Every Friday, I return to something I’ve written before—a poem, a story, a scene still echoing with its original air. But this week, the past got there first.
Being back in the UK—for the longest stretch since I left three decades ago—has stirred something quieter loose. Not a piece I once polished, but a memory I never set down. Not until now.
It came back all at once: the heatwave, the awkward joy of failing deliberately, the feeling of something light tipping suddenly heavy. It’s not a story I planned to tell. But it surfaced. And it stuck.
So, for once, this isn’t a re-visiting. It’s a recording. A return of a different kind.
It wasn’t a problem at Park House Primary School. We were small. So was the playground—just a square of tarmac where you could manage Rounders if no one missed a base, Tag if you were fast, and British Bulldog if the teachers weren't looking. So was the expectation. PE was more like sanctioned fidgeting—beanbags and hula hoops and something called Music and Movement, broadcast on a clunky school radio, where we swayed like trees or flapped like birds at the mercy of a disembodied BBC voice.
But senior school came with linoleum corridors that echoed your footsteps too loudly. And teams. And a teacher with a whistle on a lanyard who picked captains like they were checking for contraband. First lesson, he scanned the lineup, barked two names—boys who already moved like they knew they were being watched—and had them take turns picking their squads.
I was tall. That bought me two weeks of false promise. By week four, they’d learned. I had reach but no rhythm. I moved like a placeholder.
After that, it was always the same: me and the boy with the asthma pump and a body that never fit the bench, let alone the team. We’d hover at the edge of the group, pretending we didn’t notice it was down to us. Sometimes I got picked second-last. Sometimes last. It didn’t matter. What I remember most wasn’t the waiting. It was the captain’s pause. That extra breath before calling my name. Like they were stalling, hoping someone else would volunteer to go worse.
By fifteen, I’d burned through every excuse. "Forgotten" kits, phantom colds, limp wrists wrapped in borrowed bandages. The games teacher had stopped asking. I think he assumed I was the kind of kid who bruised from chalk.
Then one morning, a note on the science block noticeboard: Ogston Reservoir, Wednesday afternoons. Dinghy sailing. Optional. The technician had offered to drive a small group of us in his VW bus. He wore deck shoes with everything and had the sort of quiet patience that came from knowing knots better than people.
There were seven of us, maybe eight. We drove out past Clay Cross to where the air felt cleaner, like it hadn’t made up its mind yet. The boats rocked lightly as we climbed in. You didn’t have to win. Just stay upright. Just stay moving. It wasn’t freedom. But it floated.
That winter—’75 into ’76—dragged like wet wool. The reservoir iced over. The VW bus broke down. We waited. Asked weekly. Nothing. When we finally made it back, it was well into summer term. Just a few Wednesdays left.
And it was that summer. The heatwave. Reservoirs shrinking. At Ladybower, they said you could see the drowned village—Derwent—poking up through the water like it had been holding its breath. Ogston didn’t offer ghosts. Just warmth and algae and the smell of metal baking in the sun.
The instructor was waiting, gleaming with sweat and pride. A new fleet of dinghies had arrived. Sleek, fast, still smelling of resin. We were marched into the changing room to rehearse drills in a static mock-up. We jostled elbows in the cramped mock-up. Dryland choreography, feigned precision.
Two groups. Three in each. My trio got one of the new boats. She moved beautifully. We played it straight at first—tacking, adjusting, nodding like we cared.
But the moment his back turned, the old rhythm returned. The love of falling. I was on the tiller. The wind caught. We surged. I turned hard into it, too fast, too sharp. The hull tipped. We leaned, too late. The sail kissed the water. Then we were airborne.
Splash. Laughter. Perfect.
Until it wasn’t.
We swam to the keel, still laughing. Pulled. Nothing. Tried again. Nothing. The mast wouldn’t budge. We didn’t understand. We’d done this dozens of times.
Captain Crusty spotted us. We straightened instinctively, laughter drying up like spilled water in sun. He roared across the water in his powerboat, swearing before he even arrived. He tried to talk us through it. Still nothing.
"The mast’s stuck in the mud," he barked. "What did I tell you about going near the bank?"
He tied a rope to the dinghy, the other end to his boat, and gunned it. The rope pulled taut. The hull strained. The mast groaned.
What none of us knew: the mast wasn’t stuck in mud. It was trapped beneath the remnants of the Ashover Light Railway, long submerged. When it finally gave, it sprang free with a shudder and a bend. The dinghy righted, but its sail now listed, the mast bowed.
He wouldn’t let us sail her back. Made us climb into the powerboat. Towed the vessel behind. Said nothing for a long time.
Back at the dock, he told us we were finished. No more sailing. Not here. Not ever.
He left to file a formal complaint with the school. Said he was disappointed. Said it felt like vandalism.
We were told to get changed. Our clothes were soaked. Jeans, jumpers, socks clinging to skin. No wetsuits. No dignity.
It went quiet again. No one met anyone’s eyes. That was when I saw them: his Wellingtons, by the door. Upright. Dry. Clean.
So I filled them. Pebbles first. Then water. And then, quietly, glued the soles to the dock with epoxy from the shelf.
He didn’t return. No call from school. No letter home.
Just the boots.
Still upright.
Still full.
Still remembering.
❤️