drive of our house.
Loch Creran, near Oban, where we learned to sail.
But then he had a brainwave. I think he regretted not being around more when my brother and sisters were growing up, and he spotted an opportunity to spend quality time with his youngest son.
And so a plan was hatched. We’d get up at 5.30am every Saturday, drive for 2.5 hours up to Oban, have a full day’s sailing lesson, and then drive 2.5 hours home, arriving by 8pm.
A long day for sure, but an unrivalled opportunity for father and son to spend quality time together, and undoubtedly the reasons why we have a close relationship to this day.
As part of the routine, we’d stop half way to Oban for breakfast at a little greasy spoon café. And each week, I’d have the same thing – a fried egg roll and a cup of tea.
We did this every Saturday for 6 months, at the end of which Dad bought a boat, and the first seeds of this crazy life I now lead were sown.
And now, as I come to the end of each passage and start to prepare for the excitement and challenges ahead, I find myself taking a moment to reflect on where it all started, and preparing that same breakfast that I enjoyed at the beginning of each sailing lesson some 34 years ago.
