IT WAS ONE of those glorious days. A day to be taken out and inspected and admired now and then in years to come.

It would make one feel warm and good all over again. A glad-to-be-alive day.

The sun was shining, not a cloud in sight, flowers in bloom everywhere, even the sea had that extra sparkle.

Birds singing and people en route to the bus stop seemed warm and affectionate, passing the time of day. Troubles seemed far distant. Why on a day such as this you could even doubt their existence.

It was while we were living at Dover.

My husband, Frank, had a day off and we were taking the children on a longpromised trip to Folkestone. I know, it is only seven miles, but to us it was like a trip to the unknown hinterland.

We got on the bus, paid our fares and sat down in great anticipation. The children, five in all, two of them a nephew and niece who had come to live with us when they lost their parents, were chattering excitedly about building sandcastles and having ice cream and, of course, about the picnic we would, have. Dover beach is all pebbles and going to build sandcastles on the sandy beach of Folkestone was to them a very exciting prospect.

The driver had a couple of minutes in hand and just sat and admired the scenery. Then it happened.

Bang! Bang! The maroons went off! A lifeboat call! Ah well, I thought smugly, not for us today. Frank is on leave. Within an instant my husband was up and away, a fast-running and fast-disappearing figure in the distance.

There was hush all around, everybody looking at one another. A mixture of disbelief and amazement on their faces. The children, all five of them, started howling their disappointment.

Then all at once the other passengers resumed talking in subdued voices and casting strange looks in our direction. I could cheerfully have strangled the driver of that bus in those few seconds for leaving the doors open, such fury and disappointment was within me. However, the bus started up. I had to calm and quieten the children and the puppy, which of course, had to accompany us on this dangerous and adventurous trip to build sandcastles. And we were on our way—minus Daddy.

I should have known better than to have expected everything to be easy and straightforward. I had been a lifeboat wife for some years by that time. I was not a greenhorn any more. But there had been a relatively quiet spell, quite a number of weeks in fact when nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Just the daily routine of going to the boat and seeing that everything was in order and ready for the 'off. You get lulled into a false sense of security in those weeks. It is almost to be compared with the daily task of keeping house. Visitors to the lifeboat station turn up in those times, people on holiday who have a nostalgia for lifeboats, VIPs who have a vested interest and want to acquaint themselves in person. And, of course, coastguards and other lifeboatmen not just from Great Britain but from all over the world come to call.

The RNLI is a countrywide and yet closely-knit old fashioned family. It is unique. There is no other organisation quite like it. It is, as you know, a charity and survives solely on voluntary contributions.

Everybody gives freely and willingly, even people who have not the remotest connections with the sea.

When you stop to think about it, it is absolutely amazing. Long may the spirit of it all survive.

I came to be a lifeboatman's wife quite unexpectedly. Frank was a sailor in the Royal Navy when we met and eventually married. I say eventually with a smile now but it wasn't funny at the time. They say the course of true love never runs smooth and it certainly proved to be so for us. But to be fair it wasn't truly our doing; it was Cyprus, that little country in the Mediterranean.

Our banns were duly posted and I was looking forward to our wedding day. My husband-to-be was serving in HMS Albion at the time. She had just completed a major refit and was on trials up around Scotland. However, there was trouble in Cyprus and Albion was sent out with troops or supplies; then it was decided that she should continue straight on with her planned trip to the Far East. Of course, this was good sense but it made me feel very sorry for myself at the time.

However, we did manage to get married in the end, and married life started conventionally enough. Then, just as we were expecting our very first baby, Frank was posted to the Far East for another 18 months. He was to join HMS Cook surveying the oceans around the Gilbert and Ellice Isles. When our baby was a few months old, Frank wrote to say that he was hoping to buy himself out of the Navy and, with luck, become a full-time crew member in the RNLI, if I had no objections. Of course I hadn't. He would be home at last. No more long separations. I was all for it and wished him luck, though I must admit that at that time I had extremely vague ideas of what the RNLI stood for.

Well, everything went according to plan. Frank left the Navy and joined the lifeboat service. The first few months in his new job he spent travelling from lifeboat station to lifeboat station relieving when people were ill or on holiday.

But we were longing to have a station of our own. To be together like a proper family. Also I was by now expecting our second baby and the matter of settling down somewhere seemed quite urgent to me.

