The road not taken

Christopher Mathews

Of all the powerful human emotions, love, hate, anger or resentment, regret is one of the most destructive. It lingers in the unexplored corners of the soul for a lifetime like a maggot silently chewing over the ‘other choice,’ the one I did not take. The heart always wonders,

“what if…”

The imagination longingly looks across to the road not taken from the road we did.

Leaving school is a bit like diving from a high board into a vast unknown ocean, who knows where the tide will take us.

It all started when I saw the hand scrawled note on my school bulletin board. It was buried among the glossy career opportunity literature.

“Have you thought about a career in… banking, insurance or finance?”

“Get a trade, Britain needs carpenters, plumbers, bricklayer and butcher’s.” But this note read,

“16-year-old deck hands wanted to serve aboard the three masted schooner, the, TS Tradewind.

 “Two years before the mast. Must be fit and agile, not prone to sea sickness or afraid of heights. Learn to navigate by the stars, see the world, become a man,

signed, Captain CT Kestrel RN (retired).

Apply in person by eight bells, 1^st June 1962 at the TS Tradewind. Royal Naval Docks – Portsmouth.”

The three of us stared at the small note. Micky Binns stood to attention and saluted stiffly in mock respect, then laughed - fit to burst.”

“What a stuck-up prat,” he said, and carried on laughing.  “Captain Pugwash RN retired.” Again, he saluted. “Eight bells – what’s eight bells anyway?”

But we didn’t laugh. Jim and I stared hard at the note, and he said,

“Do you know what eight bells means?”

But I was not listening, in my imagination, I was already at sea, climbing the mizzen mast to set canvas or battling a fierce southerly gale. Or sitting in the Crowsnest at midnight, under a cloudless inky black sky, a gentle wind creaking in the rigging as we glide along a smooth bottomless sea, a perfect mirror of the heavens above.

“Do you think it’s real? The note I mean,” said Jim. I was suddenly jerked out of my imagination and back to school. Jim was my best friend at school; we did everything together, always have.

“We could both go to sea.” He said, excitement lit up his face. But then it fell like a deflating balloon and said, “no, I can’t, my dad wants…”

“Real!” bellowed Micky, “don’t be stupid, ‘course it’s not real, it’s a prank! – it’ll be someone in the upper sixth – Snotty Bulstrode, like as not - Looks like his scrawl.”

But Jim was enthralled by the idea of going to sea. His father was a solicitor and wanted him to follow in the family profession or even become a barrister. Not an Italian bloke who makes posh coffee either.

“He said I have to get all A’s, go to a top university and then...”

“What about Portsmouth, that’s a very old university? And, we could meet with Captain CT Kestrel RN retired and see the ship for ourselves at the same time.”

“Not good enough for my father. Anyway, it’s not a real university, just a technical college.”

“Come on Jim, we could get the late train down, sleep in a carriage when the guards aren’t looking, see the ship and be back on the milk train.”

“I don’t know, my Father…”

“…Won’t ever know. Anyway, It’s not up to him, it’s up to you! It’s your life, not his. You must choose your own road. Not him!” He thought for a moment, then smiling, he said, “There are no roads at sea you fool,” and we both laughed.

Rummaging in my father’s attic many years later, I found a box of my old school diaries. I turned to the date; 1^st June 1962. I had written a note that night, so very long ago now;

Our first sight of the ship was breath-taking! It was tied up on the dockside amidst Royal Navy battleships, vast, grey steel ships, frigates, destroyers and even a submarine. These modern vessels dwarfed the three masted schooner, but it outshone all of them in pure grace and splendid majesty!

The tang of the sea was mixed with the smell of hot iron and grease from the ships and gantries lining the dockside. But among all that was another aroma; tarred rigging, fresh deck varnish and the rich exotic smell of ships planking made from old Teak.

Even from the quayside we could hear the booming, gravely voice of Captain Kestrel, it couldn’t be anyone else. He barked out clear unambiguous orders in a voice used to compete with the roaring of the wind and the crashing of the sea. His face was bronzed and weatherbeaten. A white beard and straggly hair under a sun-bleached captain’s hat was set awry on his head.  He had the most piercing blue eyes I had ever seen. When he noticed us, he mopped the sweat from his brow, grabbed a small notebook, strode across the deck and swung from the rattling shrouds and with a light bound was standing on the gunwales looking down upon us. He was at least sixty, but he had one of those ageless lively faces, both old and boyish at the same time.

‘Well now, what has the tide washed up today.’ He said in a brisk commanding but not unkind voice. A small knot of us, five nervous boys stood close together on the quayside staring up at the old man. He looked like a giant holding on to the rigging with one hand, swinging back and forth slightly as if still at sea. He beamed down at us.

‘Come aboard lads, and we will explore all the oceans of the world together. If you join my crew, you will see wonders that no one else has ever seen. I could tell you of the great Leviathan, the kraken, of beautiful mermaids and deadly sirens, of ghost ships and lost islands where pirate treasure lay hidden waiting to be discovered.’ He laughed a hearty laugh, and said, ‘what about it lads, which of you will come to sea. Bosun, bring me the ships log, if you please.’

The deep wrinkles in his face showed that he was well used to smiling and the sun had blessed him with well-worn contours like the waves and troughs of the sea. He was not at all as I expected.

There was much more written, but I closed the book gathered up all the other diaries and climbed down the loft ladder. Tucked inside many of the diaries were dozens of old dusty letters from my school friend Jim. The envelopes bore the stamps from all over the world.

In a quiet moment, I would sit alone in my Lincoln’s Inn Chambers between complex legal cases, read these letters and weep; for the road not taken.

Copyright Christopher Mathews. June 2026