1994
It might have been difficult, but before this date, I was kind.
I had missed flying, and on our return from our sailing adventure, I sought a new career in flying helicopters for the HM Coastguard. Fully trained and introduced to rotary flight, I qualified for an ASR certificate (Air Sea Rescue) flying the Westland Sea King. This helicopter was a Sikorsky HR-3 made under license in Britain. To be honest, it was a flying pig, but a machine that did the work without hesitation or fault.
I missed nothing about the recording industry. I sold my shares in Chrysalis and PYE and settled down to live a simple and natural life on the island.
I was over the North Sea on the day it happened. I had said goodbye to my youngest son and his mother. They were to stay with her parents for a few days in Stockholm. My eldest son was taking exams in college and didn’t want to miss them.
Eight hundred fifty-two people lost their lives on MV Estonia that fateful day.
(There’s a link to Daniel’s life and loss at the base of this story)
On the day after the disaster, how did I feel? It’s hard to say, shocked, numb, disgusted, suicidal. I thought I had let them down. It was a trip we were all to take — my wife’s parents’ anniversary in Sweden. Being with them would have made all the difference.
Everywhere I looked, listened, and hid, the story was there. I tried to shield my oldest son from it. It was Europe’s seafaring equivalent of 9/11.
The vessel owners' reporting of the tragedy was third-rate, inefficient, inaccurate, and incompetent.
It was like a bad dream; I kept seeing them so close yet unreachable. God, my heart ached. Nightmares of watching them drown.
I had six months of paid leave.
The noise wouldn’t stop, or that of having my personal space invaded by strangers. Instead, I filled time with more minor observations: mascara, lotions, panties in the drawers, how they looked on her, and her favourite scented bubble bath. Her voice once again told me, if you want to give me a gift, give me an hour in the tub without interruptions.
I kept opening her wardrobe for her scent.
By December, the snow had fallen. I watched Barnaby Rudge, my son’s Shetland pony, no longer young, standing in the paddock despite having a warm stall. I think Barnaby didn’t believe his best friend wasn’t coming home.
Christmas loomed like the ugliest black cloud one could imagine. I wanted to cancel, not just Christmas but the following year and the next—the hopelessness of Christmas without the love of it all.
Their bodies were never recovered.
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