There is usually quite a long wait for a full-time post at a station to become free. The full-timers, the coxswain/ mechanics or just mechanics, stay in their jobs until they retire. Very loyal employees are the lifeboat lads. But occasionally somebody is ill and cannot carry on or some other circumstances arise so that they have to leave. As I said, it does not happen very often and our hopes were not set too high. But Lady Luck was on our side. Tynemouth needed a new mechanic and Frank got the job.

Tynemouth I had never heard of Tynemouth and having always lived in the south of England, Northumberland sounded like the end of the world to me. But at last here was the chance for our gypsy life to come to an end and I couldn't have cared less if it had been Timbuktu.

Our second baby, another boy, was a fortnight old when we departed for Tynemouth. While I was in hospital, Frank had shipped our belongings, such as they were, up north. The morning we got on the train we acquired a dog at the last moment. He was mum-in-law's really, but had taken a fancy to us and refused point blank to stay behind. So a last minute ticket was purchased for dog and we were on our way. We must have been quite a spectacle, for when we arrived at Waterloo Station the porter who came to help us did a sort of double take. Going by taxi to Kings Cross was something of a performance, too, what with the baby, dog, pram and toddler, and snow storms raging all around. The driver was kindness itself and I am eternally grateful to him.

We finally arrived at Tynemouth about teatime, having been under way since seven in the morning. It was pitch dark, blizzards still blowing and not a soul in sight. This surely isn't still England, I thought to myself. Perhaps we had landed, by some quirk of fate, in Outer Mongolia.

We finally managed to get hold of a taxi and set off for our new home. It was perched right on top of a cliff known as 'Spanish Battery'. Our boys used to call it 'Bunny-Bats'. Today, all these years gone past, it is still known as 'Bunny-Bats' in our family.

We didn't get battered by any Spaniards I am pleased to say but the winds showed us no mercy come summer or winter. Right across the North Sea they used to blow, great gusts of them.

Drying washing out of doors I finally came to accept as an impossibility. If it managed to stay longer than half an hour on the line it just got covered with a layer of oily soot blown up from ships going about their lawful business up and down the River Tyne. Cleaning windows was an equally fruitless task. The sea would bash itself to pieces on the lighthouse below and the spray come right up and undo all my hard work in seconds. There was nothing much to see out of the front windows anyway, just miles and miles of empty ocean all the way to Norway. So we settled into life on station.

Perhaps this may be the time to elaborate a little more on lifeboat stations in general. Where there is a large lifeboat there is always one full-time crew member, the coxswain/mechanic or mechanic depending on the type of boat and local circumstances, and many volunteer crew members. Although only five to seven people are needed to man a lifeboat the great number of volunteers ensures that there are always enough lifeboatmen available should there be a call-out. Very keen and enthusiastic gentlemen they are, giving up a great deal of their spare time.

Then we have the honorary secretary.

A very put-upon gentleman (and occasionally even lady). The 'hon-sec' is the person who usually authorises a launch and copes with mountains of paper work, taking care of all the background things which make sure that all wheels run smoothly. There is also a local committee and, of course, the honorary treasurer who deals with the financial side of the station's affairs.

All these people give their time free.

The volunteer crew members do get a small token payment on actual call-out or exercise; just about enough to pay for the next round in their favourite 'local' where the postmortem takes place later. On many stations the crew have a weekly get together. This is mainly to keep in touch as often call-outs are many weeks apart. A great number of cups of tea are consumed at these meetings and that is about all I know about it as a mere wife. Later on, during the evening, the lads repair to their aforementioned local, and ladies are very welcome to join in. I look forward to these evenings. They are an opportunity to catch up with all the latest gossip, swap knitting patterns and diets: a general putting of the world to rights.

Over the years, I have come to the conclusion that lifeboatmen are not made, they are born. They seem to have that extra little ingredient in their bloodstream. Even for the full-time members it is not just a job, it is a way of life. For the whole family, I may add.

A full-time man is entitled to one weekend off a month, which often he doesn't bother about. And, of course, his holiday. But apart from that his hands are tied for 24 hours round the clock. Not that he would want it any other way. How could anybody look after his boat as well as he can? Even on holiday, a much needed break, you find your lifeboatman fretting over the welfare of his beloved boat. To any future lifeboatman's wife, I give you this advice: it is no use fighting against it.

