I know I've been late with my blog recently, and perhaps it's the true dread of writing something so personal that has kept me from the keyboard. There's a peculiar kind of paralysis that descends when you know the words you are about to write will force you to relive the very thing you are trying to process. But the story must be told, and so I will tearfully tell it.

Last episode saw us dealing with the problems on the boat. Tens of thousands of dollars lost by simply plugging our boat into a marina. We are not rich people. We sold our home to make this journey, and we are making out of life the best we can. Every penny we have is tied up in Sawasdeekat and this adventure, a calculated risk we took with open eyes and hopeful hearts.

But regardless of how far we go, no matter the friends we make along the way, the fun we have, the wine we drink, the good food we taste, little if anything in this life is worth doing when the foundations of your world suddenly crumble beneath you. I learned that truth in the space of a single phone call. Let me explain.

The evening started out like any other. Jan and Miguel were over on our boat entertaining us as they often do with comical tales of sailing woes, worry and wonderment. The Simpson Bay Lagoon was calm, the Caribbean breeze gentle, and for a few precious hours, we had managed to forget the electrical nightmare that had consumed our lives for the previous month. We laughed at their stories of anchoring mishaps and engine failures, the shared language of sailors who understand that every journey comes with its share of chaos and cost.

And then my mobile phone started ringing as it often does. My ringtone is my daughter singing a song she had written called "Stranger to You," a merry little tune whose chorus works very well as a ringtone. It always makes me smile when I hear it, and it's a reminder of her voice and her creativity.

"Hi Mum."

"Hello."

"Are you OK?"

"No.... Not really."

What followed was a short confirmation that my father had taken ill the previous day and had decided to stay in bed to rest. He was not the sort of man who complained about his health, a stoic soul who believed that getting on with things was the only way to live. My mother had seen him only a couple of hours earlier, brought him a cup of tea and found him resting peacefully. When she went to check on him later, she said he felt cool and motionless. She told me he had passed away.

Few more details were given as the call was interrupted abruptly by my sister asking my mother to come and see him as the paramedics wanted her attention. And like that the phone call ended.

Two minutes the phone call took. Two minutes that changed my life forever.

The dolor of that phone call still haunts me. It was not the kind of grief that arrives slowly, giving you time to prepare. It was a sudden, crushing weight that descended without warning, the kind of sorrow that steals your breath and leaves you gasping for air. I watched as my phone slowly turned off into sleep mode, and, taking a deep breath, returned to our guests.

I don't know how I reacted to our guests that evening. With shock I suppose. The kind of numb disbelief that allows you to function on autopilot while your mind races somewhere else far away. Needless to say, it was not long before Jan and Miguel left us to deal with our feelings and with the news we were just trying to absorb. They offered their condolences with genuine warmth and departed quietly, leaving Pookie and me alone in the cockpit under the Caribbean starlit sky.

A little later I remember sitting there in the silence, looking up at the same stars my father had once pointed out to me as a boy. He had shown me the North Star and made me wonder at its infinity. And now here I was, looking at those same glimmering white dots on the other side of the world, and thinking he had probably looked up at the same stars for his last time only hours earlier. The irony was not lost on me.

Allan Tredell. A man who epitomised what a father should be. A man whose upbringing was harsh, who worked two or more jobs for a lot of his life to provide for his family. A man who asked for so little but gave so much. He grew up in a world that did not offer second chances, where hard work was the currency of survival, and he spent his entire life making sure his children would never know that kind of struggle. He was not a man of grand gestures or elaborate speeches. He showed his love through quiet acts of service, through the simple reliability of always being there, through the steady presence that anchors a family.

Arrangements were made for Terrell to carry on with the repairs, and we hurriedly booked a flight back to the UK. The journey back was a solemn one. Not the usual excitement of seeing one's family, more of a despondent, melancholy dread that awaited our arrival. The flight seemed endless, each hour stretching into an eternity of reflection. I thought about all the conversations I would never have, all the advice I would never hear, all the moments we would never share. The grief was a physical presence in my chest, a weight that made it hard to breathe without thought.

The next few days were spent in lugubrious misery. The word mysery itself felt heavy. That deep, mournful gloom that settles over everything like a fog from which you cannot escape. My mother tried her best to put on a brave face, each day we would go over to see her and, in a strange mental state, try to organise flowers, funeral locations, clothes and coffins. People had to be told. Forms had to be filled. The whole world seemed oblivious to the angst inside us. Life went on for everyone else, the sun rose and set, the birds sang, the neighbours went about their business, and we were trapped in a bubble of grief that made everything outside seem unreal.

My family struggled with the news, each coping with it in their own ways. My sister Zoe and I buried ourselves in helping organise what needed to be done. There is a strange comfort in practical tasks, in having something to focus on that does not require you to feel. My other sister, emotionally drained after witnessing the death, had to go away for a week to process her feelings in private. My brother, grief-stricken, could not bring himself to leave France and face his mother until he had gathered his feelings. Grief is a solitary journey even when you are surrounded by people who share it.

I wrote a painful eulogy that I hoped would tell of his life, love and legacy. As a person who has spent the last couple of years sailing the world, I couldn't help but include it in my thoughts. The eulogy was my final gift to him, my attempt to capture the essence of a man who had shaped everything I am.

The funeral was like many before it... a blur of faces and flowers, of tears and embraces, of words that seemed inadequate to express the depth of our loss. But through it all, there was one thing that brought a measure of comfort. My father's love of a poem. He had always been a man of quiet words, but he held a deep appreciation for a verse that spoke to the heart. And so I will begin the end of this post on a poem he loved, a poem that now carries the weight of everything he meant to me. It was to the love of his life, his wife, our mother:

I sometimes think the Lord above

Created you for me to love

He picked you out from all the rest

Because he knew I'd love you best

I once had a heart and it was true

But now it's gone from me to you

Look after it as I have done

For you have two and I have none

If I go to heaven and you're not there

I'll paint your name on the golden stairs

So all the angels can look and see

What you my darling meant to me.

And perhaps that is the truth of it all. We sail across oceans, climb mountains and chase adventures across the globe, but the only thing that truly matters is the love we give and receive. My father's love for my mother was the anchor of our family, the steady force that held everything together through every storm life threw at them.

I think of the way he looked at her after sixty four years of marriage, his eyes still holding that same quiet devotion. The poem he loved so much was his way of telling her what words alone could never quite convey. That love did not end with his passing. It lives on in my mother's strength, in the stories we tell, in every memory that still brings us comfort. My father gave me everything I needed to become the man I am today, but the greatest gift he gave was the example of a love that endures. And though he is no longer here, his legacy lives on in every mile I sail, every sunrise I witness, every challenge I overcome, and in the love I try to show the people who matter most in my life.

Ps.. I cheated this week. I didn’t choose the next two words available, I looked through, found and chose dolor and lugubrious as they seemed to be where my brain was. Maybe you can remember where they were.

Until next week.