Like the roughest of seas, they can rise up from nowhere and I can feel overwhelmed. It’s then I think of others; those that came before. My old Dad as a young man, boarding a ship in Leith, in winter, and going off from his family on an old steam ship, to feed the folk under siege in Northern Russia. A quiet, unsung hero of the Arctic Convoys.
But he came home. Yes, quieter still, and without the friends he’d left with, but he came home.