You will only create great unhappiness for youself.

In years gone by the local fishing community used to man the lifeboat.

But the winds of change have taken their toll here, too. There are not so many small fishing communities as there used to be and our help now comes from all walks of life: company directors, builders, shopkeepers, engineers . . . the list is endless. There are many more volunteers than could ever be accommodated.

Now we come to the actual call-outs.

These are no respecters of time or place. Their motto: the more inconvenient the better—literally. I know of one lifeboatman who went to sea in his pyjamas; a very chilling experience, I'm told. Many a man has raced to the boat with his pockets stuffed full of roast potatoes, the only part of Sunday lunch he would enjoy that day. To be caught in the bath is also quite common. Very dire threats may well be muttered in the direction of the unknown casualty.

However, this is only a momentary reaction and no lifeboatman would ever refuse to go no matter what the weather or the circumstances. Not to go is absolutely unthinkable. So, if ever you find yourself in a tight spot or any sort of trouble round our coastline, never hesitate to fire that flare you should be carrying, or call for help over the radio.

Or, if you are on shore and see someone in difficulties, go to the nearest telephone, dial 999 and ask for the Coastguard.

They will take it from there.

But please be sure of your facts before you take any steps and please do not become another hoaxer. Their number is plentiful already. But hoaxers apart, there is also the natural human error to contend with. For instance, one Christmas the little town of Wareham in Dorset, just up the river from Poole, organised a lovely party for the local children. Father Christmas, of course, was expected and his arrival was heralded by the firing of a red flare.

Several people spotted this flare and quite naturally assumed someone was in trouble. The Coastguard was alerted and in due course Poole's Dell Quay Dory lifeboat was launched.

This dory is a small, three-man boat, just right for Poole Harbour with its large areas of shallow water and its little islands. The lads searched for some hours with no result and finally retired for home. But all the time with the nagging doubt that perhaps they had missed a little corner somewhere. It was not until two days later that it was established where the flare came from and everyone relaxed once more. Now firing a flare in honour of Father Christmas's arrival is no crime but why didn't someone inform the Coastguard, the honorary secretary or the local coxswain of this impending event? It would have spared a lot of people a lot of worry. Never mind getting frozen charging about the harbour on a cold night in a small open boat. Nevertheless, lifeboatmen would far rather be called out on wild goose chases than miss one single genuine distress call.

But, of course, I didn't know any of this when we first arrived in Tynemouth.

Nor did I know anything about foghorns! I recall one nice, sunny forenoon, a bell was tolling, slow and mournful for hours on end. Having lived as a child in a small village in Germany where bells were tolled when someone died, I thought to myself as went about my housework, 'Somebody really important must have passed on, this bell's ringing for such a long time.' I said as much to my husband when he came home for his lunch. He looked at me with a really puzzled face and then burst our laughing.

'That's the fog bell on the groyne below! That's no church bell!' 'But it's not foggy,' said I.

'Up here it isn't, no. But down below its a real peasouper.' The one thing I very much miss now is the never-ending sweep of the beam of light from the lighthouse down below.

It gave me a very comfortable feeling watching it on its journey across our bedroom walls. A little pause of darkness and then it started all over again.

Life went on in its usual fashion for quite some time. Actually Tynemouth lifeboat station is not truly in Tynemouth.

It is further down river, next to North Shields fishquay. And what a hub of life there always was there.

Our third son was born on that cliff top (and now, 17 years later, he's a lifeboatman). When he was a week old we moved down into the village. The reason for this move was not that we did not like it on top of our cliff. Quite the contrary. But the house itself was very damp. In many ways being on a more level base made life easier for me. I did miss my cliff top, but the new home was so much more comfortable and had the most wonderful neighbours anyone could wish for.

However, after we had lived in Tynemouth for some four and half years my husband was asked if he would like to be second coxswain/mechanic of a 44ft Waveney, one of the new fast afloat lifeboats. This would mean moving house once more. A different station! It was a challenge and we accepted. I did have some doubts about the wisdom of yet another upheaval in our lives. I had much loved living in Geordieland.

We had made many friends, were happy and contented with our lot. And I am not over fond of moving. Also, I never see our new abode until the day we move. The house goes with the job. But then it doesn't really very much matter to me where I live as long as I am surrounded by my nearest and dearest.

