Singing Their Way Out of Sorrow

The events of Monday, November 10, 2008, feel as if they were a hundred years ago, yet at the same time, as if they were yesterday.

That morning, Colin took our daughter Amelia to school and our son Liam to pre-school, before heading off to work for a day’s fishing.

That day, he was ‘weeding’ — raking the seabed for white weed, which looks like pale sea ferns. He would bag it and sell it and it would be dyed and used in aquariums. A lot of fishermen turn to weeding in the winter when the fish have migrated elsewhere.

‘It won’t be a long day,’ he said as he checked the weather his usual way; looking at the trees to see which way the wind was blowing before checking the shipping forecast. Winter was setting in. There was a real nip in the air.

As he left, I kissed him goodbye. I tidied up the breakfast things and did a bit of housework. At midday, a noise outside caught my attention. I looked out of the window: rain was lashing against the pane and the sky was dark.

The weather had gone from fairly clear to appalling. You would call it a squall — heavy rain and wind, really fierce, wind that can knock you over. A few minutes later a crash came as some tiles blew off the roof. I called Colin on his mobile. His words came in a rush: ‘The weather’s terrible! I can’t talk to you now, darlin’, I can’t talk, I’m trying to lash down everything on the boat. It’s awful out here. I’ll see you in a couple of hours, I’ll be home.’

I wasn’t worried when it got to 3pm and there was no sign of him. He had always warned me: ‘Never set your watch by a fisherman.’