I know there are many old sailors who are not sentimental about the sea. The planet’s greatest element has given them a living, scared the hell out of them at times, and been a lonely place – without overtime – to earn a crust.
In their dotage the last thing they want to be near is salt water. GIve them an allotment, a pigeon loft or a rover bus pass, but don’t suggest a sea trip. My grandfather was like that: at sea his whole life, retiring as Master Mariner in the Port Line, having been awarded a DSO and OBE for services in both World Wars in his reserved occupation.
He loathed the briny by the time he retired and although, in his dotage, he got up in the middle of the night to check all was well on the ‘bridge’ – his kitchen window – wouldn’t have given tuppence for Cowes or Burnham-on-Crouch.
Personally I couldn’t give tuppence either for where, those who have the expensive and boring task of dumping my mortal remains, decide upon.
But if I discover I’ve been poured into one of these tacky little kitsch pirate-style treasure chests I will come back and haunt you forever.
You have been warned.