Dover Finally everything was sorted out and we were off. Frank departed for Lowestoft to ferry the new boat to Dover, our new home town, and I took our three sons, two, four and six, to Newcastle and caught the train going south.

The boys behaved extremely well on that long train journey and I felt very proud. It's a very good morale booster when other people praise one's offspring. There was just a tiny scary moment. Our tortoise was travelling illegally in my sewing basket and when the ticket collecter came the boys, of course, had to show Toby off. Good man that he was, he turned a blind eye and gave me a wink.

We enjoyed an overnight stop at Hastings with Grandma and next morning took the bus to Dover. The removal van was waiting for us. Nothing was too much trouble for the men; they were absolutely marvellous. They put my beds up for me and helped in all sorts of ways. I was very grateful.

It was the first day of July, the middle of a heatwave. I stayed up most of that night putting things in order. I found I could work much bettter with the children fast asleep and I wanted everything as homely as possible for Frank's arrival two days hence.

One thing our new home had in its favour right from the very start: a lighthouse in full view. That first night, when I finally went to bed, I lay there too tired for sleep. Suddenly I realised I had once again a beam of light travelling across our bedroom walls. A little puzzled I went to the window and sure enough there was a lighthouse at the end of the pier making me feel very welcome indeed.

My husband arrived on the Saturday morning very tired having been at sea all night. Lifeboats are no cruise liners! We were glad to see him and very excited about our new home.

The new Dover lifeboat was provided by the Ancient Order of Foresters and she was to named Faithful Forester by Princess Marina, Duchess of Kent, at that time the Institution's President.

The big day dawned bright and clear but as it gathered speed, so did the winds.

By early afternoon such a force was blowing that instead of coming by helicopter, Her Royal Highness had to complete the last lap by road. It was July and Dover is an extremely busy commercial port, so that there were inevitable delays—while at the harbour several pretty hats, whipped off by the wind, were bobbing and dancing in the waves.

Then the Princess arrived amid great cheering and all proceeded according to plan. The crew and their wives were presented to Her Royal Highness, who made us all feel very much at ease, before all repaired to the cafe at the end of the pier for tea. Princess Marina also had a ride in our new boat, and one way and another it was a most enjoyable day.

With such a wonderful start, we settled in happily once more, making many friends. Schools were found for two of our sons. Autumn term began and all became routine in our way of daily life. Or as much as it ever can be when you belong to the lifeboat service.

Dover, being en route to other stations, becomes a stopping over night spot for refuelling and a breaking up of long journeys for all sorts of lifeboats.

And many a jolly evening was enjoyed by everyone. As I mentioned before, the service is a very close-knit family.

Now and again we accommodated a lifeboatman for a week or so. The lads came to acquaint themselves with this new type of boat. Some weeks after one of these lads had departed, the Interflora lady arrived on our doorstep with the most enormous bunch of flowers I had ever seen, as a thank you. I was absolutely thrilled.

Now and again some disaster occurred in the English Channel, to which the Straits of Dover themselves form a bottle neck. It is a miracle to me that more—many more—collisions do not happen in that stretch of water between France and Dover. Many ships ply up and down the Channel, not to mention all the ferries that cross it to French and Belgian ports. And, in between, are the whizzing hovercraft. On the radar screen in the Coastguard operations room the whole thing looks like one of those TV games gone beserk.

Sometimes in a good winter, with plenty of snow, the town of Dover gets cut off for a week or so. No traffic can get down those fairly steep roads.

Another, to me, very curious thing often happened during the summer months. I would get up one fine morning and looking out of the window there would be thick fog which would last all day. Damp and miserable and cold. Yet on the cliff top there would be brilliant sunshine and clear blue sky. This never failed to amaze me.

We had lived in the good town of Dover for about five years when the question of moving was raised again.

Apparently Poole, in Dorset was, like Dover, to get a new Waveney lifeboat.

The old Poole boathouse on the quay would be closed down and the station moved to a new yacht marina in Lilliput.

The reason: it would bring the boat much closer to the entrance to Poole Harbour. The then mechanic was due to retire so my husband was asked if he would move to Poole as coxswain/ mechanic and establish the station at a brand new base with a brand new boat.

