If there is anything more depressing than standing on a murky quayside before dawn, waiting to say goodbye to the man you intend to marry, then I don’t know what it is. In my experience, it always rains when Kenny’s brig puts out to sea as if God himself was weeping for my sorrow. I stood on the greasy stone slabs with the rainwater dripping from the rim of my hood and pattering off the shoulders of my green travelling cape as Kenny made the final preparations to leave Dundee for the Baltic.
I watched Kenny’s confident movements as he climbed from the deck to the main topsail, showing a young seaman how to make sure the sail was furled correctly. With complete confidence, he moved along the yardarm to check something else before returning to the mast and swarming down the ratlines to leap
