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.

So as I hurtled into my forties, edging closer to the front of the queue for Wholly Predictable Midlife Crisis, what else was I to do? Hit the gym? Embark on a series of affairs? Buy a bright yellow sports car? Well, yes, all of those things, actually, but above and beyond remained the siren song of the sea and the call to adventure.

My second favourite book was A Fighting Chance, the story of a 1966 Atlantic crossing in a rowing boat by John Ridgway and Chay Blyth. In 1997 Blyth had organised a transatlantic rowing race for crews of two. A second race was to be held four years later and, determined to be part of it, I spent two years training, searching for sponsors and building the 24ft boat.