Here we go again, were my immediate thoughts. In the very first instant we were both quite excited, another challenge, but we decided to wait a few days and then sit down and think things out properly. And this we did. We 'to-ed and fro-ed', remembering friends left behind in Geordieland and knowing full well we would miss all our new-made friends in Dover. The children were older, too, and we had quite a number of pets now . . . Frank had his own little boat . . . We would stay put. No more moving.

It must have been somewhere about this time that I experienced the most frightening night of all the years we have been with the RNLI. The boat was out on a call. A filthy night it was too.

Around midnight I went to bed with a book and a cup of coffee, trying to keep track of the lifeboat's movement on the marine band of our radio.

I must have dozed off for a while but was jerked wide awake by a lot of talking, urgent voices calling the boat up; the Coastguard calling ships, asking if any one was in radio or visual contact with Dover lifeboat, Faithful Forester.

I remember noticing the time, two o'clock in the morning. I rang the Coastguard. They were very kind and said not to worry. Not to worry! How could I not worry. The weather could not have been worse if it tried. A howling gale was raging outside. The rain just lashing down. The night went on and on. Endless it seemed to me.

Nobody had heard or seen the boat for hours. Apparently she had just vanished from off the face of the earth.

How could I tell our sons? How indeed, I thought, as I went to waken them ready for school. I just said there was a call-out when they asked, 'Where's Daddy?' Being lifeboat sons, they took it at face value, thank God. I was busy with breakfast when our oldest said, 'Mum, / can hear Uncle Tony on the radio.' Bated breath.

'Are you sure?' 'Yes, Mum. Come and listen.' And so it was. At 7.40 am, loud and clear over the air. Never, never have I been happier to hear anyone's voice before or since. All my prayers answered. They were safe and sound. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry with relief. I did a bit of both actually, the boys giving me strange looks.

It transpired later that while a crew member was operating the radio the boat gave a violent lurch and all the wires were torn out, leaving them with no radio and no radar. Deaf and dumb in fact. And in such a pitch black, filthy night and very rough seas, who could possibly spot a 44ft boat? There have been plenty of scary times before and since but I hope never to experience a night like that again.

Poole The months went by. Twice we received telephone calls: 'How would you like to move to Poole?' The first time we said right away, it is very kind of you to consider us, but no thank you. We wavered a little the second time, but no, we were happy as we were, thank you just the same.

Then, some months later—you guessed —another call: 'How would you . . .?' So we decided to go. We told the boys. Well, we certainly didn't expect their reactions. A united front of: How could we be so cruel? They would lose all their friends! How about making new friends? got a very cool reception. Where was their spirit of adventure? from me, met with stony silence. So I called them a bunch of decrepid old men and got on with the packing. At the ages of nine, 11 and 13 that hit home! They apparently talked it over with their friends at school the next day, became the centre of attraction, and couldn't move fast enough! 'Are we moving next week?' 'No!' 'Why is it taking so long?' 'Because!' 7 don't think we'll ever move.' 'Then why am 1 packing?' became the pattern of conversation for the next couple of months. The last week in Dover almost turned into one long round of farewell parties.

First of July 1974! Moving day! Was I glad and very exhausted. Mid-day and after seven years the time had come to leave Dover. Last minute doubts, last minute panics. Why didn't that train come? And here it was at last. We were off! Frank and I, our three boys, Sam, our dog (strictly Heinz 57 pedigree), Emma, our lovely tortoiseshell cat and her kitten, the budgie and the canary.

Toby, the tortoise, was travelling 'private', this time by courtesy of the removal van.

We reached Waterloo and boarded the train for Poole. Not long now, we said to ourselves. The weather was on our side, too; sunshine all the way.

Then like a bolt out of the blue sky, the train came to a full stop, right in the middle of nowhere. Just fields all around. Eventually the ticket collector came through and told us that somebody had pulled the emergency cord and this in turn had put some vital piece of mechanism out of action.

Poole station at last, some two hours late. The gentleman who was to meet us had very sensibly gone home for tea, leaving a message and a telephone number. We rang the number. Said gentleman, a very kindly man, duly drove up to the station. Another taxi was also ordered, we represented quite a little gathering, and we were driven towards our new home. It was lovely, a nice cosy little house only five years old.

Next morning, as we waited for the removal van to arrive, the Interflora lady arrived with a beautiful bunch of flowers for me from friends in Dover and our next door neighbour made us a most welcome cup of coffee. And so started another chapter in our lives.

