Fifteen years ago, the world seemed a bigger, scarier place. I remember thinking of the little island in western Scotland that my mother, father and I sailed to, as a huge mound waiting to be explored. It was called Goat Island. My friend and I had hopped out of the 16ft sailing boat and were disappointed when we weren't immediately greeted by a friendly herd of goats with bells round their necks. It was a hazy, sunny day and we laid out a picnic on the pebbly beach. The sea lapped against the shore gently, and I was content to look for shells and other strange objects that took my fancy. It happened so quickly.

The cool breeze became a gusty wind and rain began to beat down. My mother packed us into the boat and I put my arm around my sobbing friend - and crossed my fingers. My parents were waist-deep in seawater, my tiny mother pushing against the boat with all her strength. I had no idea whether we would get back safely. Looking back, my father says it was 'rubbish seamanship', but for me it was an exciting if chilling adventure. He had lost his wedding ring that day, in an act of desperate heroism. Ten years later, he found it in the bottom of the boat.

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