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Our Brains Lie — We All Have False Memories
When I was five years old, my parents took me to Cornwall. It’s a wonderful place I long to go back to as an adult, but somehow I haven’t yet found the time.
One of the things we did was go to the Isles of Scilly, specifically St. Mary’s. The isles are a small archipelago off the southwestern tip of Cornwall. Five of them are inhabited.
We chose the wrong day. We took the ferry over, the Scillonian III, which at the time was brand new. It’s still the only boat that does that route. If I go back to Scilly, I intend to fly.
Because St. Mary’s harbor is so shallow, the Scillonian III has a rather shallow draft. The weather was awful. Driving rain. Choppy waves. I started to feel sick and my mother dragged me down to the bottom of the boat “which would move less.” (Yes, if you’re thinking “Uh, no, nope, put the kid by a window” you’re right).
I got hideously, horrendously seasick. And there was no way in any hell I was getting back on that boat! I’m still not getting back on that boat.
So we splashed out and bought a helicopter ticket back. I have a clear memory of crossing the tarmac in driving rain to an orange Boeing Vertol 234, the civilian version of the Chinook. We flew back to Penzance. It was the first time I flew.