Sails high, the great yacht sits on the authors oak desk, navigating its wooden shores. Year after year it sits, steady on its course. Travels the world through his books and words, witness to adventures typed out on the old computer screen. The office ocean, a world in its own.

Gradually the desk is emptied, no more typing, no more words. The author has gone, the boat remains. Alone in the deep, no destination in sight.

Sails let down, packed away in a box, adventures are over. Say goodnight to the sea.


Clearing through the attic at my childhood home, I come across a letter. Ink faded, paper crisp. Easing open the envelope, an elegant scribe I do not know.

The letter is addressed to my mother, Dearest Angela, dated years before the thought of me even existed. I read through the words, an ache in my heart.

A letter scribed with love, emotions I can only imagine. This is not my fathers writing. How I long to know more.