Tom Cunliffe
Yarning with the editor about suitable material for columns, he said folks might be interested if I were to dig deep into my memory banks for some early experience under sail that, despite everything, I’d never forgotten. Looking back on a varied career, I seemed spoilt for choice. Even as long ago as the 1980s, the choice included classic schooners, house-high seas and nights racing down-Channel with the RORC fleet, to say nothing of hand-lining for cod on the banks of Nova Scotia. All good stuff, but not individually life-changing. Then I recalled a long-ago day in 1961. It wouldn’t merit a mention for most of us, yet it topped the lot.
Me and my pal from round the corner in Stockport were 14 when my dad drove us to Edgeley station in his Ford Zephyr. He dropped us off at the ticket office and
