Well, it seems to be Father’s Day.

I thought I’d share a memory that still makes me grin, because poor Dad always got the shitty end of the stick when it came to dealing with things that wriggled; whether those were edible things, things found in the shower, or things no one else wanted to scrape off the bottom of the boat.

I was a couple of days short of my second birthday, and we’d just completed the second Atlantic crossing of my short life aboard the Gub-Gub. We’d had, by all accounts, a particularly evil crossing,with lousy weather and headwinds, and I’m therefore quite happy that I don’t remember it.

My memories start the morning after we’d limped into harbour at Flores, in the Azores. Because of the aforementioned lousy weather across the Atlantic, we were very short on supplies, and a fishing boat took pity on us and dropped off a bucket of their catch with us.

Despite being only two, I wasn’t a particularly fussy eater. I was willing to try most things once, so when I was told to grab a shellfish and get stuck in, I did.

It grabbed back, or at least wiggled slimy appendages at me. I dropped it back in the bucket. I probably shed a few tears for the look of the thing, I can’t remember.

What I do remember is Mum saying that I shouldn’t worry, everything was fine – Dad would eat the ones that wriggled.

Those fishermen had just come in from a very successful trip. Those shellfish were fresher than Febreze, and each and every one of them wriggled.

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