Ffriendly, Windermere is the scene of the children’s adventure story Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome, and it’s also one of our son Torin’s favorite books. It appealed to his own love of adventure, mischief and all things pirate. Together with his little sister, Lowri, we went on many canoeing adventures together on the River Dart in the summer months, spotted wildlife and played pirates with other boats. Torin – which means chief – was always ship captain, of course, because the children from the story often jockeyed for the position. Torin also loved practical jokes. His favorite was the whoopee pillow, usually very inconspicuously hidden on a seat where you would be ordered to sit with great anticipation and stifled giggles.
Torin was born with a rare form of life-limiting mitochondrial disease. After many long admissions at Bristol Children’s Hospital over several years, he developed some close relationships with its staff. One of the closest was with Katie, a brilliant play therapist who, when Torin was 11, asked me if she could apply to a charity that could take a family like ours on a trip of a lifetime together send all expenses paid. She said, “Ask him where he would go if he could go anywhere in the world.”
He sat in his usual place on the sofa by the window in our living room, legs outstretched, while he did his weekly Beano correct, when we asked the question. We braced ourselves for an answer from “Disneyland”. Torin’s immediate answer, without even looking up from his comic, was “Windermere”. He then said, “I want you to sail me to Wild Cat Island – just like they do in the book.”
As his disease progressed, Torin’s ability to move around like other children diminished. His eyesight and hearing were also slowly deteriorating, which meant that he had only one other place to go that was unaffected by his body’s inability to produce enough energy – that place was his vast imagination. He had a voracious appetite for learning and a love of stories, mythology and magic that carried him to distant realms.
On January 23, 2023, about six months after he told us about his dream of sailing on Windermere, and not long before he would have turned 12, Torin died in hospital in the early hours of the morning. It was five weeks after a surgical procedure went horribly wrong and he contracted sepsis. The shock and the horror were all consuming. A few days later we brought him home and for five days and five nights he was with us. We could barely leave his side as a string of close friends and family processed through the house to see him one last time.
Lowri, Torin’s little sister, who was only eight years old, had to deal with the enormity of what happened in her own way. When other children came home, she took them by the hand and asked if they wanted to go see her brother and told them: “Don’t be afraid, he’s calm, he looks like he’s sleeping.” So, we tried as best we could on the day to honor both Torin’s imagination and the love that blossoms when beauty and sadness are welcomed together.
Many people who have had children will remember the oxytocin-fueled love bubble that arose when their child was born. Our time with Torin after he died was like childbirth in that it was full of the same tenderness, but in reverse. As the physical bonds between us began to loosen, all we could do was hold him, kiss him and look at his face, because very soon even that possibility came to an end.
We had to make the loose plans we had discussed intermittently over the years for Torin’s funeral come true. We already knew where he would be buried. In late 2012, I managed a construction project at a natural burial ground downriver from where we live. Perched high above overlooking the River Dart, it is steeped in beauty whatever the weather.
In the weeks between Torin’s death and his funeral, we knew what we had to do. It was an intuition, a knowing without a necessity to understand.
A team of my woodworking friends built a small boat for him to be buried in. On the morning of his funeral, we took him to the river and carefully placed him in one of four large canoes where a 35-strong escort was ready. Family and friends gathered on the quay for a special prayer that sent us on our way. As the flotilla rowed downstream, Torin’s classmates, teachers, friends and a women’s choir lined the river. Arriving at the cemetery, we were greeted by 300 people. A dear friend who led the ceremony told us to choose love above all else: that was the way Torin lived his life. It was the most devastating, beautiful day of our lives, a day that shimmered and glittered as the edges of worlds, known and unknown, collided ever so gently.
As I write, it has been one year, four months and five days since Torin died. Since then the boat theme has returned to us and it has become clear that my wife, Siân, and I need to build a boat together so that we can fulfill Torin’s dream of sailing on Windermere. I have noticed over the years that there is a cross-cultural phenomenon in the imagery of the afterlife involving boats and bodies of water. The spirit of the dead person usually has to make a journey across the water and from some of the reports I’ve read, they can’t do it alone. It requires the living to help them get there.
I am a woodworker with 25 years experience but I have never built a boat before. Siân, an artist and printmaker, is also very keen to learn the old skill of traditional boat building. It will be an adventure of our own, as well as an opportunity for both of us to learn this endangered craft. We hope to start building in August, in my workshop, which has enough space for a 15 foot long boat to be built within its walls. We will spend around six months working towards completion and hope to launch on Windermere next May.
The boat will resemble the sailboats found in the original Swallows and Amazons film from 1974. I’m hoping to use home grown European larch for the planks of the hull – I don’t like to use imported wood if I can help it. There aren’t many people building these boats anymore, but I managed to find someone in Plymouth who, in a boat yard surrounded by superyachts, is keeping the tradition of wooden boat building alive. Thanks to his hand-drawn drawings and his comprehensive “how to” manual, we will a Swallows and Amazon-style boat for Turin.
The location used for Wild Cat Island in the 1974 film is actually Peel Island, at the southern end of Coniston Water, 25 minutes’ drive from Windermere. We plan to sail on both lakes to cover all the bases. Siân and I know that if Torin were here now, he would be beside himself with excitement. He would have the boat built yesterday and he would want us to sail it on the lakes tomorrow.
It was most likely the sense of freedom in the book, above the innocence and playfulness, that Torin was most enchanted by. As a child born with a progressive disease, his enthusiasm and love for that kind of freedom through story was heartbreaking and beautiful. The word “imaginary” is not regarded kindly these days. The material, measurable world is considered superior. But it is dangerous to forget that everything is born of imagination. Torin knew this intimately. The imagined world was his friend and ally in an increasingly challenging physical world.
Building this boat for our son is one point in our journey of grief and love. In doing so, we reach out beyond those imagined realms. It is impossible to define the project with “why” and “what for” questions. Enter the Walker children Swallows and Amazons knew they had to find Wild Cat Island’s secret haven. What we do know is that we have to make this boat. In this way we must move to the next phase of our life. That’s all we have to go on, for now.
To help Duncan and Siân build a boat for Torin, go to gofundme.com/f/build-a-boat-for-torin
