When I arrived in Preston last year, it wasn’t long before I was introduced to the thriving social scene of all these mariners. Some are local, and some as from as far afield as Bolton. There’s a Welshman, but we don’t speak of him.

About a month in to my stay here, not knowing anybody but for the odd hello, I was invited to the annual boat yard hog roast. There are a few live bands, and a proper hog roast where a load of the boaties make something delicious and add to the feast. Actually, the Welshman is rather good at making delicious things, although insists everything is made with lamb, and that traditional Welsh supplement; mega super hot chilli powder.

Of course, this event costs a few quid to put on, so there’s a nominal ticket fee of £5 to cover costs. I enquired whom I might give my hard earned to. “Neil, off Pop Jobbles, he’s over there”.

The first time I spoke to Neil, it pretty much summed up this chaps character. He’d not long since been in a road traffic accident and even though in quite some pain, with his arm fixed with plaster in to the pub brawl position, he was as jovial and light hearted as you could possibly imagine.

As the months went on I grew to know Neil and his wife Carol quite well. Last winter was a harsh time for the small boat liveabord, but Carol was always at the ready with a quick phone call to invite me for a warming meal and a g&t with her and Neil.

Over 6 years they built their boat ‘Pop Jobbles’ out of sheet steel and relentless hard work. Neil can turn his hand to anything and make good of it, woodwork, metal work, you name it, he’ll do it, and do it well. He’s also a grand teacher. When I first got Vreli he noticed I was getting a bit lost, so donated a day of his time to show me how to template and cut bulkheads. He’d show me once, and then leave me to it. It worked, I learned.

Alas, behind every home built boat is a home grown plan, and today saw there’s come to fruition. Today had been a long time coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. They’re off to tour the world on Pop Jobbles. At 1pm they entered the lock at Preston marina. The lock is only 20m from my “desk” on Vreli, so I downed tools and went to wave them off. There was a small crowd there to see them off and even though I wanted to say goodbye, I just couldn’t. Through fear of showing myself up with a quivery lip or a stray tear, I simply managed a feeble “have fun”.  It was a silly thing to say, for they’re Carol and Neil, of course they’ll have fun. What I wanted to say was “thank you, for everything. I’ll miss you”.

As Pop Jobbles departed the outer basin, everybody went back to their lives, and I to my desk. I halted at the ladder that climbs to Vreli’s deck. I needed a worthwhile goodbye. I hadn’t done it. I was about due a lunch break anyway, so myself and a friend jumped in my car and blasted off towards Naze point, further down the river. The twin turbo chargers screamed as we hurtled down the deserted tracks towards this empty hinterland, a spit of land they’d have to pass, and where I could say goodbye properly. They’d be too far out for conversation, but at least I’d get the meaning across.

Goodbye my friends. I will find you again under my own sails.

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