Jolly Rodger

I grew up within the sound of the sea, but it was seldom the same sea for long. In the way of naval families of my generation, we were forever packing up to follow father, and our travelling was always by sea. Before I was ten I had crossed the Equator three times, I had sailed the Atlantic, the Pacific and the Indian Oceans, I had watched the Pitcairn Islanders pulling off from their little beach, and landed through the surf myself at St Helena. I had seen tropical storms and waterspouts, I was familiar with flying fishes and porpoises, and I had glimpsed the white back of a new-born sperm whale spouting. In one house there were penguins at the bottom of my garden, and from another I could see the blue hills of China across the bay. When I was twenty I had moved house more than once for every year of my age. A curious or imaginative child would no doubt have been stimulated, but I took it all for granted. Even when I went away to school, I found myself among boys most of whom came from service or diplomatic families.