Even though I am now 51, my favourite book remains We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea, Arthur Ransome’s enchanting 1937 tale in which four children – John, Roger, Susan and (innocent days) Titty – find themselves adrift off Harwich and bound for adventure aboard the little white cutter Goblin. With the anchor lost, they do what they have to do – seize the day and hoist the sails, crossing the North Sea to a safe landfall in Holland. En route, they do a little throwing up and a lot of growing up.

That book whispered a secret in my ear: that true adventure and the self-discovery it offers lies out there, in a magical place surrounded by nothing but horizon. At sea, anything is possible and nothing is certain.