Various I remember, vividly unfortunately, the signals my lower gut communicated to my mouth and brain that time I overdid it on quality whisky. Standing in a warm public house but to all intents and purposes dropping down the spine of a sudden wave, feeling the pitch and roll of a large vessel beneath me, the Skipper’s knuckles bone white against the wheel as he held to his course and prayed his ship would make the climb up the other side, all internal and external liquids at odds. Hints of woodsmoke, salt and molasses, sulphur and brine. I was sick as a dog.