Stargazer lopes effortlessly down Channel. Lifting to the swell. The dawn sun at her back, twelve knots of northerly breeze on her beam.
In the distance, on the starboard bow, a blocky mirage shimmers. Buildings seemingly rise from the sea. Like the re-emergence of a brutalist, concrete, Atlantis.
Ten miles later, the shingle spit, on which the Dungeness nuclear power stations are built, reveals itself. Glowing tawny brown.
A full moon lit Stargazer's way out of Dover, this morning. Speeding her toward the shimmering lights of Folkestone, with a sluicing spring tide.
The first rays, of daybreak, glint off Folkestone's habour wall, as Stargazer sweeps west.
Whilst the South Foreland, with Dover at its foot, dwindles astern.
Away to port, the loom of the French shore. Cap Gris Nez. Three 'red eye' passenger ferries in the offing.
Dungeness rounded, Stargazer comes up on the wind. Throwing a foaming bow wave. Scenting that the freedom, of open Atlantic waters, lies close at hand.
We thread the labyrynth, of crab pots, laid in the shoals of the Hastings shore. As the tide begins to turn against us. Cheating the full force of its flow.