1974 marked the 150th anniversary of the RNLI and, a fortnight after our arrival at Poole, Norwegian, French, Swedish, Polish and German lifeboats assembled at the town quay on their way to Plymouth to take part in the International Lifeboat Exhibition which was one of the principal events of that celebration year. When all was ready, the fleet of lifeboats sailed out of the harbour armada style. In company with the foreign boats were four of the RNLI's modern lifeboats, including the new Waveney destined for Poole, with Frank in command of her. I felt very proud to belong to such a service. Very proud indeed. But the exhibition meant, of course, that Frank would be absent from home six weeks at least.

With our new house went a garden.

My very first. In Tynemouth and Dover there had been just a bit out front. But this was a proper garden. I was delighted.

At the time, the plot of land at the rear of our house resembled more an overgrown field thrown with builders rubble than a garden, but over the past eight years I have spent many very happy and exhausting hours out there.

The shrubs are getting quite a growth now and I have made a pond, with a little assistance.

In 1974 the RNLI head office was also in the process of moving to Poole, lock, stock and barrel. A temporary building on the quay was acquired and for some months business was conducted on a split level basis, some in Poole, the remainder still in London. A plot of land was purchased and the building of the new head office began.

Frank and I were invited to the laying of the foundation stone and, later, to the official opening of the new building by HRH The Duke of Kent, President of the RNLI. This ceremony took place in the forenoon. After lunch we repaired to Swanage for the naming of their new Rother lifeboat. I went over by road but was allowed to return to Poole in our own boat. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

A year or so later we were invited to the opening of the new depot, brought down from Boreham Wood and now across the road from the head office.

Another perfect day.

Our own Waveney lifeboat had, of course, been named early in 1975, a few months after she returned from the 150th anniversary celebrations in Plymouth.

It was spring officially but the weather was just awful. Our Waveney was named after the late Augustine Courtauld, a famous Arctic explorer who had also been a vice-president of the RNLI. Several of his family took part in the ceremony. Mr W. P. Courtauld, a member of the Committee of Management and Augustine's brother, had provided the finances of the lifeboat, to which a contribution had also been made by the Mayor of Poole's appeal of the previous year.

Yes, over the years we have met and shaken hands with many famous and interesting people. I consider this a great privilege and often wish that I had had the sense to keep a diary, right from the start.

Worry? Often I am asked: Don't you worry when your husband is on call-out? Pondering over this question, I came to the conclusion that there is no straightforward answer, no clear cut yes or no.

There is the phone call. Call-out! A quick peck on the cheek and away my hero goes. In that very moment things are a bit panic stations. After that it all depends on the weather, the state of the sea, if it is day or night. In raging seas, gale force winds, of course I am worried.

Frightened to death in fact. Night time always makes things much worse, too. Many more years ago than I care to recall, I was convinced of being a widow at every call-out. Regardless of weather.

But you get used to many things, although I am always concerned for the safety of the whole crew and the casualty.

After some longish quiet spell you can get quite complacent; then some major disaster and the whole cycle starts all over again. Frank has been with the lifeboat service for 20 years now. The pay isn't the best in the world but we have so much more than money could ever buy.

I am glad my husband never had to be a 'nine to five' man or had the monotony of factory work to contend with.

Some time ago we had to fill in some forms. Name? Address? Age? What did you have for dinner yesterday? and so on. And then it came to employment.

Coxswain of Poole lifeboat.

'Oh yes? How interesting. Now I had an uncle . . .' and off they go, having a good yarn. Men don't gossip? Then I would be remembered.

'Your wife works, sir?' 7 am a housewife,' I reply.

'Ah—hm—yes.' Just housewife would be written down. No yarn there. Not very interesting.

How wrong they all are. Yes, I am just a housewife. Very proud of it. A lifeboatman's housewife! Over a cup of tea recently a friend asked me, if I had a new beginning, a fresh start to life, what would I change? Well, that is quite a challenge. A big temptation. But after careful consideration, I must admit I would change nothing. Naturally we have had our ups and downs like everyone else. And there have been times when I have resented being tied to a lifeboat. It is a bigger tie than having babies! Someone has to know our whereabouts at all times. Even so, yes, I would do it all again. I have no regrets whatsoever..