(standard disclaimer applies)
James was six years old the first time he set foot aboard a proper ship, and he never forgot it. He had been permitted to accompany his father to Spain in order to take care of some property that had belonged to his mother's family. It was the first time since his mother's death a year before that his father had offered to take him anywhere.
He stood proudly on deck, chin lifted, watching the sailors laboring to bring the heavy anchor up. The retort of a pistol from somewhere on the docks below startled him so that he reached for his father's hand.
Peter Norrington glanced down at his son, a look on his face as if he'd forgotten the boy was there. James' cheeks colored with shame, but his father merely cupped his small fingers in a broad palm.
"Are you frightened of the journey, James?"
James shook his head emphatically, his heart speeding up with the need to express what it felt - exhiliration, awe, relief that he was surrounded by men rather than nurses and aunts and tutors and the powedery scent of his baby sister's things. He loved the thick tang of the salt air, the improbable order amongst the hard-looking crew, the kindness of the blue-eyed captain. He was so elated to be standing beside his father, the greatest man he knew, that he feared his feet would leave the deck.
In the end, he could find no way to explain all this, so he merely looked up and said, "No, Father, I'm not afraid."
Something in Peter's face changed. Later in his life, James would think back on it and realize that it had been the lingering sorrow and guilt, burning away like the fog off the English coast.
"I believe you, son," said Peter. He squeezed James' hand tightly before he let it go. James watched a few gulls chase each other through the rigging, and was quite sure he'd never be so happy again.