Sad news yesterday that Mick Radcliffe, another sailing chum, who I always knew as ‘Big Skip,’ died suddenly last Saturday. I remember Mick for the warmth of his broad smile and his generous hug when he greeted you. He was a good listener, a good teller of yarns, and good at keeping in touch, even though we only met sporadically in recent years. We drank a toast to him in the cockpit last night and our thoughts are with his family, especially his mum.
I first met Mick sailing in Greece, in 1986 I think, on a Falcon Sailing Flotilla holiday out of Nidri. There were 3 of us on our boat and on the 1st night we got chatting to a group of 6 or 8 who were on 2 boats. After a few drinks in the bar, we returned to one of their boats to attend to a bottle of Laphroaig and the rest, as they say, is history. We had many happy sailing holidays all together and BBQs, parties and meet-ups in between. And it was through them that John and I met in 1993. Mick skippered one of their boats that first year and Bill skippered the other – Big Skip and Little Skip. I shared the skippering on our boat, but I don’t know if I had a nickname other than Caz (and I probably don’t want to know either!) Mick lived in Jersey, but I knew him as part of the ‘St Albans’ sailing crowd. No more Christmas cards with a Jersey stamp and Mick’s big loop signature.
We’re at an age now where news like this is all too frequent. And each one is shocking. So we grieve, we remember, and we do our best to enjoy the life we have left to us, however long or short that turns out to be.
I’ll finish with the words from the chorus of The Last Fisherman by Jon Heslop (Red Herring Music) that we know courtesy of the Portsmouth Shantymen.
[Wikipedia describes Fiddlers’ Green as “a legendary supposed afterlife, where there is perpetual mirth, a fiddle that never stops playing, and dancers who never tire. In 19th-century maritime folklore it was a kind of afterlife for sailors who have served at least 50 years at sea.”]
So when I’m dead then take my bones out there where I have been.
Put them in care of Davy Jones, send my soul to Fiddler’s Green.
Send my soul, send my soul,
Send my soul to Fiddler’s Green.
RIP Mick.